now she looked up, surprised. "Oh, honestly, Norah. Lighten up."
"Suzy Homemaker?" she said again. "I just wanted to have things look nice for my anniversary. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing." Bree sighed. "Everything looks great. Didn't I just say so? And I'm here to babysit, remember? Why are you so angry?"
Norah waved her hand. "Never mind. Oh, darn it, never mind. David's in surgery."
Bree waited a heartbeat before she said, "That figures."
Norah started to defend him, then stopped. She pressed her hands against her cheeks. "Oh, Bree. Why tonight?"
"It's awful," Bree agreed. Norah's face tightened, she felt her lips purse, and Bree laughed. "Oh, come on. Be honest. Maybe it's not David's fault. But that's exactly how you feel, right?"
"It's not his fault," Norah said. "There was an accident. But okay. You're right. It does-it stinks. It absolutely stinks, okay?"
"I know," Bree said, her voice surprisingly soft. "It's really rotten. I'm sorry, Sis." Then she smiled. "Look, I brought you and David a present. Maybe it will cheer you up."
Bree shifted Paul to one arm and rummaged in her oversized quilted bag, pulling out books, a candy bar, a pile of leaflets about an upcoming demonstration, sunglasses in a worn leather case, and, finally, a bottle of wine, glimmering like garnets as she poured them each a glass.
"To love," she said, handing Norah one glass and raising the other. "To eternal happiness and bliss."
They laughed together and drank. The wine was dark with berries, faint oak. Rain dripped from the gutters. Years from now Norah would remember this evening, the gloomy disappointment and Bree bearing shimmering tokens from another world; her shiny boots, her earrings, her energy like a kind of light. How beautiful these things were to Norah, and how remote, how unreachable. Depression-years later she would understand the murky light she lived in-but no one talked about this in 1965. No one even considered it. Certainly not for Norah, who had her house, her baby, her doctor husband. She was supposed to be content.
"Hey-did your old house sell?" Bree asked, putting her glass on the counter. "Did you decide to take the offer?"
"I don't know," Norah said. "It's lower than we hoped. David wants to accept it, just to have it settled, but I don't know. It was our home. I still hate to let it go."
She thought of their first house, standing dark and empty with a for sale sign planted in the yard, and felt as if the world had become very fragile. She held on to the counter to steady herself and took another sip of wine.
"So how's your love life these days?" Norah asked, changing the subject. "How are things with that guy you were seeing-what was his name-Jeff?"
"Oh, him." A dark expression crossed Bree's face, and she shook her head, as if to clear it. "I didn't tell you? I came home two weeks ago and found him in bed-in my bed-with this sweet young thing who worked with us on the mayoral campaign."
"Oh! I'm sorry."
Bree shook her head. "Don't be. It's not like I loved him or anything. We were just good, you know, together. At least I thought so."
"You didn't love him?" Norah repeated, hearing and hating her mother's disapproving voice coming from her own mouth. She did not want to be that person, drinking cups of tea in the orderly silent house of their childhood. But neither did she want to be the person she seemed to be becoming, set loose by grief into a world that made no sense.
"No," Bree was saying. "No, I didn't love him, though for a while I thought I might. But that's not even the point anymore. The point is he turned our whole thing into a cliche. I hate that more than anything-being part of a cliche."
Bree put her empty glass on the counter and shifted Paul into her other arm. Her face, unadorned, was delicate, finely boned; her cheeks, her lips, were flashed pale pink.
"I couldn't live like you do," Norah said. Since Paul was born, since Phoebe had died, she'd felt the need to keep a
"Suzy Homemaker?" she said again. "I just wanted to have things look nice for my anniversary. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing." Bree sighed. "Everything looks great. Didn't I just say so? And I'm here to babysit, remember? Why are you so angry?"
Norah waved her hand. "Never mind. Oh, darn it, never mind. David's in surgery."
Bree waited a heartbeat before she said, "That figures."
Norah started to defend him, then stopped. She pressed her hands against her cheeks. "Oh, Bree. Why tonight?"
"It's awful," Bree agreed. Norah's face tightened, she felt her lips purse, and Bree laughed. "Oh, come on. Be honest. Maybe it's not David's fault. But that's exactly how you feel, right?"
"It's not his fault," Norah said. "There was an accident. But okay. You're right. It does-it stinks. It absolutely stinks, okay?"
"I know," Bree said, her voice surprisingly soft. "It's really rotten. I'm sorry, Sis." Then she smiled. "Look, I brought you and David a present. Maybe it will cheer you up."
Bree shifted Paul to one arm and rummaged in her oversized quilted bag, pulling out books, a candy bar, a pile of leaflets about an upcoming demonstration, sunglasses in a worn leather case, and, finally, a bottle of wine, glimmering like garnets as she poured them each a glass.
"To love," she said, handing Norah one glass and raising the other. "To eternal happiness and bliss."
They laughed together and drank. The wine was dark with berries, faint oak. Rain dripped from the gutters. Years from now Norah would remember this evening, the gloomy disappointment and Bree bearing shimmering tokens from another world; her shiny boots, her earrings, her energy like a kind of light. How beautiful these things were to Norah, and how remote, how unreachable. Depression-years later she would understand the murky light she lived in-but no one talked about this in 1965. No one even considered it. Certainly not for Norah, who had her house, her baby, her doctor husband. She was supposed to be content.
"Hey-did your old house sell?" Bree asked, putting her glass on the counter. "Did you decide to take the offer?"
"I don't know," Norah said. "It's lower than we hoped. David wants to accept it, just to have it settled, but I don't know. It was our home. I still hate to let it go."
She thought of their first house, standing dark and empty with a for sale sign planted in the yard, and felt as if the world had become very fragile. She held on to the counter to steady herself and took another sip of wine.
"So how's your love life these days?" Norah asked, changing the subject. "How are things with that guy you were seeing-what was his name-Jeff?"
"Oh, him." A dark expression crossed Bree's face, and she shook her head, as if to clear it. "I didn't tell you? I came home two weeks ago and found him in bed-in my bed-with this sweet young thing who worked with us on the mayoral campaign."
"Oh! I'm sorry."
Bree shook her head. "Don't be. It's not like I loved him or anything. We were just good, you know, together. At least I thought so."
"You didn't love him?" Norah repeated, hearing and hating her mother's disapproving voice coming from her own mouth. She did not want to be that person, drinking cups of tea in the orderly silent house of their childhood. But neither did she want to be the person she seemed to be becoming, set loose by grief into a world that made no sense.
"No," Bree was saying. "No, I didn't love him, though for a while I thought I might. But that's not even the point anymore. The point is he turned our whole thing into a cliche. I hate that more than anything-being part of a cliche."
Bree put her empty glass on the counter and shifted Paul into her other arm. Her face, unadorned, was delicate, finely boned; her cheeks, her lips, were flashed pale pink.
"I couldn't live like you do," Norah said. Since Paul was born, since Phoebe had died, she'd felt the need to keep a
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