Emily’s question. “I’ve read a lot. And I know the principal at the elementary school, of course. Doris LeBaron. She’s been the principal since before my older boy started there. And she’s told me a little about you, too.”
“Why was Doris talking to you about me? I mean, I hate to sound paranoid, but … why?”
“I could lie and say it’s just because of who your husband is. I’m sure you know, people talk about that. It’s human nature. But that wouldn’t be the truth—at least not the whole truth. Doris and I are friends. We walk together in the summer. We’re in the same spin class in the winter. And she’s seen you with your girls. And we both have the sense that you’re not one of them. Now, if I’m wrong, well then I guess I have just seriously—”
“One of who?” Emily asked again. “You didn’t say.”
“The herbalists,” she said, leaning in as she spoke and then pulling away. It was as if herbalists was a dirty word.
“Oh, I get it,” Emily said, and she had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “Those women who have the greenhouses. I mean, I’ve heard something. And Anise and Reseda are indeed trying to look out for us. They’ve both been very helpful.”
“Anise, too,” Becky murmured thoughtfully, as if this were additional bad news.
“She seems eccentric—but nice. Really.”
Becky craned her neck to glance over Emily’s shoulder and abruptly stood up. “God, I’ve completely lost track of time. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“You didn’t order anything. Aren’t you eating?” Emily asked.
The woman shook her head. “If you ever want to talk, call me,” she said. “My number is in the book.” She pulled on her gloves and strode purposefully down the diner corridor between the booths and the row of swivel seats at the counter, and then out the door. On her way out, she almost bowled over a regal looking fellow with massive shoulders and a bald head the shape of an egg as the two of them nearly collided at the front door. Emily saw the waitress was beckoning her from the register and holding up a white paper bag with her lunch. She rose. She couldn’t imagine how a woman like Becky Davis could seem so normal on the surface and so clearly unstable underneath. She didn’t expect she would ever have a reason to phone her.
A nd what of God? You pause in your work in the kitchen, replacing the paint roller in the tray and sitting back on your heels as you wonder: Where was He when Flight 1611 crashed?
The thing is, you went to Sunday school as a little boy, but by college you were no longer capable of reconciling childhood cancer, genocidal warfare, and mudslides that obliterated whole villages and buried babies alive with any kind of divine presence. Sometimes you and Emily worry that you have made a mistake not introducing your girls to any religious tradition at all—wouldn’t it at least have helped them to hone their moral compasses?—but between your travel and Emily’s work, Sundays really were nothing more than days of rest. Besides, half the time you weren’t even home on Sundays. When the girls were toddlers and Emily was alone with them, the last thing she was going to be capable of on a Sunday morning was getting them up and dressed and off to church. And certainly the geese that appeared before your windshield just above two thousand feet on August 11 have done nothing to reinvigorate your faith. Nothing at all. The thirty-nine people who died that day in the water died through no fault of their own. They were as innocent as the many millions who die every year of disease and starvation. The many millions more who have died throughout human history in war or been killed in genocidal slaughters. The casualties of fire, water, air. The victims of car accidents, train collisions, and … plane crashes.
And yet still …
Still …
Since the failed ditching in Lake Champlain, you have found yourself pausing as you gaze
“Why was Doris talking to you about me? I mean, I hate to sound paranoid, but … why?”
“I could lie and say it’s just because of who your husband is. I’m sure you know, people talk about that. It’s human nature. But that wouldn’t be the truth—at least not the whole truth. Doris and I are friends. We walk together in the summer. We’re in the same spin class in the winter. And she’s seen you with your girls. And we both have the sense that you’re not one of them. Now, if I’m wrong, well then I guess I have just seriously—”
“One of who?” Emily asked again. “You didn’t say.”
“The herbalists,” she said, leaning in as she spoke and then pulling away. It was as if herbalists was a dirty word.
“Oh, I get it,” Emily said, and she had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “Those women who have the greenhouses. I mean, I’ve heard something. And Anise and Reseda are indeed trying to look out for us. They’ve both been very helpful.”
“Anise, too,” Becky murmured thoughtfully, as if this were additional bad news.
“She seems eccentric—but nice. Really.”
Becky craned her neck to glance over Emily’s shoulder and abruptly stood up. “God, I’ve completely lost track of time. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“You didn’t order anything. Aren’t you eating?” Emily asked.
The woman shook her head. “If you ever want to talk, call me,” she said. “My number is in the book.” She pulled on her gloves and strode purposefully down the diner corridor between the booths and the row of swivel seats at the counter, and then out the door. On her way out, she almost bowled over a regal looking fellow with massive shoulders and a bald head the shape of an egg as the two of them nearly collided at the front door. Emily saw the waitress was beckoning her from the register and holding up a white paper bag with her lunch. She rose. She couldn’t imagine how a woman like Becky Davis could seem so normal on the surface and so clearly unstable underneath. She didn’t expect she would ever have a reason to phone her.
A nd what of God? You pause in your work in the kitchen, replacing the paint roller in the tray and sitting back on your heels as you wonder: Where was He when Flight 1611 crashed?
The thing is, you went to Sunday school as a little boy, but by college you were no longer capable of reconciling childhood cancer, genocidal warfare, and mudslides that obliterated whole villages and buried babies alive with any kind of divine presence. Sometimes you and Emily worry that you have made a mistake not introducing your girls to any religious tradition at all—wouldn’t it at least have helped them to hone their moral compasses?—but between your travel and Emily’s work, Sundays really were nothing more than days of rest. Besides, half the time you weren’t even home on Sundays. When the girls were toddlers and Emily was alone with them, the last thing she was going to be capable of on a Sunday morning was getting them up and dressed and off to church. And certainly the geese that appeared before your windshield just above two thousand feet on August 11 have done nothing to reinvigorate your faith. Nothing at all. The thirty-nine people who died that day in the water died through no fault of their own. They were as innocent as the many millions who die every year of disease and starvation. The many millions more who have died throughout human history in war or been killed in genocidal slaughters. The casualties of fire, water, air. The victims of car accidents, train collisions, and … plane crashes.
And yet still …
Still …
Since the failed ditching in Lake Champlain, you have found yourself pausing as you gaze
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