by Liza Bennett
Though Lark tried constantly to force Lucinda to clean up her language, Meg had only once pointed out to Lucinda that to substitute the word “fucking” for all the millions of adjectives available showed a certain paucity of imagination, and she then gave up on the subject. It was obvious to her that almost of all Lucinda’s bad behavior was used for shock value, and to overreact was just playing into her impossibly needy hand.
“There’s more to it than that, I suspect,” Meg said as they made their way past Ethan’s looming darkened studio and then up the final slope to the house. With its long, latticed white porch and double brick chimneys, its picket fence around the vegetable gardens in the back, and the vine-covered well, Ethan and Lark’s home was the epitome of the picture-perfect New England farmhouse. The fact that, on closer inspection, it wasn’t at all perfect—the front steps needed repair, a porch railing was missing, the entire interior could use a fresh coat of paint—made the place all the more endearing to Meg. She had always loved this house that Lark had so fondly reworked over the years into a real home. Though Meg owned her two bedroom co-op in the city, this in many ways was where her heart resided. Five pumpkins and a basket of Mums stood sentinel up the front steps. She was glad that she had already made her decision to tell Lark about Ethan. It would have been utterly impossible, she realized now, to enter this house with the question still unresolved. Then she heard his voice as he opened the front door.
“Meg? Is that you? This damned front porch light is out again.”
“Yes. Me and Lucinda.” Ethan leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. She almost stumbled as she took a step back, and he grabbed her arm.
“Let go!” she cried, pulling away from him. “I fell on my way up the drive.”
“Are you okay? Let me see. Lucinda, take her bags upstairs and ask Lark to come down.”
“Don’t order me around,” Lucinda said, but she did as she was told, stomping up the stairs with Meg’s two weekend totes slung over her shoulder, just as Lark was hurrying down.
“Meggie? What happened?” She was an inch shorter than Meg and, after three children, a little plumper. But the five pounds she had put on with each of the girls had gone primarily to her breasts and hips, giving her at last the kind of sexy curves the slender and underendowed Hardwick sisters had longed for as teenagers. (“Breast-feeding,” she had confided to Meg. “If those Hollywood starlets only knew—plastic surgeons would go out of business overnight.”)
Though Lark’s features were less finely drawn than Meg’s—her nose slightly smaller, her lips a bit larger and fuller—and though Meg’s eyes were a deep hazel tinged with gold and Lark’s were the blue of October skies, there was no question that the two women were sisters. If you didn’t notice the similarity of their postures (a tilt of the chin, the arms crossed below their breasts), or failed to hear the same inflections in their voices (a quick delivery, high and slightly twangy), their laugh would have given them dead away.
“For heavens’ sakes,” Meg said, pushing Ethan aside to hug Lark and hoping that in the confusion of the moment her sister wouldn’t notice her husband’s concentrated gaze. “Will you all stop hovering! I just took a spill on your damned driveway. I really don’t think it’s life-threatening.”
“But you should put a little something on it,” Lark said, after examining Meg’s elbow. “Some arnica or comfrey leaves. Let’s see what I’ve got.” With her arm around Meg’s waist, Lark led her sister into the pantry where she kept an old pie cupboard full of oils and ointments, infusions and tinctures. Drying flowers and herbs that she’d grown or collected hung in garlands and bouquets from the ceiling. Lark was a committed homeopath and her growing understanding of natural medicines had turned her kitchen into a kind of free local out-clinic for the town’s various aches and pains. Meg’s initial skepticism of Lark’s healing techniques had been overcome one summer afternoon when Lark had rubbed crushed garlic onto a nasty wasp sting on Meg’s neck and the swelling pain had—within two minutes—subsided.
“That’ll do it,” Lark said stepping back after she’d wound gauze around Meg’s elbow to keep the compress in place. Ethan had gone upstairs to help his three younger daughters finish up their bath. Lark and Meg were alone.
“Well, you look okay,” Lark said.
“Yes.” Meg moved her elbow back and forth. “Feels better already.”
“Actually, you look kind of fabulous. Meggie—it is a man, isn’t it?”
“Lark, I—listen …” Meg felt her heart pounding. After everything she’d promised herself and despite her resolutions, Meg was now facing Lark unable to find the words that would indict Ethan. The familiar pantry, her sister’s smiling face, the delicious promise of dinner wafting in from the kitchen—everything felt so normal, so loved, so safe. It seemed impossible suddenly that the man clomping around upstairs singing silly songs to his daughters could be the person who’d been stalking her the last few weeks. She felt blood rush to her cheeks as she tried to regain her resolve and sense of urgency.
“Meg—I can’t believe it—you’re actually blushing! It is somebody. And it’s serious, isn’t it?”
Meg felt her sister’s eyes upon her. Lark was able to read Meg’s emotional terrain like a map. She knew where each hidden heartbreak lay. Where each romantic triumph took place. She had been there for every high and every low. And, always, she’d been on Meg’s side. Whispering instructions. Suggesting alternate battle plans. She’d always been so eager to help, so hopeful that Meg would find the same kind of happiness Lark shared with Ethan. Or thought she shared. Meg felt her eyes misting.
“Okay.” Meg sighed, looking down at the cracked tiled floor. “Yes, yes, there is someone. But it’s very weird and confusing.”
“I’m happy for you!” Lark hugged her and then stepped back to look at her. “But why do you seem so upset? Tell me about him—is he …”
“Please, Lark.” Meg swallowed hard, cursing herself inwardly for her cowardice. She had all weekend, she reminded herself. This was just not the right time or place to tell Lark what was really happening.
“Damn, I bet he’s married. Am I right?” Lark tucked in a stray hair behind Meg’s ear. Her mothering instincts came flowing out whenever someone she loved was in danger of being hurt. “Kids?”
Meg, trying to clear her thoughts, shook her head and took a deep breath. “I’m … I’m not really ready to talk about it yet, baby. Even with you. Can you believe it?” Without warning, she felt her eyes spill over with tears.
“Oh—I hate to see you in any kind of pain,” Lark said, pulling her sister close again. “But I understand. Really I do. Just know that I’m here when you are ready. And you know what? Speaking from experience, if two people are meant for each other, nothing—not even a marriage—is going to be able to stand in their way.”
“I feel so egotistical, throwing a party for myself.” Lark remarked over that evening’s dinner of homemade spinach linguine with roasted eggplant and bell pepper. She was feeding Fern, in the high chair beside her, little spoonfuls of mashed spinach. The dinner party that Lark had been planning for weeks to celebrate the sale of her children’s book was to be held the following night. “But, hey, Ethan got a party for his opening. I think I deserve a little something, too.”
“Of course you do, sweetie,” Ethan said, his smile lingering on Meg.
“Who’s all coming?” Meg asked, not looking in Ethan’s direction.
“All my favorite people in the world,” Lark went on. “You guys, Abe, Francine, Matt, and Janine—”
“That fart-face,” Lucinda muttered just loud enough for the whole table to hear, causing Brook and Phoebe to snicker gleefully.
“Luce—” Ethan warned.
“Like you think she’s attractive?” Lucinda’s face darkened. “Of course, you—”
“That’s enough, “ Lark said. “Don’t be like that with Meg here.”
“So what’s on the menu?” Meg asked.
“Smok
ed oysters!” Phoebe sang out before collapsing into a fit of giggles. She was six, blond and blue-eyed like her mother, with a round, cherubic face and the temperament to match.
“Corn pudding, stuffed peppers, Brussels sprouts with chestnuts—” Lark was not one for half measures when it came to entertaining.
“I hate brussels sprouts,” Brook announced matter-of-factly. Tall for her nine years, slender as a reed, Brook had inherited her father’s hair—a wild mane of brilliant golds and reds. She was naturally quiet, thoroughly self-possessed. Lark had confided proudly to Meg that Brook was at the top of her class in every subject without seeming to put any effort into her studies. She had her aunt’s hazel eyes, and something about her strong, determined character reminded Meg of herself as a girl.
“Three big free-range chickens, stuffed with lemons and rosemary,” Lark went on as if uninterrupted. “Creamed onions, green beans with slivered almonds, and, what else?”
“Lord, I think that’s enough,” Meg said.
“Mashed potatoes!” Phoebe cried at the top of her little voice. “With gravy!”
“Phoebe,” Ethan said. That was all it took with the younger girls—that tone from Ethan, or a shake of the head from Lark. It always amazed Meg what good parents Ethan and Lark had somehow, naturally, become. The girls were raised with a firm, loving hand, the two parents rarely disagreeing on points of discipline. It helped, no doubt, to have Ethan working in the studio just a few hundred yards away. He was around the house—and in their lives—as much as Lark was. And, even now, despite Meg’s outrage at Ethan, she had to admit to herself that he was wonderful with his daughters—fun-loving and imaginative, thoughtful and patient.
After the dishes were cleared and done and Lucinda had sullenly gone out to “see some friends,” they all sat in the living room in front of the open fire, reading and talking. It was so warm and comfortable by the fireplace, the mantel decorated with dried gourds and Indian corn from the garden, Meg could almost believe that this circle of family—all aglow in the flickering light—was as it had always been. Innocent. Loving. Indivisible. But then she would feel Ethan’s eyes upon her, and she would flush with a terrible secret anger.
Around ten, and only after Meg had promised to read them yet another story if they agreed to go to bed, Brook and Phoebe finally trudged upstairs. Lark carried Fern up behind them and Meg could hear Lark humming a lullaby to the sleeping baby. Though they had separate beds, Brook and Phoebe curled up together for Meg’s reading of “Sleepy Hollow.” It was a long story, and Meg had forgotten just how frightening it was. Rather than ease them into sleep, the story jarred them into a nervous wakefulness. Afterward, Meg had to promise Phoebe several times that it was “all make-believe,” that the headless horseman was not going to come barreling up the driveway and grab her. Then, as an antidote to the first story, she read them their old favorite, “Goodnight Moon.” Twice.
“I had forgotten how scary some of those children’s stories are,” Meg said as she came back down into the living room. The fire had collapsed into a bed of glowing embers. Lark and Ethan were talking on the couch. There was something about the way they were sitting and the low, tense tone of their voices that made Meg feel she was intruding.
“Did they give you trouble?” Lark asked, looking over Ethan’s shoulder at Meg. Ethan didn’t turn; he seemed to be staring intently at the dying fire. “We were just getting ready to go up ourselves.”
“Me, too,” Meg said. Usually, after the girls were in bed, Meg would sit up with Lark and Ethan for another hour or so, catching up on their lives. The three of them had once been so casual, so easy in each other’s company. Ethan had ruined all that now. Though it felt odd and a little awkward to go to bed so early, Meg was relieved. Meg realized that they were waiting for her to leave before continuing their conversation. “I’m heading up then,” Meg said, turning to the stairs.
“See you in the morning, sweetie,” Lark called after her.
‘“Night,” Ethan added. He still hadn’t turned around.
Usually Meg slept better at Lark and Ethan’s house than anywhere else in the world, including her own apartment. She was always given the guest bedroom at the top of the stairs that faced out on the side yard and downhill to the river. With one of the three large-paned windows open a crack, the soft white curtain stirring in the breeze, Meg could lie in bed and hear the sound of the rushing water below. It would carry her gently into sleep and she would remember nothing more until morning.
Tonight, though, was different. The temperature had dropped precipitously after nightfall and the bedroom was freezing. Meg closed all the windows and pulled a spare army blanket out of the closet. But once under the covers, Meg felt too hot, and the full moon flooded the room with a weird white presence. Meg’s elbow began to ache again, and she had a hard time finding a sleeping position that didn’t hurt it. The old house creaked and moaned and made other odd noises. Just as Meg drifted off at last into a troubled sleep, a distant bang—a shutter in the wind? the sound of gunfire?—would jar her awake. Sometime in the middle of the night, Meg woke to hear someone knocking softly on her door. She lay in bed, every muscle tensed, staring at the door through the drifting darkness. But it did not open. Finally the sound stopped, and Meg heard footsteps creaking on the floorboards. Or was it just the house shifting on its beams? At some point, she finally fell asleep. But her dreams were fragmented and nerve-racking. In one, a headless horseman galloped through a moonlit night.
8
“… for Her mercy is forever, Amen,” Francine Werling’s deep voice was calming and self-assured. Though Meg found some of Francine’s ultrafeminist mannerisms clichéd, she grudgingly respected the minister of Red River’s Congregationalist Church. Francine, who had led the town’s congregation of two hundred souls for the past fifteen years, seemed to Meg to be a tireless champion of all that was liberal-minded, environmentally correct, and socially responsible. She’d arrived in Red River from an assistant minister posting in upstate Vermont with a two-year-old son, no husband, and no questions answered—either then or as the years went by—about her son’s father.
Matt looked nothing like his mother. He was tall and lanky, with a splotched complexion and dark, somewhat greasy hair that he wore in a ponytail.Though tall herself, the prematurely gray-haired Francine was solid, almost matronly, whereas Matt was whippet thin. Francine’s usual—and, Meg thought, somewhat studied—expression was open and beaming. Matt wore a perpetual scowl behind his light-sensitive rimless glasses. He had the appearance of someone who spent all his time indoors, which, in fact, he did, glued to a computer screen and wired into an Internet world that seemed far more vital to him than his own. Matt rarely went anywhere without his laptop. He’d arrived behind his mother for Lark’s dinner with the computer case slung over his shoulder and had spent the hour or so before the meal curled up on a window seat as far away from everyone as possible, absorbed in his computer games.
As in all small towns, Red River’s most thriving industry was gossip. For years, the rumor mill had been busily speculating about Francine and Matt. Was he illegitimate? Was she a lesbian and he one of those test-tube babies? Just who was the father and why was she so closemouthed about it? Someone had even contacted the Vermont congregation where she had last been posted, but Francine had arrived there with a six-month-old Matt from somewhere in New Hampshire, and the Vermont congregation had as many unanswered questions as the Red River community did. There were no questions, however, about Francine’s abilities as a community leader and spiritual counselor. And so, because they admired and needed her, Red River let Francine publicly keep her secrets. Privately, the unfinished triangle of Francine, Matt, and unknown father sparked enough curiosity and interest to keep it one of the top five or six topics in town, right behind Lucinda McGowan’s most recent outrage.
“Thank you, Francine,” Ethan said somewhat formally. He was at the head of the table, the enormous, perfectly roasted chickens wa
iting to be carved in front of him. Francine, two seats down from him on the left, gave Ethan a curt nod. Though there no overt animosity passed between them, Meg had noticed over the years that Ethan and Francine were hardly friends. Meg thought she understood why. She could see how Ethan might object to the unusual closeness Francine and Lark shared. The two women had so many interests in common and were both so dedicated to their pet causes that, together, they headed up every important committee in town: the Red River Environmental Awareness Group, the Youth Fund, Red River’s Women’s Caucus, and the local New York Democratic Club. Between meetings, fund-raisers, and just attending to the details of getting things done, Lark probably saw more of Francine Werling than she did of anyone else in Red River, including Ethan.
If their relationship had ended with friendship, Meg suspected that Ethan might have tolerated, even encouraged, the bond. But Francine had become something of a spiritual mentor to Lark as well. They spent hours together in deep conversation. They’d organized a women’s reading group that studied and discussed books on inner light and universal oneness. They rarely let a day pass without taking a moment to “share” with each other on the phone. Ethan had always kidded Lark about her tireless campaign for self-awareness and enlightenment. Over the years, she had embraced every philosophy that had come down the pike—EST, Sufism, the New Age flavor of the year. With Francine, Lark had finally found a soul mate and fellow seeker—a situation that was bound to irritate the confirmed agnostic in Ethan.
Francine no doubt sensed Ethan’s reservations and harbored some of her own. Ethan didn’t come to church with Lark and the girls and rarely participated in the church functions—the chicken frys, bake sales, and contra dances—that were at the heart of Red River’s social life. Once, at Lark’s and Francine’s urging, Ethan had given a lecture in the church basement about the art of glassblowing, but he had talked in such abstractions and at such length that the twenty or so people who attended the evening left far more baffled than when they arrived. Meg learned from Lark that Francine believed Ethan had been obtuse and difficult on purpose. In any case, he had never been asked to talk about his work again.
