by Liza Bennett
Besides Francine and Matt, the other invited guests were Abe—who had called earlier to say he was running late and to start without him—and Janine and Clint Lindbergh. Janine, seated between Francine and Ethan, was blond and large and capable-looking. She could have been an early pioneer woman, driving a Conestoga wagon across the sweltering plains. In her mid-forties and too heavy to be considered beautiful, her skin was nevertheless soft and translucent, her eyes the palest of blues, her teeth very tiny and white. Her dimpled smile was simply part of her natural expression. She favored dresses that were far too young for her—floral prints with lace edging and puffy sleeves. For all Janine’s sweetness—or perhaps because of it—Meg had always found her a bit grating. Janine didn’t seem to notice how often she was stepped on by Ethan or Lark—left to clear the dishes, wait by the phone, or baby-sit Fern, while everyone else did as they pleased. Of course, Meg would have to remind herself, Janine and Clint were in the awkward position of being both employees and friends.
Clint, however, seemed to handle it better. A big, bearlike man, with a full red beard now dusted with gray, Clint was slow-moving and relaxed. He had a great belly laugh and, when pushed, a wonderful way with a story. When not working for Ethan, he helped Francine out doing janitorial work and playing—very badly—the church’s old pipe organ. Kind and always game, he was a favorite of the girls, who called him “Uncle Clintbones” and climbed on him, swinging from his broad shoulders as if he were some kind of jungle gym.
With Janine, who did housecleaning and baby-sitting for Lark in the afternoons, the girls were less responsive. Brook, especially, seemed to take against her. “She’s like a big dumb cow,” Brook confided to Meg. “I’ve been able to beat her in Scrabble for the last three years.”
Lucinda, for her part, kept up a nonstop, one-woman smear campaign against Janine. She made constant fun of her and called her nasty names behind her back—“Gigantic Janine,” “Little Dough-girl,” “Earth Pig”—often loud enough for Janine to hear. When Janine had finally complained to Lark about Lucinda’s behavior and Lark had done what she could to keep the difficult teenager in line, Lucinda had simply continued her name-calling on a more clandestine but no less consistent basis. Perhaps that explained Janine’s puffy eyes today, Meg thought, and her new nervous habit of biting her lower lip. For the first time since Meg had known her, Janine was beginning to look her age.
“Well, I’d like to make a toast,” Clint announced after everyone had been served. Seated at the foot of the table beside Lark, he pushed back his chair and lumbered to his feet, his wineglass raised in his right hand. “To our beautiful hostess—much success with her new book. And,” he turned to Ethan, “our generous host. Congratulations on your show. We’re—Janine and I—very proud.”
“Thanks, Clint,” Ethan called down the table. He raised his glass. “To the Lindberghs. Who keep the joint running.” Flushing with what seemed to be sudden embarrassment, Clint sat down abruptly, and tucked into the full plate in front of him.
“I have a toast as well,” Lark said, though she didn’t rise. Dressed in a red corduroy jumper, black wool turtleneck, and black leggings, she could almost pass for the college girl Ethan had fallen in love with. Her blue eyes glistening, she raised her glass to Ethan. “To family and friends. Hearth and home. Here and now.”
Meg, sitting across the table from Francine, saw the look and smile that passed between husband and wife and she felt her heart leap. All day, Ethan hadn’t given Meg so much as a glance. Though not distant in a way that anyone else but Meg would notice, he seemed to have completely shut down on her. And she couldn’t have been more relieved. If he needed to be dismissive of her, fine, thought Meg. If he needed to be angry, moody, nasty even—Meg would welcome it all. If only he would continue to leave her alone.
Perhaps to compensate for his coldness toward Meg, Ethan was being as jovial and attentive as possible to everybody else. As the meal progressed, Meg watched him talking to Janine, who was seated to his immediate left. It was almost as if he, too, had noticed Janine’s unhappy state because he made a point of kidding her and making her flush and giggle. Then he turned his attention to Brook and Phoebe, who were seated next to each other on his right, and before too long the head of the table was in hysterics.
“Dad-Dad-dy stop!” Phoebe was laughing so hard she started to hiccup.
“What’s so funny down there?” Lark asked.
“Daddy was telling us about the re—” Brook began to giggle herself and turned to Ethan, touching his elbow. “You better tell it.”
“I’m not sure what all the fuss is about,” Ethan began, straight-faced. “I was merely filling them in on the steering committee that the chickens have formed to discuss—”
As Ethan was speaking, the front door opened and then was slammed shut. Everyone looked up. Abe appeared between the French doors leading into the dining room.
“Why didn’t any of you people tell me about Becca’s plans?” he demanded, speaking in a voice Meg had never heard before. His usual ironic poise was gone and in its place was undiluted anger. “Christ, I thought you were my friends!”
“We are your friends, Abe,” Ethan responded quickly, with a glance down the table to Lark. “Don’t blame us for what happened between the two of you.”
“Two of—?” Abe started across the floor toward Ethan.
“Not in my house.” Lark said. She rose quickly, grabbing his arm as he passed. In his anger, he started to shake her off, then seemed to realize what he was doing. He hesitated and Lark seized the moment, adding: “Not here. Come with me.” She pulled Fern out of the high chair with one arm and, with her other, took Abe by the elbow and drew him down the hall to the kitchen.
“What in the world … ?” Meg, forgetting herself, turned to Ethan, but he was occupied trying to soothe Brook and Phoebe.
“It’s okay, guys. Abe’s just a little mad, is all. Happens to the best of us.”
“So he’s heard the news,” Francine said, shaking her head.
“Heard what?” Meg asked.
“About Becca,” Clint replied. “She took her divorce money and bought those ten acres north of town on the other side of the river that Eddie Soneson has been trying to sell forever. She’s going to build a house there.”
“I thought the agreement was that she had to leave,” Meg said, repeating what Lark had told her.
“That’s what we all thought, including Abe, obviously,” Francine said. “Becca let him keep the country house—all of it, without any kind of struggle, though she fought him on everything else. He must have assumed, as we all did, that she intended to leave Red River.”
“Poor Abe.” Janine sighed.
“Hey, it’s a free country,” Clint pointed out philosophically.
“The lady can build where she likes. But that property’s straight uphill and all tree-covered. I’m not sure where she’s going to squeeze in a house.”
“She’s already contracted with Hawkins and Lee, the architects who designed the Yarrow place in Montville,” Ethan said, carving himself another slice of breast meat.
“Where’d you hear that?” Francine asked.
“I ran into her on the train when my Jeep was in the shop, and she gave me a ride back from Hudson. She showed me the plans. It’s going to be a hell of a beautiful place. Abe must have handed over a wad of cash.”
“I didn’t realize you were still in touch with Becca,” Francine said in a lowered voice.
“She gave me a ride home to save Lark from having to make the trip. I’m sorry, Francine, but you weren’t there so I was unable to ask your permission.”
“Okay, kids,” Clint pushed back his chair and stood up. “Who’s going to help Uncle Clintbones clear?”
“When did you start smoking again?” Meg asked Lark. Everyone had gone home and Ethan had taken the girls up to bed. Fern was already tucked in for the night. After looking all through the downstairs, Meg had finally found her sister on the
top of the five wooden steps that led from the kitchen to the backyard. Lark was wrapped in an old bulky sweater of Ethan’s.
“Oh, I’ve always sneaked them from time to time,”
Lark said. She held up the cigarette for Meg to get a better look. “These are organic, if that makes it any better.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Meg said, sitting down next to her. “But speaking of being bothered—what happened with Abe? Did he leave after the two of you talked?”
“I’d hardly say we talked. I listened to his tirade. It’s scary when someone who’s usually so self-contained really loses it. But this business with Becca—you heard what she’s planning?”
“To stay here … and build a new house?”
“Yeah. Right up the river. It’s driving him nuts. It’s kind of horrifying to hear just how much he hates her. You know what he told me? After the split, he piled everything Becca had ever given him—clothes, books, CDs, anything that could remotely remind him of her—and donated it to Francine’s last tag sale. He just couldn’t stand having it around. And today, when he walked into the dining room? Already half-crazed because of what he’d learned about Becca’s plans? He saw poor old Clint wearing a shirt Becca had given Abe for his birthday last year. Clint and Janine pick up half their clothes at tag sales. It made Abe sick—just seeing that damned shirt again. Imagine what it’s going to be like for him running into Becca every time he turns around.”
“Poor Abe,” Meg said. They were both silent for a moment. It was a chilly night, the air clear and dry, the stars filling the sky above with their cold, puzzling beauty. This would be the perfect moment to talk to Lark about Ethan, Meg thought. But, how to begin? Speaking of feeling sorry for people, Lark … No, how about just coming straight out with it: Ethan’s been harassing me, Lark, I just thought you should know. … Meg found her brain spinning with words, none of them convincing, no tone anywhere near right.
Finally, sensing the silence had stretched on too long and having nothing else to fill it with, Meg said, “That was an incredible meal. I’ve never eaten so much in my life.”
“You always say that. And yet I watch you, and you’re always so careful about what you eat. You took maybe two bites of that apple pie. That’s why you still look so great. Slim, stylish.”
“I didn’t know I was such an object of scrutiny. And if you’re in any way comparing the two of us—believe me, I’d give anything for your body.”
“Oh, let’s not do this, sweetie. What’s the point?”
“No, there isn’t any point.” Meg put her hand on Lark’s knee, feeling her heart expand with love and pity for her sister.
“I mean, we’re just different, you and me. It’s hard to keep that in perspective sometimes because I feel so close to you. But we’re not the same—we’ve different bodies, different minds. Want different kinds of lives. But, you know what? Ever since the book got bought, I feel that I understand you better. It’s a wonderful feeling—totally exhilarating—to be acknowledged as a success. Complimented, wooed by important people. Now I think I kind of know how you must feel, running your own business, dealing with real problems in the real world.”
Meg squeezed Lark’s knee, encouraging her, though these were not the revelations she had hoped for.
“You know, for so many years now,” Lark continued, “I’ve felt like I was in your shadow. I was always comparing myself with you. Weighing what I had against what you had. Competing—I guess they already have a word for it. But now—it’s like this weight’s been lifted—I don’t feel that way anymore. We’re equals somehow. Different, but both successful. Oh, Meggie,” Lark said with a laugh, turning her head up and looking at the stars, “I just feel so great.”
Clearly, Lark didn’t know what was happening with Ethan. Probably didn’t even suspect. Whatever Ethan had been going through, he’d been keeping it from his wife. And wasn’t it better that way? Meg asked herself now. Ethan’s fixation—like a kind of high, hallucinatory fever—seemed to be breaking up. He’d been careful not to see Meg alone all day. He’d barely spoken to her through dinner. Of course their relationship was hardly back to normal and it would probably take years to regain their old, easygoing footing, but Meg felt that the worst was over.
Ethan, after all, had made it clear to Meg that this was his personal hell. So wouldn’t it be wrong, actually, for Meg to intervene—now that Ethan was finally trying to deal with the crisis on his own? Meg wasn’t shirking her responsibilities as a loving sister, she told herself, she was simply adjusting her decision to a changing situation. Besides, she’d never seen Lark so confident and proud of herself. Surely, Lark deserved her moment in the sun. Perhaps that was why Ethan had decided to keep his emotional turmoil hidden from Lark. In time, Meg promised herself, the long episode would no doubt seem like just a bad dream.For now she’d let it stay her bad dream. What was the point of making it Lark’s nightmare?
“I’m happy for you,” Meg said finally, putting her arm around her sister. For a time, they sat there in silence together, looking up at the vast beckoning sky.
“Funny, we’ve both said that to each other this weekend,” Lark said. “Isn’t it too bad that everyone can’t be as happy—and happy for each other—as you and I are?”
9
The town of Red River was settled by English and Dutch farmers in the early 1700s. Built on a wide curve of the river the Indians had called Rocquonic for the water that would run red every spring with the rust-colored silt from upriver, it sat in the midst of a narrow, fertile valley, nestled in the heart of rolling hills. Though hardly isolated, it was not a stop on any important route. When the railroads were laid in the mid 1880s, Red River was bypassed for the more accessible Montville, and so the town itself never expanded far beyond its original configuration: the Rocquonic Inn, the general store, the grange, the First Congregational Church, the post office, and the two-story white clapboard building that had once been the blacksmith’s shop and that for most of this century had served as the town hall and library combined.
Woodstock and the Summer of Love washed far enough north and east to spill over into Red River. Communes sprang up all over upstate New York in the wake of the peace movement, and hippies, in a mass return to nature, started to homestead the old family farms, some of them left fallow since the Depression. Red River, like so many small towns, became an odd conglomeration of old and new, permanent and transitory: hardscrabble farmers, longhaired artisans, and always—from the late 1800s on—weekenders and summer people, visiting from the cities with the same approximate migratory patterns as the bird population. The town would start to fill up in late spring with New Yorkers and grosbeaks alike, the twitter of exotic birdsong along with chitchat of Wall Street and the Yankees drifted on the summer air, but by mid-November there was no longer a run on the Times in the general store and the local chickadees and titmice once again held sway at the feeders.
When Ethan and Lark bought the old Rensselaer mill and farm in the late 1980s there was already a well-established network of artisans in the area. With the news that Ethan was converting the mill into a working glassblowing studio, the McGowans found themselves invited to the many low-key functions that served the artistic community: poetry readings in converted barns, art openings in abandoned churches, and open-air New Age music concerts in the cow pastures of working farms. For a time, as they were first becoming established, they became something of a fixture at these events: the blond, glamorous McGowans, holding hands throughout the evening. But as Ethan became more involved with his work and the demands of motherhood started to restrict Lark’s evening hours, they joined in less and less frequently.
“When will they figure out that I’m not a fucking craftsperson,” Ethan complained in disgust as he crumpled up a letter soliciting his work for an upcoming fair and tossed it out the window of the jeep. It was the Monday morning of the Columbus Day holiday, and Ethan, Lark, Meg, and the girls had driven into town to pick up the mail and s
ome groceries at the general store. They were on their way home, Fern up front with Lark and Ethan, Meg and the two girls bouncing along in the back.
“Ethan, please,” Lark scolded, as she started to nurse Fern. “You’re as bad as Lucinda.”
“Excuse-moi, Madame, “ Ethan replied in a haughty tone. It was one of several voices he used to kid around with Brook and Phoebe and now it coaxed giggles out of both of them.
“You’re undermining me,” Lark murmured in a voice so low Meg wasn’t sure she heard her correctly.
“Yeah, you’re right, sorry,” Ethan replied, pulling the jeep up to the house and hopping out, the engine still going. “Okay, guys, hippity-hop.” As Lark and Fern climbed out the passenger side, he quickly lifted first Brook and then Phoebe from the backseat. Meg started to climb out on her own, but Ethan took her arm, steadying her as he slipped a folded piece of white ruled paper into her hand. She looked at him, startled, but he turned from her to help Lark with the groceries.
Ethan had been absent from everyone that weekend, retreating to his studio all day Sunday and late into the night as the sisters and the girls kept themselves busy baking shortbread fingers and gingersnaps for the church bake sale. Meg had always been aware that Ethan had “his moods,” as Lark called them, but she’d had no trouble simply ignoring them in the past. Now, for most of the last day and a half, Meg had felt responsible for the trouble he was going through and, at the same time, filled with a growing sense of relief: Ethan was working his demons out on his own. But the whole household seemed infected by Ethan’s unhappiness. Fern had become colicky again and cried intermittently. Lucinda clomped in and out of the house, headphones buzzing with angry rock music. Nobody seemed to be sleeping very well. Meg woke up several times Saturday and Sunday nights and twice thought she heard someone tapping at her door.
