“I dropped out of college and hiked the Appalachian Trail.”
Ellie stopped again. “Really?”
Diana laughed, nodding her head. “Really! I was completely lost and felt I needed to get away from Edward and everyone else. My parents were not impressed, let me tell you. And I shouldn’t say I dropped out—my father made me finish the semester. After that, I hiked for eight months, and then worked for four months to pay my parents back. I went back and finished school, and was accepted after graduation into an insurance training program, which I pursued partly because I saw so many ill prepared, accident prone people while I was hiking and mostly because I had no idea what I wanted to do. That’s where I met Phil. A year later we got married, started having kids, and I didn’t question any of it. Well, I didn’t until about three years ago.”
They were at their cars now. The dogs were in their respective vehicles, and Ellie and Diana were standing next to Diana’s car. Ellie didn’t want to go, didn’t want to stop the conversation. “What happened three years ago?” she asked.
“I fell in love with a woman and told my husband I was gay.”
“Holy shit,” said Ellie, her head rocking back.
“Indeed,” said Diana, a slight smile on her face. “It was a very interesting time in my life.”
Ellie nodded her head, hesitated a moment, and then said, “Are you interested in a cup of coffee?”
Diana checked her watch and smiled fully at Ellie. “Yes. But just because we are prolonging our time together by having a cup of coffee does not mean we need to continue this conversation.”
“I absolutely want to continue this conversation.”
“All right,” said Diana. “I told Shawna that I’d be in around noon, so I do have a little more time—not that she needs me. That young woman could run the store with absolutely no supervision.”
“Follow me to my house,” said Ellie. “Chris got me a cappuccino machine for Christmas. It has turned me into even more of a caffeine addict than he is. But I don’t need to drive to Dunkin’ Donuts anymore.”
Over coffee, Diana continued her story. The woman she had fallen in love with, it turned out, was bisexual. She and Diana were together for six months, but then the woman returned to her husband. Diana, whose conviction that she was gay was nothing but reinforced by this relationship, did not even consider returning to Phil. Although, by then, Phil had filed for divorce and started dating.
“Was he angry?” asked Ellie, pushing the plate of Vienna Fingers closer to Diana. Diana took one and bit into it.
“I would say he was more disillusioned than angry,” said Diana. “But I was also—about our relationship, who I was, and who he was. In the end, however, he was remarkably civilized. While I’m not sure he suspected, he told me he had, several times, over the course of our marriage. When I asked him to explain, he couldn’t, however. I don’t think he really did suspect I was gay, because I really didn’t know myself. I mean, I did know, but I had buried it for so long that I wasn’t sure what was going on. I was resolute and conflicted at the same time—if that makes any sense.”
“It does,” said Ellie, nodding her head, listening and thinking, thinking and listening. “It does make sense.”
“I think because Phil was so good about it—because we both tried to make our separation as painless as possible—the kids were good about it. We are still a family. Phil and I just don’t live together anymore.” Diana finished her cappuccino and set the cup back in its saucer. “And I don’t really know why I’m burdening you with all of this. It’s the anniversary today of the day I told Phil. It’s on my mind. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you told me.”
Diana cocked her head. “Are you? Why are you glad I told you?”
Ellie took a cookie from the plate between them. “Because it makes sense,” she said. “I understand it.”
“You seem to understand it,” said Diana.
Ellie said, “Yes. I do.”
CHAPTER 24
Ellie and Joan sat across the table from each other at Casa Maria. Their chicken quesadillas had just been set down in front of them; their chips and salsa were gone. And even though they had tried to not make Alice’s absence and what it signified the topic of conversation, they had failed. She had e-mailed both of them the night before, telling them how sorry she was to be missing lunch. But she had decided to attend a Well Protected Women’s meeting in Hartford. It was a group of gun-carrying women she’d learned about on the Internet—and they met the first Wednesday of every month. Alice had not acknowledged or addressed the potential future conflict. If she continued to attend these meetings, she would no longer be able to meet for lunch on the first Wednesday of each month. This meant, Ellie and Joan had discussed, that Alice would either ask them to reschedule their lunch date, or she would simply join them on the third Wednesday only.
“We’re jumping ahead,” said Ellie, scooping guacamole from a plastic cup onto her quesadilla. “This is one meeting, one missed lunch we’re talking about here.”
Joan nodded her head in agreement. “I know,” she said. “But I’m worried about her nonetheless.”
Their server approached the table and asked them the obligatory question all experienced servers ask five minutes after they have delivered meals to their customers: “Is everything all right?” Both women, who had each taken one bite, indicated that their quesadillas were delicious. Ellie asked for more salsa.
“You’re worried she’s taking this too seriously, that she’s getting in too deep.”
“I know she’s taking it too seriously,” said Joan. “And I do have to admit that, if what happened to Alice happened to me, I’d be serious about protecting myself, about feeling safe. What I’m worried about is her interest in, no, her obsession with guns. I know you don’t worry about it, Ellie. But I do. She hasn’t even told Dave yet.”
Ellie dumped one of the two plastic cups of salsa that had just been set down on the table over the layer of guacamole she had spread on the browned tortilla. “Just because you and I have different views about gun ownership doesn’t mean I’m not worried about her.”
Joan finished chewing the bite in her mouth. “You’re right; I’m sorry. So what do we do? What do we say?”
Ellie shook her head. “I have no idea. She’s pretty fragile right now. But she’s not looking for a lot of advice.”
“Point delivered,” said Joan. “Maybe I’ve been too vocal. But I feel like she is being pulled into a dangerous world that she is looking at from only one side. She thinks owning a gun will give her security, keep her safe from harm; I think owning a gun will do just the opposite. Somebody is going to end up dead. It may be an accident. It may even be justified. But it will be permanent.”
Ellie smiled at Joan. “Do you think there’s the slightest possibility that you’re overreacting?”
“Of course I’m overreacting,” said Joan, not returning Ellie’s smile. “If I don’t act as a counterbalance to Alice, who will? Her daughters applaud their mother’s behavior, telling her she’s brave and strong. Dave has no idea what his wife is up to. And these women in Hartford are going to make her feel like a hero for fending off her attacker and like a scholar for getting a gun. Where is the voice of reason in all of this?”
“It’s not unreasonable to have a gun.”
“No, it’s not,” said Joan. “But Alice is thinking differently from how she used to think. She has crossed over to the gun carrying side. And you have to admit, Ellie, that having your grandfather’s shotguns in your house and hunting once a year is not the same thing as carrying a pistol on your body every moment you are outside of your house. What is going to prevent her from thinking that she not only has to protect herself, but that she also has to protect others? She might stumble upon some trouble out in the world and think, because she’s got a gun, she’s got the answer.” Joan put her fork down on her plate and sat back in her seat.
“Joan,” sa
id Ellie. “Joan. This is one meeting. She doesn’t have the gun yet. She’s gathering information. There is time for her to calm down.”
“I’m not sure she wants to calm down, Ellie. I think she’s on a mission here, to right her wrong and the wrongs of women everywhere.”
“We don’t know that,” said Ellie. “Sometimes people talk big because they need to convince themselves—or their friends. You have been critical of Alice’s interest in guns.”
Joan had not yet returned to her lunch. “What kind of friend isn’t?”
“Meaning I’m not a good friend, Joan?”
“No, Ellie. You’ve been supportive of her because you know that owning guns is legal and, in some circles, accepted, celebrated even,” said Joan. “Even though I would never have guns in my house, I can certainly understand why people do—especially those who hunt. What I object to is gun ownership by people who have issues, agendas, criminal intent, debts to settle, etcetera.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Joan. You’ve just described every member of the human race.”
At this, Joan’s face, neck, and shoulders relaxed. “Perhaps I have,” she said, reaching for her fork and cutting off a large bite of quesadilla, which she lifted to her mouth. “Do you love it when I get on a roll?”
“I actually do love it,” said Ellie. “You have convictions, and you’re not afraid to share them, and I admire that.”
“I share them with you and Alice,” said Joan. “I certainly don’t share them with just anybody.”
“That’s because you’re smart,” said Ellie.
“Smart or not, that’s enough grandstanding for one day. Tell me about you. How’s the bookkeeping business?”
Ellie smiled at Joan and said, “It’s good. I’m busy. I’d like to be busier, but I know I can find more clients if I actively look.” Ellie took a sip of water. “It’s the looking part that’s hard for me. I want people to somehow find out about me and then call me and give me their business.”
Joan smiled in return. “I don’t think it works that way.”
“It most definitely doesn’t work that way,” said Ellie. “But I am such a lousy salesperson. I don’t know the first thing about promoting myself.”
“So promote what you do,” said Joan, “promote your services, your expertise, your experience.”
“I do that,” said Ellie. “But I also have to convince my prospective clients that I am the right bookkeeper for the job.”
“You are totally the right bookkeeper, for any job out there.”
Ellie laughed. “How do you know that? You don’t know anything about my business.”
“But I know you,” said Joan. “People have to trust their accountants. And I think people can see that you’re an honest, hardworking person the minute you walk through the door.”
Ellie forked the last bite of quesadilla into her mouth and said as she chewed, “You are a good egg.”
Joan pointed her finger at Ellie. “Did your father used to say that?”
“Still does.”
“My dad said it, too—sparingly. God, he was a man of carefully chosen words. And when he did say it—that someone was a good egg—it was always in reference to one of his work buddies, never about family members, friends, or neighbors. I’ll bet that’s what that pet store woman thought about you when you first talked to her. What’s her name again?”
Ellie blushed and then said, “Diana. Diana McGuire.”
“That’s right. How is everything going with her?”
“Well,” said Ellie. “Things are going well.” And she stopped there. She was tempted to continue, but she didn’t know how to proceed. Her relationship with Diana was evolving, from a business relationship to a personal relationship, one that mattered more to Ellie than many of her established relationships. And Ellie was struggling, in a sometimes pleasant way, to reconcile this fast friendship with her typical method of finding and keeping friends. Ellie was a friendly and engaging person, but she was quiet at first, often taking in what others said before offering her opinion, if she offered it at all. Perhaps this was because she was the only daughter, and her brothers always had dominated and continued to dominate the conversation at home. But this had not been the case so far with Diana. That very first day, Ellie had been able to talk to Diana as if they had known and understood each other for years rather than minutes.
“So what do you need—four, five more clients like Diana?”
There were no clients like Diana because there was no one like Diana. Being with her was for Ellie like being with a long-lost sister. Except she did not want to be Diana’s sister. They were so like-minded, the two of them. Was it because Diana was gay? A tingling sensation emanated from Ellie’s heart and spread out through her circulatory system until her entire being was warm, alive, ready—a sprinter just before the race. Yes, Ellie thought. It was because Diana was gay, and because she had the courage to proclaim her homosexuality after decades of consciously and unconsciously hiding it. She was exactly who Ellie wanted to be because Ellie knew at that exact moment that she, too, was and always had been attracted to women more than men. And that if she were going to be at peace like Diana was at peace—no matter the upheaval it would take to achieve this—she had to come out, too. “Unbelievable,” Ellie said aloud.
“What,” said Joan, looking at the check, calculating the tip. “The four or five more clients? That may sound like a lot, but I think you could find four new clients next week. Have you tried the mall or the casino? How about the appliance store on Canal Street? Everyone there is definitely collecting Social Security. I’ll bet they’re dying for someone to take over their books.” Ellie grinned at Joan, but not in relation to anything Joan was saying. Ellie had not been listening. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Ellie, looking at her watch. “I’ve got to get rolling.” She could not get to the pet store fast enough. “What do I owe you?”
“It’s my treat,” said Joan, feeling magnanimous since she had won three hundred dollars at the roulette table that morning.
Ellie stood. “You really are a good egg.”
Joan laughed. “Go,” she said, flicking the backs of her fingers at Ellie. “I’ll take care of this.”
Ellie put on her coat. “We didn’t talk about you at all. How are you doing in your quest to find the meaning of empty nested life?”
“I’m working on it,” said Joan.
CHAPTER 25
As soon as Alice got home from the meeting of the Well Protected Women in Hartford, she grabbed the laptop she kept on the kitchen counter and parked herself at the table, pushing the newspaper that sat underneath Dave’s cereal bowl aside. Seconds later, she had found the Web site her new friends suggested she consult for more information about gun safety and handling classes. “Of course, we can tell you everything you need to know,” Jamie had said after the meeting. “But if you’re anything like me—and I can already tell that you are—you’ll want to do the research yourself.”
As it turned out, Alice was indeed something like Jamie. They both had daughters, and they both had nearly been raped. Jamie, who lived just outside of Hartford, had gotten a flat tire after dark in an economically depressed section of the city. If a woman who kept a handgun in her purse and held it like she knew how to use it hadn’t happened by, Jamie said she would have become a statistic like all the other non-armed women of the world: raped, dead, or both. Two men, with their pants already around their ankles, had her pinned against the side of her car parked under a faulty streetlight. Cindy, another member of the Well Protected Women, lived in Springfield, Massachusetts. She had been held up at knifepoint outside a shopping mall at Christmastime. The thieves stole all the presents she had bought for her children and the credit cards and cash in her wallet. Both Jamie and Cindy lamented about the tragedy, their word, of women experiencing violence before they thought or sought to prevent it from happening. Both Jamie and Cindy also knew women who had not been as “lucky”—they both
used air quotes when talking about their good fortune—as they had been: One woman in the group had been stabbed in the back and lost a kidney, and another woman, who’d had no money or presents for her children at the time of the attack, had been raped and beaten severely enough to warrant a two-month hospital stay.
Jamie and Cindy had asked Alice to tell them her story over a cup of coffee during what the organization president called sharing time—a twenty-minute break midway through the meeting when members were encouraged to get to know one another—and she did, starting with the incredible feeling of peace she’d had on the run when she started out that afternoon and ending with the fear and anger that had not left her since. She told them about her assailant. She told them about the police investigation that had so far turned up nothing but footprints in the snow, now gone. She told them about her whistle. She told them everything, except her instruction to the man to take off her pants. She had relived that line in her mind, over and over, and still had no idea why she’d said it. It made her sound like a willing participant rather than a victim. She was ashamed and had said nothing to anyone, not even to Ellie or Joan. Jamie and Cindy nodded their heads, scribbling their cell phone numbers on scraps of paper, telling Alice to call them any time of the day or night. Alice thought all the way home about how they had treated her, how everyone at the meeting had treated her. No one challenged her story. No one appeared to doubt the veracity of the details. No one forgot her name. No one put her needs ahead of Alice’s, or half listened to Alice’s story until she could segue into one about her own experience. The Well Protected Women were the most supportive group of friends (and Alice had already decided they were friends) she had ever met.
Alice signed up online for the classes and the instructors the women had recommended to her. She knew she would be able to apply for a permit only after she’d taken the classes and fired a gun, and that the wait once the application was filed was up to eight weeks. Alice counted the weeks in her head; she could be carrying a weapon by Memorial Day. She closed out of the registration Web site before walking to the stove to make a cup of tea. She thought about baking some cookies; she hadn’t baked anything since the incident. Just as she was getting the flour and sugar from the cupboard next to the oven, Dave walked in the back door.
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