Eventually the flames abate and he takes up a place beside her, sweating in the cool air as the doused mounds smoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just wanted to get it all done.”
He pats her on the shoulder and tells her not to worry. When she returns to the farmhouse, Brid’s waiting at the mud room door in her bikini top, one of its straps askew to reveal the sear of a tan line. She smiles and extends an arm to draw Maggie inside.
“Good idea, kiddo,” she says. “Burn the place down.”
It takes an hour of seclusion in her room before Maggie thinks that she should have filmed the fires. There’s still time for her to record the ashes, maybe even a whiff of smoke, but when she goes for the camera, it isn’t there. Then she discovers it isn’t just the camera; all her reels are missing, including the one with Fletcher on the bed. She searches the house and finds nothing. He’ll have destroyed the film by now. It isn’t right. Those reels weren’t his to take.
Twenty-four hours and no phone call from him. There’s just the single page of writing he left for her in the envelope, a list of instructions laying out in legalistic prose what to do while he’s away. George Ray Ransom’s contract is to be extended until the thirty-first of October, and only Margaret Dunne and Brigid Garland shall continue in the employ of Morgan Sugar. Fletcher listed dozens of farm chores too, with no suggestion of when he might return.
At lunch, Maggie breaks the news that there’s no more money forthcoming. Dimitri says it doesn’t matter because he and Rhea are heading back to Cambridge anyway. Everyone else is furious; almost unanimously, they vow to pack their bags. Jim and Sarah won’t even look Maggie in the eye, as if it’s her fault. They don’t seem to care when she tells them Fletcher will be coming back soon.
Most go that evening, the rest the next day. Nobody expresses regret or concern for her well-being, and no one asks her to accompany them. Their hearts are already bent on some other place. Part of Maggie wants to cry out, “Wait! I could be pregnant,” but they’re a pack of mutineers. After each round of goodbyes she circles through the house picking up relics forgotten or forsaken: clothes, books, homemade jewellery, toys. In the playroom, she stares at the blank wall, waiting for it to present her with some revelation.
The Centaurs are the last to go, Rhea with her makeup on, Dimitri freshly shaved, Judd and Jeffrey in their good shoes as if they’re heading off to church. It’s Labour Day, exactly when Dimitri always said they’d leave. Maggie expects him to be triumphant in the wake of Fletcher’s desertion, but he bids her farewell without any evident emotion. She wonders whether he has bothered saying goodbye to Lydia. When Maggie waves from the porch as they drive off, none of them returns the gesture.
Only Brid and Pauline stay. Maggie half wishes they’d go too, but Brid expresses no interest in leaving. A few minutes after the Centaurs’ departure she starts doing calisthenics in the living room, jumping in place and shaking out her arms, while Pauline lies on the couch watching TV with her doll.
“Cheer up, babe,” Brid says to Maggie. “You’ve still got me, at least. We’ll be a real pair here, sitting in our rockers all day.”
This is an image to chill Maggie’s blood, yet at dinner Brid’s too preoccupied with Pauline to bother with Maggie, wiping her daughter’s nose and cutting up her food as if she’s a baby. Maggie considers asking about Wale but thinks it safer not to mention him. After Pauline has been put to bed, the two of them watch television without speaking. Onscreen, people are talking politics; it turns out that Canadians are having their own election soon. Maggie’s too distracted by the day’s departures to be interested. Until Fletcher returns, this is how things are going to be: just her and Brid, alone together for hours. What is Brid thinking and feeling as she sits there? Might she too be waiting for the phone to ring? Maggie imagines Wale on his way to Laos. No, it’s impossible. He wouldn’t go there just because of one missed call. Even Wale isn’t that deranged.
“Brid,” Maggie can’t resist asking, “did Wale ever mention my father to you?”
At Wale’s name, a ferocity comes into Brid’s eyes. “Why would he do that?”
“He said he met him in Laos, when he was on the run from the army.”
Brid laughs harshly. “Wale’s a bullshitter.”
“So he never mentioned my dad?”
“He never even mentioned Laos. When he called after he’d gone AWOL, he told me he was in Saigon.”
Then Maggie notices the silver watch on Brid’s wrist. It’s too big for her and hangs loosely, the skin beneath looking irritated. Before Maggie can turn away, Brid catches the direction of her gaze.
“Yeah, I stole it from him,” she says. “Figured he might cut out, so I grabbed a souvenir. I’m not proud of it.” She waits for Maggie to challenge her, then replies to an unspoken allegation. “Some people give you zilch. If you want anything from them, you have to take it for yourself.”
The next day, Maggie wakes up determined to make the best of things. For breakfast she eats dry toast and tries to ignore the nausea’s return. Afterward, with Fletcher’s account books open on the kitchen table, she begins to make her own lists: bills to pay, jobs to do, vegetables to grow next summer. Brid comes upon her going over figures and offers to help, though Pauline tugs at her to play outside. Maggie says she’ll manage on her own, then at lunchtime bolts down a sandwich before Brid and Pauline can turn up. When she’s finished, she heads to the barracks for a talk with George Ray, taking with her a list of questions about the orchard. Since the incident with the burning brush piles she has spoken with him only once, to confirm the extension of his contract. Then he told her Fletcher had already raised the subject the morning he left. It must have been the busiest hour of Fletcher’s life, packing, scribbling orders, and telling everyone but her that he was leaving, all while she was out on her walk, imagining how the two of them might go on together.
At the barracks door, George Ray greets her with a welcome that seems at once thankful and anxious, as if someone’s pressing a revolver to his back. When she steps inside, she finds Brid sitting at the table. There’s no sign of Pauline.
“Where’s—”
“Napping,” says Brid.
Maggie nods and surveys the barracks. As if by magic, the place has been rendered immaculate, all traces of other inhabitants removed. She thinks of George Ray stripping mattresses, clearing the fridge of other people’s mouldy leftovers, desperate to reclaim his solitude.
“We were just talking about George Ray moving into the house,” says Brid casually, as though this notion has been circulating for a while. A glance at George Ray confirms it isn’t his idea. “It would make things easier on all of us,” Brid continues. “For one thing, we could share the cooking.”
“We settled this back in June,” Maggie replies. To George Ray, she says, “You’d rather have your own space, right? It’s fine if you want to stay out here.”
“Maggs, you’re such a wet blanket,” says Brid, then flashes a smile at George Ray, who’s avoiding her gaze. Her smile wavers, and Maggie worries about what’s at stake for Brid in all this. Judging by George Ray’s expression, he has a similar concern.
“It’s a very kind offer,” he says in a diplomatic tone. “I think, though, I’d prefer to remain where I am. Wouldn’t want to cause any botheration.”
“Don’t like us?” says Brid, pushing back from the table so that the chair legs grind against the floor. “Fine, then.”
“Some people need peace and quiet,” says Maggie, trying to sound lighthearted but earning a scowl.
“My wife wouldn’t approve,” adds George Ray, looking hopeful that this will put an end to things.
“Wife, schmife,” mutters Brid.
Then Maggie has an idea. “What about—” she begins, trying to think through the consequences before saying it aloud. “What about having dinners with us?”
Brid looks unimpressed by this suggestion but holds her breath and waits. For a time Geor
ge Ray ponders the idea, then nods.
“Dinners,” he agrees, and Brid rolls her eyes.
“How romantic.” Brid stands up from her chair. “All right, then, see you at six for pork and beans.” With that, she starts toward the door. Maggie hasn’t had a chance to talk things over with him as she’d like, but Brid lingers at the threshold waiting for her, so Maggie bids him goodbye and heads out too.
In the living room, they have set up TV trays to hold their plates as they watch the Olympics, Brid and Maggie from the couch, George Ray from the armchair. What they find when they turn on the television isn’t what they expected. Dead athletes, masked men with guns. An anchorman wearing a yellow blazer sits in a Munich studio recounting what has happened so far. At her mother’s feet, Pauline watches not the picture but George Ray, who occasionally glances back at her and sticks out his tongue, then smiles in a friendly manner. Pauline looks to her mother as though scandalized and expecting that Brid will put a stop to such behaviour, but Brid’s too focused on the television to notice.
The telephone rings and Maggie hurries to the kitchen, trying not to hope it’s Fletcher. When she snatches the receiver from the wall, she discovers it’s him after all. Right away she asks him where he is.
“My parents’ place,” he says. It’s where she guessed he would go.
“You see what’s on TV?” she asks.
“The hostages? Yeah, it’s crazy.”
“They’ve been at the airport for hours now.”
“Hell of a publicity stunt. Those guys have the whole world watching.”
“Publicity?” she says, incredulous. “They’ve killed innocent people.”
“They’ve also got people talking about the Palestinians.”
She tries to relax her shoulders. “Four days without calling, Fletcher. You want to argue about the Middle East?”
“No,” he replies. Then he says, “Rhea called today. She said everybody has left but Brid and Pauline.”
“And George Ray. Things are under control, don’t worry. Your instructions were very helpful.” She doesn’t bother to disguise her resentment. “Listen, what happened to the camera and all the film?”
“I took them with me.” He offers no further explanation. “You want them back?”
“Of course I do! The camera’s mine.”
“I know. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.” She worries it’s a bid for sympathy and doesn’t want to pay it heed, but she can’t help it.
“How are you?”
“I’m okay,” he replies. “The last couple of days have been hard. To distract myself I started volunteering for McGovern.”
All pity in her vanishes. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Just at the local campaign office. A few hours a day.”
“What about the farm? Aren’t you coming back?”
“Right now?” He says it like it’s unthinkable.
“You said you couldn’t face people, remember? Well, now there’s no one left to face.” With the phone tucked under her chin, she goes to the cupboard, pulls out a plate, and imagines throwing it against the wall.
“I need a bit more time,” he says.
“How much?”
“Two weeks.” He says it as if expecting an argument.
She takes a breath and slides the plate back onto the shelf. “Fine,” she says.
“Thanks for understanding.” Then abruptly he asks, “You going to keep watching TV now?”
“I doubt it.” Already he’s bringing the conversation to a close. Is he so eager to be rid of her? “Fletcher—”
“Hey, did you pay the electricity bill?”
“Yes, I’ve looked after everything.”
“Thanks. Listen, I’ll call you again soon.” His voice is tentative, as though he knows what he’s getting away with.
“Sleep well,” she says wearily.
“You too. Bye.”
In the living room, George Ray seems to relax upon her return. Brid says there’s good news: the TV people have received a report of the Israelis freed and the terrorists killed. Neither she nor George Ray asks who was on the phone, but once Maggie has settled onto the couch and they’re all waiting for more details to be announced, Brid remarks offhandedly that she just remembered Maggie’s granny called earlier. She wanted Maggie to know that her father went upriver to some village and that’s why he didn’t get in touch. With closed eyes, Maggie thanks her for the message.
Friday morning, she feels nauseous again. It has been almost a week since Fletcher left. She should see a doctor. Opening the medicine cabinet, she hunts for something to settle her stomach and finds a stockpile of other people’s sanitary towels, nail polish, eye drops, and deodorants. Everything but what she needs.
In the camper van, she drives through Virgil without stopping, loath to run into someone who was at the party, and continues a few miles to Niagara-on-the-Lake. There she goes into a pharmacy for some Gravol before finding a hardware store that sells bathroom scales. A construction detour on the way home leaves her lost among side streets with her stomach so bad that she’s forced to pull over at a park beside the river. Sitting at a picnic table, she gazes out across a beach cross-hatched with driftwood logs to the place where the river meets Lake Ontario. An old American fort with a watchtower stands on the far side, hemmed in by garrison walls. Incredible how close it is. She could return so easily. Just a few miles’ drive to the nearest bridge, and she could be in Boston by nightfall; she could make Syracuse in time for lunch. What would she say to Gran if she turned up at her door? The news of Fletcher’s departure would seem only to justify her grandmother’s warnings.
Back at the farmhouse, Maggie goes upstairs with her purchases, steps on the scales, and finds she has gained four pounds. It’s surprising that Brid hasn’t said anything; surely she’s the type who would notice. In an old medical manual among the books on the living room shelf, Maggie looks up the symptoms. Dry skin—yes, but then that’s always been a problem. Cramped legs—well, of course, she’s on her feet all day. The indigestion and constipation—they could just be from stress. But all of these things together, and a month late? With the phone book in front of her, she calls the only doctor listed for Virgil and is told he can see her in a week.
The next day after dinner, Brid cajoles George Ray into staying a little longer and watching the Olympics with them again. It’s the last day of competition, but there’s still a miasma hovering over the events. Once more they play clips from the memorial service earlier in the week, and Maggie can’t believe they didn’t send everyone home already. George Ray’s beside her on the couch, while Brid takes up the armchair with Pauline on her lap. Half an hour earlier than usual, she announces Pauline’s bedtime. The girl bawls in protest, but Brid’s unrelenting and carries her upstairs. Eventually she returns alone with a bottle of red wine.
“Just grown-ups now,” she says, squeezing between them on the couch. To Maggie’s surprise, George Ray accepts the offer of a drink. Maybe he’s warming to the idea that he has gained the attentions of an attractive woman far from home. Brid treats his assent as a victory, then turns her focus to Maggie, urging her to have some too. Reluctantly she agrees, thinking she’ll just swish it around and nobody will notice. When Brid leans over to pour herself a glass, Maggie glimpses her small breasts swinging freely within her blouse.
After that, Brid gives up all pretence of watching television. She asks George Ray about Jamaica, claiming it’s for the sake of intercultural understanding. But when he starts talking about the country, she shows little interest in what he says, seeming more attentive to the way his lips move. Every so often she makes a little hum of encouragement and reaches out to touch his knee. Maggie worries she should be protecting him, but he’s married and a decade older than she is; he must have learned by now how to deal with the Brids of the world. Before his glass is even half empty, Brid refills it, and she glares when she realizes that Maggie has barely had a sip.
“C’
mon, sweetie, let your hair down.” With flashing eyes, she reaches over to undo the first button on Maggie’s blouse, then laughs at her own trespass. To George Ray she says, “Don’t you think she should let her hair down?” Brid’s caftan rides high on her legs as she crosses and uncrosses them. Her nails are painted red but nibbled short. Beside her, George Ray leans forward to glance across the couch. Giving Maggie a sad smile, he points out that her hair is already down. Brid laughs as if this is the funniest thing she has ever heard.
She tries to draw them into conversation, at some points putting an arm around both at the same time. George Ray seems no more comfortable than Maggie, but Brid is dogged. Maggie resists an impulse to retire for the night, half curious to see how it will end, unsure whether she’s staying to prevent a seduction or to abet one. Maybe she’s a little jealous.
Through the news she sticks it out, but once Johnny Carson comes on, she declares she’s going to bed. George Ray stands promptly and says the same. Adopting a smile, Brid gives Maggie a long hug and a lingering kiss on the cheek that feels like it leaves lipstick. She’s on her fourth glass of wine.
“Are you sure?” she says. “You can’t stay a bit longer?” She offers to walk George Ray to the barracks and grows testy when he demurs. “I’ll come out anyway. I need a little fresh air.”
Maggie can’t help herself. “Jeez, Brid, give the guy a break.” She tries to make it sound humorous, but Brid’s eyes narrow.
“Relax, Auntie Maggs,” she replies. “You’ve got one back in Boston.”
Upstairs, Maggie is sleepless. Too hot; she opens the window and shivers at the chilly air that blows in. Her mind slips over to the barracks, to George Ray’s broad shoulders and Brid’s freckled breasts. Maggie couldn’t stay here with the two of them like that. The bed is lumpy, enormous. Finally she goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Before the water has boiled, there’s the distant slam of the barracks door and Brid’s voice shouting.
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