Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [40]
Bonnie came home from her book club that night and reported how Kathleen said her nephew Tim just had the bad luck of inviting a bunch of friends over who turned up the music too loud, and some were smoking pot, including Tim’s girlfriend. When the police came, the girl, Nina, started to kick like a wildcat and they had to cuff her, though probably the charges would be dropped, and they’d just all have to pay a fine, and be on probation a year.
“Idiots,” Bonnie said, shaking her head.
Harmon said nothing.
“She’s sick, you know,” Bonnie added, dropping the book onto the couch. It was a book by Anne Lindbergh; she’d told him about it. Anne Lindbergh liked to get away from it all.
“Who’s sick?”
“That girl. The girlfriend of Tim Burnham.”
“What do you mean sick?”
“She’s got that disease where you don’t eat anything. Apparently she’s had it long enough there’s some damage to her heart, so she really is an idiot.”
Harmon felt a sprinkle of perspiration arrive on his forehead. “Are you sure?”
“That she’s an idiot? Think about it, Harmon. If you’re young and you’ve got heart damage, then you’re not supposed to be partying. And you’re certainly not supposed to go on starving yourself.”
“She’s not starving herself. I saw her in the marina with the fellow. They were sitting in a booth, ordering breakfast.”
“And how much of the breakfast did she eat?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, remembering her small back as she’d leaned over the table. “But she doesn’t look sick. She’s a pretty girl.”
“That’s what Kathleen says. Tim met her when he was driving around the country following some band. I guess people just follow this band around, Fish or Pish. Something. Remember Kevin talking about Dead Heads, people who followed around that mess—what were they called? The Grateful Dead? I always found that offensive.”
“He died,” said Harmon. “That fat fellow Jerry of that band.”
“Well, I hope he died gratefully,” Bonnie said.
The leaves were half-gone now. The Norway maples still hung on to their yellow, but most of the orangey-red of the sugar maples had found their way to the ground, leaving behind the stark branches that seemed to hang like stuck-out arms and tiny fingers, skeletal and bleak. Harmon sat on the couch next to Daisy. He had just mentioned to her that he never saw the young couple anymore, and she told him that Les Washburn had kicked them out after the party that had led to the arrests, but she didn’t know where they were living, only that Tim still worked at the sawmill.
“Bonnie said the girl had that disease where you starve yourself,” Harmon said. “But I don’t know if that’s true.”
Daisy shook her head. “Pretty young girls starving themselves. I’ve read articles about it. They do it so they can feel in control, and then it goes out of control and they can’t stop. It’s just the saddest thing.”
Harmon himself had been losing weight. It wasn’t that hard to do; he just stopped taking the extra portion at night, had a smaller slice of cake. He felt better. He told this to Daisy, and she nodded.
“Same with my smoking. I’ve been putting off the first cigarette of the day, and I’ve got it pushed back now—three in the afternoon.”
“That’s great, Daisy.” He had seen that she’d not been smoking on Sunday mornings, but wasn’t going to mention it. The appetites of the body were private battles.
“Tell me, Harmon,” Daisy said, brushing something from her pant leg, glancing over with a mischievous smile. “Who was your first girlfriend?”
In fourth grade he’d had a crush on Candy Connelly. He’d stand behind her to watch her take the steps up the big metal slide