Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [43]
The girl sat up slowly. “Only because you’ve been nice,” she said. She ate the doughnut so ravenously, Daisy had to tell her to slow down.
“He stole from you,” Nina said to Harmon, with her mouth full. “He stole some tubing that day to make a bong.” She lifted the glass of milk.
“You’re better off without him,” Daisy said.
A loud knocking on the kitchen door caused them all to turn; the door opened, banged shut. “Hello!”
The girl gave a whimper, spit the doughnut into Harmon’s handkerchief, started to rise from her chair. Harmon’s sweater fell from her shoulders to the floor.
“No, dear.” Daisy put her hand on the girl’s arm. “It’s only a woman come to collect money for the Red Cross.”
Olive Kitteridge stood in the doorway to the dining room, almost filling the space up. “Well, look at the tea party. Hello, Harmon.” To the girl: “Who are you?”
The girl looked at Daisy, then at the table, her hand clenching the handkerchief. Looking back at Olive, she said sarcastically, “Who are you?”
“I’m Olive,” said Olive. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit down. Begging for money seems to knock me out. I think this is the last year I’ll canvass.”
“Can I get you some coffee, Olive?”
“Nope. Thank you.” Olive had gone round to the other side of the table, seated herself in a chair. “But that doughnut looks good. You have any more?”
“In fact, we do.” Daisy opened the other bag, glancing at Harmon—it was the doughnut meant for Bonnie—and pushed the paper bag toward Olive, the doughnut on it. “I could get you a plate.”
“Oh, hell no.” Olive ate the doughnut, leaning forward over the table. A silence fell.
“Let me get you the check.” Daisy stood and went into the next room.
“Henry okay?” Harmon asked. “Christopher?”
Olive nodded, her mouth moving with the doughnut. Harmon knew—as most people in town did—that she didn’t like her son’s new wife, but, then, Harmon didn’t think Olive would like any wife of her son. The new wife was a doctor, smart, and from some city, he didn’t remember where. Maybe she made baggies of granola, did yoga—he had no idea. Olive was watching Nina, and Harmon followed her gaze. Nina sat motionless, slumped forward, the back of each rib bone defined against her thin T-shirt; she clutched his handkerchief with a hand that looked like the claw of a seagull. Her head looked too big to be supported by the ridged stick of her backbone. The vein running from her hairline across to her brow was a greenish-blue color.
Olive finished the doughnut, wiped the sugar from her fingers, sat back, and said, “You’re starving.”
The girl didn’t move, only said, “Uh—duh.”
“I’m starving, too,” Olive said. The girl looked over at her. “I am,” Olive said. “Why do you think I eat every doughnut in sight?”
“You’re not starving,” Nina said with disgust.
“Sure I am. We all are.”
“Wow,” Nina said, quietly. “Heavy.”
Olive looked through her big black handbag, took a tissue, wiped at her mouth, her forehead. It took a moment for Harmon to realize she was agitated. When Daisy returned and said, “Here you go, Olive,” slipping her an envelope, Olive only nodded, put it into her bag.
“Jesus,” said Nina. “Okay, I’m sorry.” Olive Kitteridge was crying. If there was anyone in town Harmon believed he would never see cry, Olive was that person. But there she sat, large and big-wristed, her mouth quivering, tears coming from her eyes. She shook her head slightly, as though to indicate the girl needn’t apologize.
“Excuse me,” she finally said, but she stayed where she was.
“Olive, is there anything—” Daisy leaned forward.
Olive shook her head again, blew her nose. She looked at Nina, and said quietly, “I don’t know who you are, but young lady, you’re breaking my heart.”
“I’m not trying to,” Nina said, defensively. “It’s not