Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [71]
Olive nodded.
“But surely Christopher doesn’t depend on you? He has a wife.”
“She divorced him,” Olive said. It was odd how easy it was to say this. The truth was that she and Henry had never told anyone, except their friends up the river, Bill and Bunny Newton. With Christopher in California, it didn’t seem anyone needed to know.
“I see,” said Louise. “Well, I’m sure he’ll find a new one. And Henry doesn’t depend on you, dear. He doesn’t know where he is, or who is with him.”
Olive felt a shoot of fury stab through her. “How do you know that? It’s not true. He knows damn well I’m there.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. That’s not what Mary says.”
“Mary who?”
Louise put her fingers to her mouth in an exaggerated manner. “Whoops.”
“Mary Blackwell? You’re in touch with Mary Blackwell?”
“Mary and I go way back,” Louise explained.
“Yuh. Well, she told everyone things about you, too.” Olive’s heart had started to beat fast.
“And I imagine every one of them was true.” Louise laughed that soft laugh, and made a gesture, as though she were drying nail polish.
“She shouldn’t be telling things from the nursing home.”
“Oh, come now, Olive. People are people. It always seemed to me that you—especially—understood that.”
A silence came into the room, like dark gases coming from the corners. There were no newspapers, or magazines, or any books.
“What do you do all day?” Olive asked. “How do you manage?”
“Ah,” said Louise. “Have you come here for lessons?”
“No,” said Olive. “I came because you were nice enough to write me a note.”
“I was always sorry my kids didn’t have you for a teacher. So many people don’t have that spark, do they, Olive? Are you sure you wouldn’t like that tea? I’m going to have some.”
“No, I’m fine.” Olive watched as Louise stood and moved through the room. Louise bent to straighten a lamp shade, and the sweater fell across her back, showing the thin form of it. Olive didn’t know you could be that thin and still be alive. “Are you ill?” she asked, when Louise returned with a teacup on a saucer.
“Ill?” Louise smiled in that way that reminded Olive once again of flirtation. “In what way ill, Olive?”
“Physically. You’re very thin. But you certainly do look beautiful.”
Louise spoke carefully, but again with that playful tone. “Physically ill, I am not. Though I have little appetite for food, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
Olive nodded. If she had asked for tea, she’d have been able to leave when she’d finished it. But it was too late now. She sat.
“And mentally, I don’t believe, really, that I am one bit more out of my head than any other creature here on earth.” Louise sipped her tea. The veins on her hand were pronounced; one went right down her skinny finger. The teacup clattered just slightly against the saucer. “Has Christopher been out here frequently to help you, Olive?”
“Oh, sure. Sure he has.”
Louise pursed her lips, tilted her head again, studied Olive, and Olive could now see that the woman was wearing makeup. Around her eyes was a shadowing of color that matched her sweater. “Why did you come here, Olive?”
“I told you. Because you were nice enough to send that note.”
“But I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?”
“Certainly not.”
“You’re the last person I expected to lie, Olive.”
Olive reached down for her handbag. “I’m going to get going. But I do appreciate that you sent the note.”
“Oh,” said Louise, laughing softly. “You came here for a nice dose of schadenfreude, and it didn’t work.” She sang, “Saaaaw-ry.”
Overhead, Olive heard the floorboards creak. She stood, holding her bag, looking for her coat.
“Roger is up.” Louise continued her smile. “Your coat is in the closet, right as you come in. And I happen to know that Christopher has been back only once. Liar, liar, Olive. Pants on fire, Olive.”
Olive went as fast as she could. She had the coat over her shoulder, and turned back briefly. Louise was sitting