Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [91]
Winnie thought there might be a fight about that, but there wasn’t. “Okay,” said Anita, after she had considered for a minute. “All right, honey. Just don’t sit around and mope while we’re gone.”
Julie piled the breakfast dishes into the sink, her pink nails shining. “I won’t,” she said.
In the hallway, Jim said to Winnie, “Doodle-bug, give your old father a hug,” but Winnie brushed past him, patting his arm that he held out, before going to put on her church clothes. In church she sat with her dress sticking to the pew. It was a hot summer day; the church windows were open but there wasn’t any breeze. Through the window Winnie saw in the distance a few dark clouds. Next to her, she heard her father’s stomach growl. He looked at her and winked, but Winnie looked out the window again. She thought how she had passed by him when he’d asked for a hug, how she had seen her mother do that to him, too, only sometimes Anita would touch his shoulders and kiss the air beside his cheek. Maybe Julie was right, she was Mommy’s girl, and maybe Winnie was going to turn out to be like her, someone who brushed past people even when she was smiling; maybe she’d grow up and shoot people in the driveway with a rifle.
Tiredly, she stood up for the hymn. Her mother reached to straighten a wrinkle in the back of Winnie’s dress.
On Winnie’s pillow was a folded note. “PLEASE make them think I’m out taking a walk. I’ve gone to Moody’s to catch the bus. My life depends on this. I love you, Doodle, I do.” Hot tingles shot through Winnie’s arms and fingers; even her nose and chin tingled.
“Winnifred,” her mother called. “Come peel some potatoes, please.”
The bus to Boston stopped at Moody’s at eleven thirty. Julie would still be there, probably trying to stay out of sight, maybe sitting in the grass behind the store. They could go get her in the car. She’d cry and there’d be a big fight and someone might have to give her a pill, but they could still do it, she was still here.
“Winnifred?” Anita called again.
Winnie took her church clothes off, took her hair out of its ponytail, so the hair would fall in front of her face.
“You all right?” Anita asked.
“I have a headache.” Winnie scooched down and took some potatoes from the bin in the bottom cupboard.
“You need some food in your stomach,” her mother said. “Where’s your sister? You’d think she could have started the potatoes.” Anita put the Sunday steak into the broiling pan.
Winnie washed the potatoes and started to peel them. She filled a pot with water and cut the potatoes; they plopped into the water. She looked at the clock above the stove.
“Where is she?” Anita asked again.
“Gone for a walk, I think,” Winnie said.
“Well, we’re about to eat,” her mother said, and then Winnie almost cried.
Uncle Kyle had told a story once about being on a train that hit and killed a teenage girl. He said he would never forget how he sat there looking out the window of the train as they waited for the police, thinking about the girl’s parents, how they would still be in their house watching TV or doing the dishes, not even knowing that their daughter was dead, while he sat on the train and knew.
“I’ll go look for her,” Winnie said. She rinsed her hands and dried them.
Anita glanced at the clock and turned over the steak. “Just give a holler,” she said. “Out by the back woods.”
Winnie opened the back door and stepped outside. The clouds were moving in. The air had gotten chilly and smelled like the ocean. Her father stepped out onto the back porch. “About to eat, Winnie.” Winnie pulled at the leaves of a bayberry bush. “Look kind of lonesome out there,” he said.
The phone rang in the kitchen. Her father went back inside and Winnie followed, watching from the hall.
“Yes, hello, Kyle,” her mother said.
In the afternoon it started to rain. The house got dark and the rain beat down on the roof and against the big windowpane in the living room. Winnie sat in a chair and watched the ocean, choppy and gray. Uncle Kyle had gone to Moody’s for a paper,