Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [43]
“It’s not that he doesn’t mourn her. Really, he feels just dreadful,” Bee said. “Ian, could you fetch a cloth, please? But substitute teachers are so hard to get hold of—”
“Yes, life must go on,” Dr. Prescott said. “Isn’t that right, young Abigail.”
“Agatha,” Bee corrected him. “It’s Claudia’s girl who’s named Abigail.”
“And will the children be attending the service?”
“Oh, no.”
“Sometimes it’s valuable, I’ve learned.”
“We think they’ll have a fine time staying here with Mrs. Myrdal,” Bee said. “Mrs. Myrdal used to sit with them when they lived above the drugstore and she knows all their favorite storybooks.”
She beamed across the table at Agatha. Agatha gazed back at her without a trace of a smile.
Dr. Prescott said, “Agatha, Thomas, I realize all that’s happened must be difficult to understand. Perhaps you’d like to ask me some questions.”
Agatha remained expressionless. Thomas shook his head.
Ian thought, I would! I would! But it wasn’t Ian Dr. Prescott had been addressing.
He’d remembered to bring his suit but he had forgotten a tie, so he had to borrow one of his father’s for the funeral. Standing in front of his mirror, he slid the knot into place and smoothed his collar. When the doorbell rang, he waited for someone to answer. It rang again and Beastie gave a worried yap. “Coming!” Ian called. He crossed the hall and sprinted downstairs.
Mrs. Myrdal had already opened the front door a few inches and poked her head in. Her hat looked like a gray felt potty turned upside down. Ian said, “Hi. Come on in.”
“I worried I was late.”
“No, we’re just getting ready.”
He showed her into the living room, where she settled on the sofa. She was one of those women who grow quilted in old age—her face a collection of pouches, her body a series of squashed mounds. “My, it’s finally getting to be fall,” she said, removing her sweater. “Real nip in the air today.”
“Is that so,” Ian said. He was hanging about in the doorway, wondering whether it was rude to leave.
“And how are those poor children bearing up?” she asked him.
“They’re okay.”
“I couldn’t get over it when your mother called and told me. Those poor little tots! And I understand your parents won’t be keeping them.”
“No, we’re trying to find some relatives,” Ian said.
“Well, it’s a shame,” Mrs. Myrdal said.
“I don’t guess you know of any relatives.”
“No, dear, your mother already asked me. I told her, I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t have an inkling.’ Although just between you and me, I’m pretty near positive that Lucy was, well, not from Baltimore.”
“Ah.”
“You could sort of tell, you know,” she said. “I always sensed it, even before we had our falling out. You heard we’d fallen out, I suppose.”
“Not in so many words,” Ian said.
“Well!” Mrs. Myrdal said. She folded her sweater caressingly. “One time we went downtown together and I caught her shoplifting.”
“Shoplifting?”
“Bold as you please. Swiped a pure silk blouse off a rack and tucked it into the stroller where her innocent baby girl lay sleeping. I was so astounded I just didn’t do a thing. I thought I must have misunderstood; I thought there must be some explanation. I followed along behind her thinking, ‘Now, Ruby, don’t go jumping to conclusions.’ On we march, past the scarf counter. Whisk! Red-and-tan Italian scarf scampers into her bag. I know I should have spoken but I was too amazed. My heart was racing so I thought it had riz up in my throat some way, and I worried we’d be arrested. We could have been, you know! We could have been hauled off to jail like common criminals. Well, luckily we weren’t. But next time she phoned I said, ‘Lucy, I’m busy.’ She said, ‘I just wanted to ask if you could baby-sit.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I don’t believe I care to, thank you.’ She knew why, too. She didn’t let on but she had to know. Couple of times she asked again, and each time I turned her down.”
Ian ducked his head and busied himself patting Beastie.
“Not that I wished her ill, understand. I was sorry as the next person to hear about her passing.