Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [117]
Sexton Beecher had escaped from the hospital, they said. He had stolen a Ford.
Don’t ever buy a Ford.
He’s taken the open road, she thought but didn’t say.
She pours the boiling water into the teapot. “Alphonse, do you want some milk?” she calls into the hallway, eyeing the half pint of milk that is left.
“In a minute,” he says. “I’m almost finished.”
“I’ll come for the trial,” Vivian says, leaning on the counter.
“They don’t know when it will be,” Honora says.
“Only the two men have been charged?”
“They won’t give up the other names. They’re said to be protecting Jonathan Harding.”
“The bank president.”
“Yes.”
“Not the Klan, then.”
“No, not the Klan.”
“Have you heard from Sexton?” Vivian asks lightly.
Honora shakes her head. She does not believe she will ever hear from Sexton Beecher again. In her mind, she sees a map with threads of blue and pink roads, a small round dot moving along them.
The two women stand in the kitchen — Vivian against the lip of the sink, Honora by the icebox. “I don’t know if I’ll get back for Thanksgiving,” Vivian says. “It’s likely that we’ll have rehearsals.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Honora says. “I’m thinking that I might take Alphonse to Taft to see my mother.”
“Will you be able to travel then?” Vivian asks.
“I’ll be seven months along. I think it will be fine. If not, I won’t go.”
“I might come for Christmas, though.”
“Oh, would you?” Honora asks, brightening. “Alphonse would love that.”
“And your mother will come for the baby?” Vivian asks.
“I think so. She wants me to have it in a hospital.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Vivian says, slightly aghast.
Honora puts her cup in the sink. “You know,” she says, rinsing it, “there ought to be a word for when one’s most exciting — one’s most joyful — moments take place during a time that is grim and hard for others around you. I’ve been trying to think of such a word all week, but I haven’t found it yet.”
“You mean this summer?”
“Yes. Everyone in Ely Falls was suffering because of the strike, and we . . . well, we were having so much fun, weren’t we? And were living so well. Relatively.” She thinks a minute. “Well, not relatively at all. We were living well, period. Every weekend was a party.”
“War is like that,” Vivian says. “Men often speak about how they felt most alive — and most in love, for that matter — during wartime.”
“I loved McDermott,” Honora says.
“I know you did,” Vivian says.
“He was so good with Alphonse,” Honora says.
“Yes, he was.”
“He would be glad, wouldn’t he, that Alphonse is —”
Honora stops. She cannot go on. She takes Vivian’s cup and rinses it in the sink.
“I thought I would make an oyster chowder tonight,” Honora says. “Does that sound all right to you?”
“Sounds peachy.” Vivian lights a cigarette. “Want one?”
“No, thanks. I had to give them up.” She points to her stomach. “They make me nauseous.”
“Good,” Vivian says. “Filthy habit. I read in the paper today that the Ely Falls Mill is closing.”
“McDermott said that would happen.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Vivian says.
“The strikers win and then they have no jobs.”
“I can take Alphonse to school in the beach wagon for the first week,” Vivian says.
“That might be good. I think he’s very nervous about it.”
“As well he might be,” Vivian says. “We have to take him shopping. He needs clothes.”
“He certainly does,” Honora says.
“So do you, for that matter,” Vivian says.
“Actually,” Honora says, “I’d like to get some fabric and make maternity clothes. My mother is sending me patterns.”
“As long as I get to edit them,” Vivian says.
Honora smiles. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been here,” she says.
“Nonsense,” Vivian says. “You’re the strongest woman I know. That’s why Alphonse has come to you.”
“You know,” Honora says, “you read a word like massacre and you think, I know what that means. It means the slaughter of innocent