The Revenge of the Radioactive Lady - Elizabeth Stuckey-French [100]
And the unreasonableness went on. There was his wife, who was convinced that Nance was one of Wilson’s radiation victims, even though she had no evidence whatsoever for her theory. There was Ava, to whom he’d explained over and over again that if she didn’t learn to deal with her anger and quit physically attacking her sister she’d attack somebody else someday and end up in jail. Suzi, who wouldn’t do her physical therapy exercises, even though she claimed she wanted her knee to get better. Otis, who hid out in that infernal shed all the time. Wilson, who wouldn’t go out of the house by himself anymore because he was convinced that a bogeywoman was waiting to get him.
Vic had assumed that he wouldn’t have to take up the mantle of village explainer, or village scold, with Gigi, not because of her behavior, which had never been especially reasonable, but because of how he felt when he was with her. He’d thought, he’d hoped, that he could be unreasonable, too, at least for a while, when he was with her, but it seemed that it was not to be. Sigh.
“We’ve got to try to make scoring as accurate as possible,” he told Gigi. “That’s what we’re here for. There’s a lot of money riding on this project.” He sat down on the edge of the table, hating himself for saying these things and her for making him.
She shrugged and looked down at the floor. “It’s so boring, reading all those essays.”
“Lots of kids are going to get the wrong scores. Doesn’t that bother you? What if it happened to Travis?”
She wrinkled up her nose and grimaced. “I haven’t been doing it the whole time. I was just trying to hurry, so we could get out of here.” She stepped forward and started to hug him, pressing her breasts against his chest. How easy it would be to give up, give in, say to hell with his job the same way he’d been planning to—let’s admit it—say the hell with his marriage. But he kept his arms at his sides.
She finally gave up and dropped her arms, cocking her head and making Bambi eyes at him. “Let’s talk about this at Andrew’s,” she said.
“I’m not going to Andrew’s,” he said. “I’m going home. I need to figure out what to do about this.”
“I’m really sorry,” she said, stepping back, her face now pale. “I really didn’t think this was that big a deal. You didn’t act like it was.”
He hadn’t? Maybe he hadn’t known how important the project was to him. How important his job was. “I’ve got to think,” he told her. But so far, thinking too much, about the wrong things—in other words, rationalizing—was what had gotten him into this mess.
“Fine.” She started gathering up her stuff—her glasses, her pens and pencils, her pack of gum, not looking up at him.
When he turned around to leave, he saw Nance in the doorway, her small neat figure, standing there, watching them, purse slung over her shoulder, that red lunch bag clutched in her hand.
“Why are you still here?” He had no idea how much she’d overheard.
“I want to talk to you.”
He turned back to Gigi, but she’d gone.
* * *
In his office, seated behind his desk, he felt better. “About Gigi,” he began.
Nance picked up a picture on his desk—Soccer Suzi, from two seasons ago. “You and Gigi have a thing going.”
“Of course we don’t.” So maybe she hadn’t overheard his argument with Gigi. He felt relieved. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked her. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
She set the picture of Suzi down on his desk, facing her, and gazed at him, her face troubled rather than judgmental. But her words were harsh. “You need to be paying more attention to your family.”
He thought about protesting, making excuses, but didn’t have the energy. “Yeah. I know.”
“Talk to them. Talk to Suzi. Ask her how she is. Ask her what’s been going on.”
“Why don’t you tell me, if you know something.”
Nance shook her head. “You ask her.”
“Okay, I will. Now. About Gigi.