Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [43]
This was always about us, not just me, the man says. He is gulping his wine. He reaches over and takes the bottle from the older man, who is frankly bewildered, and pours himself another full glass. What I took will not be missed. I made sure of that. I didn’t hurt anyone, didn’t rob children and orphans. Only institutions have standards. Small amounts siphoned off over time. They added up. But no harm done to any human. This will never come to light. And it’s for you as well as me.
I believe that, says the younger woman. I believe that you tell yourself that and mean it sincerely.
And for the kids.
I believe that, too, says the younger woman. She turns to the little girl, brushes sand from her forehead, smooths her hair. The boy is still engrossed with his shovel and pail. He is digging a hole to China. The discussion is over as far as the younger woman is concerned. She is ready to move on. But the older woman doesn’t agree. She stands up.
But this is not just between you. It is a question of morality. This . . . activity, must stop. Right here and now. No more juggling of books. No more victimless crime.
No one doubts that this is an absolute order. And no one doubts that the repercussions of disobeying it would be severe.
I pause the movie. Come back mentally to the world. I ask the old man, Why would Amanda do this thing? What was her motive?
Peter seems resigned to the direction the conversation has taken. Who knows? he asks. One never knew with Amanda. Revenge? Mischief ? Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing: preventing a serious crime. Or saving her friends the humiliation of being caught, incarcerated. But you haven’t finished the story.
I no longer need the film to guide me. The rest has formed itself in my mind.
Back at the beach, I say. The older man is upset. His world is being shaken.
Apologize! he tells his wife. Apologize for your appalling behavior. I don’t care how drunk you are, you don’t wreck lives for the fun of it.
But the younger woman interrupts him, addresses the older woman directly. No apologies are necessary because no apologies will be accepted. None would be acceptable. You betrayed my trust.
You see? the older woman says. Trust does matter. Betrayal is a serious act.
The younger woman considers this. Fair enough, she says. She picks up a hard-boiled egg. But seven hundred years ago I would have taken stronger measures.
And what would they have been? the older woman asks. She is amused.
I would have buried this under a waning moon in your yard, as medieval women did with their enemies.
And . . . ?
You would have commenced to rot. The younger woman pauses. Of course you are already rotten in mind and spirit, she says. Both men, the older and the younger, sit up and pay attention. This is serious. These are words that can’t be unsaid.
This would pertain to the body. It would start inside. With the heart. Then the other organs. You would start to stink out. The decay would reach your outer epidermis. It would start to disintegrate. And the scavengers would take care of the rest. Your eyes. Your genitalia. Your extremities—your ears, toes, and fingers.
The older woman laughs at this. She seems delighted. I always forget you studied medieval history before medical school. What a potent combination!
This is not an anecdote, the younger woman says. It’s a warning. You would be well served to pay attention to it. And she begins to put the picnic things away, as if a reasonable conversation between reasonable people has just concluded.
Magdalena is no longer writing. The notebook and pen lie in her lap.
What about the men? And the children? What were they doing while these things were being said? she asks.
They are the audience. The necessary audience. For these women are nothing if not expert dramatists.
But the children!
Yes, the children. Exactly.
But what happened next? she asks.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The effects of the wine wore off, they drove home together in one car, crowded elbow to elbow. The little girl was