An Act of Love (16 page)

Her heart cramped at the sight of anguish in Owen’s eyes. “Yes. All right.” She had been thinking of Emily, of herself. But she would do anything to shelter Owen from pain, and if it would make him feel better for her to keep quiet about Emily and Bruce, at least for the next few days, that was little enough to do. She would postpone the shopping expedition. “We’ll keep it in the family.”

And we are still a family, she thought.

And so they
went through their day as if it were any other normal day. Linda baked and Owen worked outdoors, picking up fallen branches and twigs and stacking them in a pile for kindling, raking leaves, turning the horses into the outer pasture. In the late afternoon just as Owen came into the house, Linda said, “I’m going to call Emily. Want to get on the extension?”

Owen collapsed into a chair and began to unlace his workboots. “I’d better get in the shower or we’ll be late. Tell her hello for me.”

Linda always talked longer to Emily on the phone than Owen did; she talked longer to Bruce as well. It was simply the way they were, the way it always had been, and it implied nothing, Linda told herself, that Owen didn’t want to speak to Emily now. It didn’t mean he was angry with her, was avoiding her …

“Hi, darling,” she said when her daughter’s voice came on the line. “How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Did the hospital serve a Thanksgiving feast today?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a
feast
.”

“Well, did you have turkey? Stuffing? Pumpkin pie?”

“Sure.”

And did you enjoy it? Linda wanted to ask. Are you eating, are you sleeping, are you taking care of yourself?

“Well, we’re getting ready to go to the Burtons’. It’s at their house this year. We’re going to tell them you’re with friends today, by the way. Just … because it’s too complicated otherwise.”

“Fine.”

“I made a pumpkin pie. And a deep-dish blackberry.” When Emily didn’t reply, Linda went on, her voice cajoling, encouraging. “We had a letter from Grandmother. She has a new suitor. His name is
Oswald
.” Linda waited to hear Emily’s laugh. Usually Emily loved hearing about her grandmother’s life in a retirement home in Florida, besieged by suitors with antiquated names and old-fashioned dating customs. But what was Linda
thinking
? Probably any talk of men and women wasn’t appealing to Emily right now. “Owen says hello. We had a terrible storm last night. Amazing wind. Did you have it there?”

“I guess.”

“Well, what are you doing today? Anything special?”

“Watching videos. One’s on right now.”

“Oh, what is it?”

“Some chainsaw murder thing.”

“That doesn’t sound very … appropriate. Do the staff know you’re watching it?”

“They’re watching it with us.”

“Oh. That’s okay then. Well, I guess I should let you get back to the movie.”

“Yeah.”

“Emily … darling. I love you, babe.”

“Yeah. I love you, too, Mom.”

Linda sat staring at the phone for a moment after they disconnected. On the one hand, Emily’s voice was so spiritless, drained of her usual ebullience. On the other hand, she seemed rational, composed. She was watching a video.

She was safe
. For now, for today, Emily was safe. That was enough to be grateful
for.

Linda thought of her daughter. She could envision her clearly, a glowing ember of life encircled by the hospital staff, enclosed by the hospital walls, encompassed by highways and roads that Linda could travel on to reach her, surrounded by webs of telephone lines so they could communicate at a moment’s notice. So many layers of protection. With that image fixed clearly in her mind, like a garnet set within elaborate holdings of gold, like an amulet Linda could look at whenever she needed to, Linda knew she could continue with her day.

Still, she felt frivolous as she dressed in a velvet skirt, high-cuffed suede boots, and a long loose sweater. She felt
irresponsible
. How could she care what she wore, what she looked like, when her daughter was in the psychiatric ward of a hospital? Then Owen appeared in the doorway, handsome in his tweed jacket and corduroys but still strained-looking through the eyes, and her heart went out to him.

“You look beautiful,” he told her, and she understood that he saw the anxiety in her face, too, and was trying to cheer her.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Not really,” he admitted.

She took a bracing breath. “You will be once we’re at the Burtons’ and you smell the turkey.”

And so they gathered up the pies and drove off to share the Thanksgiving meal with their friends.

The village of
Ebradour nestled at a curve in the mountains just about fifteen miles west and a little bit north of Northampton. It served a population of around seven thousand scattered residents, three-fourths of them Massachusetts natives whose families had made their living in the area for generations in farming, logging, trucking, and millwork. The newcomers were an educated, solitude-hungry elite who had bought up deserted farm houses and renovated old hunting cabins in order to live in a tranquillity and natural beauty that was disappearing from larger towns.

The town had a post office, a redbrick church the McFarlands occasionally
attended, two cafes, a grocery store, an insurance agency–real estate office, and an old-fashioned five-and-dime store with a pharmacy. The Ryans’ convenience store and gas station was just on the McFarlands’ side of Ebradour.

For years, the McFarlands had shared the holiday with the same group of friends, rotating houses each year, everyone bringing something. This Thanksgiving the meal was held at the Burtons’, a retired couple in their early seventies. Both were professors emeriti, Irene of English literature, Bud of anthropology. Their home was full of books and journals and reviews and correspondence; their conversation about worldly rather than personal matters.

The Ryans were there, bringing vegetables from Rosie’s garden. Riley Ryan and Owen had known each other from childhood, although they hadn’t been buddies because Owen was ten years older. But after Riley grew up and married, the difference in their age leveled out. Linda and Rosie had become good friends and Emily loved baby-sitting for one-year-old Sean. Linda knew that Rosie would be enormously concerned about Emily, and she yearned to talk to her. But she wouldn’t, not yet.

Celeste was at the Thanksgiving dinner, too. Celeste was always there. Her family’s farm bordered Owen’s, had for decades. As children Owen and Celeste had been intimate, best friends, comrades, remaining loyal through adolescence, nursing each other through the turbulence of early love and then through marriage and divorce.

It was after her divorce that Celeste had realized she loved Owen, had loved him all her life. Unfortunately for her, Owen did not reciprocate those feelings. He was fond of her. He cared for her. But for him that sexual and romantic spark just did not ever flare or even flicker. They managed to remain friends; they dealt with any awkwardnesses with the diffusing device of humor.

When Linda came on the scene, Celeste treated her with a swaggering candor that was supposed to make up for its substance: she envied Linda and wished she’d drop dead, or at least just leave. After Linda married Owen and moved to the farm, Celeste reduced the voltage of her death-ray smile and adopted a kind of brusque big sister–camp leader bossiness with Linda that really was the best she could do, given the fact that Linda had gotten the man and the farm as well.

Tall, bony, angular, agile, Celeste was the one woman Linda had ever met in all her life who could have carried off couture fashion, and she was the one woman Linda knew who disdained clothing. Her farm was everything to her. She bred quarter horses
and golden labs. She kept bees and sold their honey. She had inherited enough money from an aunt to keep the farm in tiptop shape forever and to travel as well if she wished, but she didn’t want to. She’d tried traveling, and discovered she preferred to be on her farm.

Or on the McFarlands’. One of the enduring arguments between Owen and Linda concerned Celeste’s habit of walking into their home without knocking or calling first to see if it was a good time to come over. Over the seven years of their marriage, Linda had found Celeste’s habit intrusive and arrogant, not to mention occasionally awkward and embarrassing. Celeste had walked in to find Linda weeping over a bad review or yelling at the children or arguing with Owen, and Celeste hadn’t had the good sense or manners to leave but had instead said, “I’m out of salt,” and opened the cupboard—she knew what was in each one—and taken it out. “I’ll bring it back later.” Linda didn’t begrudge her the salt—or the dog food or rope or aspirin—she begrudged her the act of entering their home without first knocking and waiting for someone to open the door and invite her in.

“But Linda, she grew up treating our house and farm as an extension of hers. And I did the same at her house,” Owen contended.

“It’s not appropriate now,” Linda insisted. “God, Owen, you place so much significance on privacy, on boundaries, on propriety. I don’t see how you can’t see how invasive it is to have her just barge in whenever she wants. It’s as if she thinks she has a claim to this place.”

“I think you’re overreacting. She’s merely a good neighbor. You have to admit, she comes in handy whenever we go away.”

That much was true. Celeste knew where the fuse box was and how much medicine Maud needed at night and how to toss out the hay for the horses so that Fancy didn’t get it all. Because of her, the McFarlands had been able to make overnight trips to Hedden for Parents’ Weekend. Linda had tried to teach Rosie Ryan the routines of the house. She liked Rosie more; she trusted her. But Rosie was busy now with her baby. Owen was right, it was just easier for Celeste.

The seven neighbors gathered around the Burtons’ long mahogany table, and Bud Burton stood to say a Thanksgiving prayer. As Linda listened, head bowed, she looked through her lashes at the table, covered with linen and set with china and silver and a centerpiece of fruit spilling from a silver bowl. Candles set in long holders all up and down the length of the table threw a soft glow over the faces of her friends, and she
thought how fortunate they all truly were. And how they also were strong, persevering, in their individual ways. Irene was battling Parkinson’s disease, and sometimes was almost defeated by it, which in turn sank her husband into the depths of misery. No one knew how he would live without Irene. But today she was in a good period, smiling, gracious, and this, Linda knew, was something to be thankful for. Each good day was something to be thankful for. The Ryans were always near financial disaster; Riley worked hard, but the little convenience store brought them only a tiny income, which he augmented by selling firewood from the few acres of land he’d inherited. They had to work hard, scrimp and save; yet this was the life they’d chosen, and they loved it. No pity needed there, Linda thought, and looking at Rosie’s face, she decided that her friend looked especially pretty today, with Sean nestled on her lap. Motherhood suited Rosie. And Celeste … Celeste must be lonely. But Owen said that she liked her solitude, so Linda wouldn’t worry about her, either. She would just try to appreciate the day, the delicious food, the company of friends.

But at every moment Linda was thinking: Emily. Emily. Her first Thanksgiving apart from her family. Linda had known, of course, that this would happen some day, but never had she imagined it would happen like this.

After the enormous meal the group dispersed. Rosie carried Sean up the stairs to the Burtons’ guest room for a nap; Riley and Bud turned on the television to check out the football games.

Linda and Owen settled in front of the fireplace with cups of coffee and Celeste sank into a chair across from them.

“What’s up?” she inquired. “You’ve been away.”

Linda looked at Owen.

“Had to get to Hedden. Take Bruce dress clothes. He’s going to the big city.”

“Come on. There’s more. You’re in a black mood, I can tell.” Celeste leaned toward Owen, speaking as if Linda were not in the room.