Authors: Patricia Gaffney
Mama shook her head slowly. “No, no, I don’t see that. Stephen was nothing like George, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
It was exactly what I was getting at. “I didn’t think so, either.” But then I saw them standing outside that night Stephen died, and it was like a puzzle coming together, the last piece in place.
Click
. “It’s true, Mama. I married my father.” How clever of me. From two different men, I got the identical oblivion and inattention, the same ironic, distanced, fastidious, cerebral frame of mind. A depressing insight, but it wasn’t brand-new. Saying it to my mother gave it an unwelcome freshness, though, like a bad smell that hadn’t had time to grow stale.
“No,” she scoffed. “No, no. I mean, why
would
you?”
“Well, maybe…to get it right. That’s why they
say
we do these things. You know, repeat the experience that didn’t satisfy you in your childhood, try to make it work in adulthood.”
“No, I don’t think so. They’re both academics, that’s all. That’s as far as it goes. Stephen had opinions, for heaven’s sake. He had likes and dislikes, he had
ideas
. George…” She heaved a sigh and didn’t finish—to my relief. I’d heard enough from her about my father’s shortcomings for one night.
“Stephen had a temper,” I conceded. “He did like to have
his way.” So did Pop, but he got his by quiet, passive means that were probably even more infuriating. “You know, we didn’t really know each other that well when we married. Ten months. He was a scholar, of course, very smart, dedicated, very ambitious—like Pop.” I whispered, “I think it’s true, Mama. I think I married my father.”
She looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I think,” I said, “I spent the first half of my marriage trying to fix it, and the second half trying to be happy in spite of knowing it was broken. Just trying to make the best of things. Do you remember that time I called you in the middle of the night? From Chicago, when Ruth was little? I started to tell you—oh, a little of what was wrong, and you said—well, I don’t remember, but after that—”Yes, I did, I remembered perfectly; she’d basically told me to suck it in, get over myself, welcome to real life. “After that, I pretty much gave up trying to change things between Stephen and me. And now that he’s gone, I worry that I was wrong. Maybe I should’ve done more, maybe I shouldn’t have given up so easily. Do you remember that night?” I asked when she kept silent.
“I remember you were drinking.” She pressed her lips together tightly. “I don’t take drinking talk seriously.”
Had I been drinking? It wasn’t impossible. But—“I wasn’t
drunk
, for heaven’s sake. I wasn’t!”
She shrugged:
Who’s to say?
“Well, Carrie, I did not know you were that unhappy,” she said disapprovingly. “I truly did not.”
“I wasn’t,” I said, determined to be honest, although I wasn’t sure why anymore. The intimacy we’d both wanted from this frank talk seemed to elude us more the longer it went on. “Or if I was, I didn’t know it. I think I spent a lot of time in a daze, frankly, not happy, not unhappy. Sleepwalking.”
I looked away, blindsided by longing, a sudden surge of possibility.
I could call Jess
.
I could dial his number and hear his voice. I could call him right now.
“Sleepwalking,” my mother repeated in a flat tone. “All I can say is, you could’ve done much worse. If Stephen was a little like George, why is that such a bad thing?”
“It’s not—”
“One thing I know, life’s too short to sleep through.” She stood and started snatching up the tissues she’d thrown on the coffee table.
“I agree with you, I’m—”
“Maybe you’d better wake up and smell the coffee. You had a good husband, you’ve got a beautiful child—really a very privileged life in many ways. I hope you’re not thinking of throwing it away for something that’s not worthy of you. Count your blessings, that’s what you should do. Get up, Carrie, I need to pull this sofa bed out.”
“Mama, what are we talking about?” I said, not moving. “What am I throwing away? What’s not worthy of me?”
“You’ve got a good job now, and you’re lucky to have it. You’ve got a boss who’s steady and safe, and he’s interested in you. What’s funny about that?”
“Nothing.”
Oh, I was dying to tell her how steady and safe my boss was. I’d kept it from her for a jumble of lousy reasons—embarrassment, a need to keep her from being disillusioned, uncertainty over her reaction—she might not believe me, or she might find Brian and slug him. Telling her now seemed nasty, though; the timing was just too perfect.
She didn’t like my smile, which must’ve looked more like a smirk. “So Brian Wright is not good enough for you? You’re not interested in a man with prospects?”
“A man who wears a suit and tie, you mean.”
“
What’s wrong with that
?”
“Not a thing. You want to talk about this, Mama?”
She flushed. “What do you mean? We are talking. I’ll tell you what I want—you to get up so I can make my bed and go to sleep. I’m tired, I’m an old lady.”
“I take it that’s a no.” I was as angry as she was. I stood
up, because I was used to obeying, but I wasn’t finished. “I don’t like the things you’ve been saying about the Arkists,” I said, pulling the coffee table out of the way. She stopped throwing cushions off the couch and stared at me. “Why are you doing it? You can be opposed to the project, that’s up to you, but why do you have to take the lead in it, Mama? You didn’t have to start a committee, you didn’t have to write a letter to the damn editor.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m a member of the community, I can voice my opinion.”
“You know why. Because this
means
something to me.”
She clucked her tongue and went back to work. “Foolishness. Your own daughter says you’re neglecting her. And for what?
Ark animals
,” she said in a harsh, sneering voice; if Ruth hadn’t been in the next room, she’d have yelled it. “In a barn, with a farmer.
Two
farmers.”
“Well, now we’re getting to it. It’s got nothing to do with civic duty or church and state or good taste or—what was it?—small-town aesthetics. I should’ve cut it out of the paper, because you really outdid yourself.”
“I didn’t write it, the committee did.”
“But it’s your committee.”
“I don’t understand your attitude.”
“I’m explaining it to you.”
“Not now you’re not, I’m going to bed. Honestly, Carrie, I’m tired.”
I looked at her across the low, beige-blanketed sofa bed, weighing the pros and cons of prolonging the argument. I wasn’t used to picking fights with my mother, but I was even less used to her retreating from them. It seemed perverse, upside-down, and I had that impulse again to protect her. Anyway, we had a ritual: she decided what we fought about, I mollified her until I couldn’t stand it, we argued, she won or I backed off, and it was over. Comfortable as an old sweater. Look where it had gotten us.
She turned away first, went to the closet to get down extra
pillows. “So, tomorrow. Would Ruth hate it if we went to the Botanic Gardens after the National Cathedral? I’d like to go, but not if it’s going to bore her to tears.”
She was good at this. A timely change of subject, along with a subtle reminder of who was the host on this trip, who were the guests. Gracious guests humored generous hosts; they didn’t start family fights at one in the morning.
Message received, Mama. We kissed cheeks, said good night, and retired to our separate camps.
I took a shower to calm down, get the argument out of my head.
In a barn with a farmer
kept ringing in my ears. After a little while the harshness my mother had given the phrase faded, though, and a gentler connotation took its place. I missed my farmer. Missed his barn. I put on my nightgown and stared in the foggy mirror at my new, alarmingly short hair, and wondered if Jess would like it. Men liked long hair on women—I’d always heard that. What if I’d made a terrible mistake?
He touched my hair the last time we were together. Wednesday afternoon, in the ark barn. I took half a day off from work and went to Jess’s to paint animals. Landy wasn’t there, he’d had to leave early to go see his father.
After he left, Jess didn’t talk. He wasn’t haughty or cold, he just didn’t say anything. On the Sunday before, he’d held my hand, but three days later he wouldn’t speak to me. Not that I blamed him—I’d pulled away, spoiling the natural progression. The unspoken natural progression. I think we both knew we were drawing closer—but slowly, slowly, and on my terms, of course. At my pace.
“Come and look at this, tell me if the ears look funny,” I said in the dim, drafty barn, standing back from my almost-finished elephant. My masterpiece, I considered it in secret. Jess put down his drill and came to stand next to me. “No, they look fine.” “Sure?” “Yes.” He started to go back to his wheels.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” I said quickly. “Getting defensive about my mother—God, that was stupid.” I trusted
him to know what I was really apologizing for. “I don’t even know why I was mad. I thought I wanted to fight with you. But I don’t, that’s not what I want.”
His eyelashes came down, shuttering his expression. My long, messy braid—gone now—lay on my shoulder, and Jess lifted his hand and stroked it with his fingers. What I felt was the slight weight of his wrist on my collarbone, strong as a burn. Through my jacket, two sweaters, and a T-shirt. “What do you want, Carrie?”
Oh, just everything. I wanted him, mostly, but I was still afraid of him. I wanted to honor my husband’s memory. I wanted my mother to approve of me.
“If I told you,” I said, making my voice playful, “would you give it to me? Everything I wanted?”
“No.” He slid his fingers inside my collar and stroked my skin. “But I’d try.”
I had to close my eyes. “I don’t know anyone like you,” I whispered, “I never have. I need some more time.” I looked at him, half afraid I would regret my words, but he nodded. “I’m not running away this time, I swear. But I’m standing still. Please, Jess—you do, too. Wait. Because it would be so easy…”
“So easy to…”
“Go too fast.”
He bent his head and put his face next to mine. “When you make up your mind, let me know it in words.” The whisper of his breath on my ear made my skin tingle. “Write it on a big sign, Carrie. Hit me over the head with it. Because I don’t want to miss it.”
I think he kissed me then, but the quick, warm pressure on my cheek was so fleeting I couldn’t be sure. He was smiling when he pulled away. He went back to screwing wheels onto wooden bases, but only for a few more minutes, and then he went off to milk cows. Leaving me in a flutter. I couldn’t even finish my elephant.
I could call him now, I thought again. Dial his number and hear his sleepy voice. And say what? “I miss you. Don’t give
up on me. I’m sorry it’s taking so long.” He deserved that. But didn’t he already know it? If not, I’d been miscalculating for weeks. Months. “Let me know it in words,” he’d said. Well, I would. I would. As soon as the time came.
Ruth had left the lamp on on my side of the king-size bed. She lay fast asleep on her back, one hand in a fist by her head, the other open on her rib cage. Under the thin blanket the slight curve of her breasts, small but definite, rose and fell, rose and fell with her silent breathing. Sometimes I hardly recognized her with her new, stranger’s body. She didn’t even smell the same.
Who are you?
I went around wanting to ask. If I had the power to stop it right now, stop time this minute, would I? Yes, in a heartbeat. But in a little while, I’d regret it.
Who would she finally choose, I wondered, settling in beside her gingerly, trying not to wake her—neither of us was used to a bedmate these days. Would she choose a man like her father, or a man as unlike him as she could find? Once I’d had that choice. God, God, I hoped for once the whole issue skipped a generation. If only we could go back to arranged marriages, or ban the institution entirely until people turned thirty. Forty. Thank God Ruth didn’t have a regular boyfriend yet; she still dated in crowds. The only familiar, recurring face was Raven’s, and I couldn’t work up much worry about him. Which undoubtedly meant he was the one to worry about.
I leaned over to kiss the air above her cheek. She smacked her lips and turned over, carrying most of the sheet under her arm.
If we could just build cages around them. Big Plexiglas boxes on wheels that they could move about in, really be quite comfortable inside, but never get out of. Involuntary safety. Ruth getting her driver’s license next summer was bad enough; the thought of her going away to college in two years was so awful, I couldn’t even think about it. I couldn’t—I pushed it out of my mind. I had a bit of a knife phobia, couldn’t bear thinking about blades, so of course
sometimes my nerves played perverse tricks and sent images to the brain of knives, razors, etc., etc.—a minor torture. Same thing with Ruth and college: my nerves attacked me with random nightmare pictures of dormitories, libraries, caps and gowns. I shook myself and pushed them away. Horrible.
I turned out the lamp, tried to get comfortable. Couldn’t sleep in hotels. Twenty years from now, would Ruth and I go away for weekends and tell each other secrets? Would she see me as the kind of mother she could bear to confide things in? But then again, I didn’t really want her to have any problems she needed to confide. Mistakes, regrets, defeats, lost opportunities—I wanted her to miss out on them, breeze right by them through some incredible stroke of good fortune. Ruth’s life had to be perfect.
I turned over on my side, drawing my knees up and cupping my hands under my chin: my comfort position. And prepared to be terribly disappointed.
P
EOPLE WERE LEAVING
and it wasn’t even eight o’ clock.
“Old fuddy-duddies!” I called my friends to their faces, pretending I was kidding, but I wasn’t. And it was a perfect night, mellow and almost warm, the prettiest sunset going down over the garage roof, bats starting to flicker in the purple sky. It was the first night of daylight saving time, which in my book is a cause for celebration in itself. “George,” I yelled across the patio, “make me another whiskey sour!”
I headed inside to get the portable stereo. Music, that’s what this party needed. Where the hell was Carrie? Should’ve been here two hours ago. Birdie was putting dirty glasses in the dishwasher. “Leave that,” I ordered, reaching past her to unplug the boom box on top of the refrigerator. “Quit and come outside, right this minute.”
She flapped her hands. “I just want to put these away before they get broken.”
“At this party? Not a chance.” I slung my arm around Birdie’s waist and muscled her out of the kitchen. “I want people to
dance
. I’ve got a new tape, all songs from the fifties.” It hit me. “My God, Bird—fifty years ago today, I was twenty years old.”
“I was seventeen,” she smirked—she never misses a
chance to rub it in that she’s younger. “Oh, I don’t think anybody’s going to dance, Dana. Golly, nobody’s still here but the Hoopers and the Dodges.”
And the Dodges were leaving. “No!” I cried, sticking my arms out to bar the way across the patio. “You can’t leave yet, you
can’t
. Why do you have to go?” I heard the pretend-desperate note in my voice and wondered if I was getting drunk. Well, if not, it wasn’t for lack of trying.
“Sorry, I know,” Sylvia said, making a heartbroken face. She linked arms with silent, morose Harvey and leaned against him. “Tomorrow’s an early day for us. Susie and Earl are coming, bringing their kids.” She rolled her eyes, to say it was all too much, children and grandchildren, but what a good sport she was. Sylvia’s a faculty wife, like me; the only reason we were friends at all was because our husbands taught in the same department for thirty years. We saw a lot of each other at faculty do’s, we were always cordial, we got up to the exact same level of conversational intimacy—and retreated every time. Nothing in common. “Thanks
so
much for having us,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks, “and happy
birthday
.”
“Happy birthday,” old sourpuss Harvey echoed. Hard to believe, but he had even less to say for himself than George. “G’night.”
“Hell with ’em,” I muttered, flopping down in the Adirondack chair George had put my new drink on. “Make one for Birdie,” I called to him across the lawn. “Where do you s’-pose Carrie is, Bird?”
“Oh, no, I don’t need another thing, I’m—”
“And put some alcohol in it! Swear to God, that man cannot make a drink. Fifty-one years of marriage, and he’s yet to make a good one. It’s the ice-booze ratio that stumps him. What is so hard about that, would you tell me?”
“Why don’t you make your own?”
“Because it’s his job. I do everything else, he’s not getting out of that one.” I took a sip of whiskey sour. “Ek. Too much sour.” I set it down to let the ice melt a while. “Nobody
drinks anymore anyway, everybody’s so goddamn old. We used to have
fun
at parties, didn’t we?”
“We surely did. Wild parties.”
“They
were
wild. Nobody went home at eight o’clock, that’s for sure. My God. ’Course, that was before all the alcoholics died or went on the wagon.”
Birdie yawned behind her hand.
I remembered the music. “I’m putting on that tape,” I decided, and got up. I’d worn a long red dress, thinking it would be more festive than slacks. I tripped on the hem as I crossed the patio on the way to the electrical plug on the screen porch, had to grab the picnic table to keep my balance. “Damn shoes,” I muttered, kicking them off. One flew up and landed on the table, and I left it there. After a little fumbling, I got the boom box plugged in and the right tape in.
Somebody had turned the volume up too high; “Come On-a My House” came out like a police siren. Birdie shrieked; George and the Hoopers turned around with irritable, alarmed faces. Where the hell was the volume knob? I found it, turned it down. Birdie took her hands off her ears.
“Dance with me,” I said, pulling her up.
“Oh, Dana, I don’t want to dance!”
“You have to, it’s my birthday. I’m gonna give you ca-handy,” I sang, stumbling through a fox-trot step. Maybe this was a jitterbug. “When was the last time you danced? I can’t even remember. Margaret Whiteman’s girl’s wedding, I think. I mean with a man.” I spun Birdie into a turn. “You know what?”
“What?” Her cheeks flushed; she breathed with her mouth open. No stamina.
“It’s very possible this is the last time you and I will ever dance. I’m talking about for the rest of our
lives
. Think about that, Bird.”
“Honey, you’re just drunk.” She quit dancing, wouldn’t be moved. “Come on and sit down, I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” Her face crinkled with sympathy, and I pushed her away.
“I’m not drunk, and I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Make me a cup of coffee and I’ll pour it down your dress.”
“There, you just proved my point.” Wounded, she crossed to her chair and sat. “Pour it down my dress. Oh, sure. Somebody I know is going to have a big headache tomorrow.”
The most vulgar phrase came into my head, the kind my generation wasn’t allowed to say. Carrie’s was; Ruth’s used it so often it didn’t mean anything anymore. Shocking, how much I wanted to say it to Birdie, wipe that prissy look off her face. “Shit,” I said instead, but she’s heard that from me plenty of times; it only made her squeeze her lips together harder.
The Hoopers had to go, big day tomorrow, something about a chess tournament in Richmond and Edward was in the finals; I tuned out, didn’t hear the details. Like the Dodges, Edward was a colleague of George’s and Esther was a fake friend of mine. We saw each other at faculty parties but nowhere else, because there just wasn’t enough to hang a real friendship on. “Thanks so much for coming,” I told Esther as we hugged, thinking it was funny, ha-ha, that the Hoopers were the last to go and the Dodges were second to last, and I didn’t give a damn about any of them.
“Where are
my
friends?” I said after the Hoopers were out of earshot. “Are they all dead? Besides you,” I added when Birdie looked hurt. “I mean, of course, besides you.” I dropped down on the arm of her chair and squeezed her skinny far shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s funny that George’s friends stayed the longest at my birthday party?
His
stuffy old friends?”
“You had friends here, Roberta and Don, Kathryn, Binnie, the Strouds. They just had to go home.”
“That’s what I mean. How come
my
friends are worse party poopers than
his
?”
Birdie didn’t know. George heard, but didn’t look up from whatever he was doing to the grill, shaking out the charred briquettes or something. Doris Day began singing, “Once I had a secret love,” and I sang along. “What movie is this
from? Is it that one with James Cagney? I loved that movie. She wore the most gorgeous clothes.”
“I love Doris Day,” said Birdie. “She’s saving the animals now, you know. She’s such a lovely woman.”
“She wore a fur stole in that movie. I wanted one just like it in the worst way. George was making nothing in those days, so of course it was out of the question. But
oh
, I wanted me a fur stole.”
“I always wanted blonde hair,” Birdie said.
“I wanted to be short and petite.”
“I wanted to wear it in a ducktail, but Chester said it would look cheap.”
I took a swallow of my drink, which was now perfect. “Too bad there’s no such thing as reincarnation. Too bad this is it. That is one damn shame.”
“Oh, I think there is reincarnation. I believe we come back again and again, until we get it right.”
“No, we don’t. That’s ridiculous. They plant us and we rot, that’s it.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” Birdie folded her hands and turned her face away. Old fool. A big rush of affection flooded me, though, rinsing away the irritation. Birdie’s like an old song you’ve heard so many times it annoys you—“Harbor Lights,” say, or “Some Enchanted Evening.” But it’s still a good song, and sometimes, when somebody sings it just right, you remember why it’s a standard and you like it all over again.
“Well, you could be right,” I said magnanimously. “Nobody knows, that’s for sure, not till they’re dead anyway, so what’s the difference. You want to believe you come back as a cat, honey, be my guest.”
The back screen door snapped open. “A cat! Gram, are you coming back as a cat?”
“
There
you are. Finally!” I got up and held my arms out. Ruth came and hugged me. She felt so good, young and squirmy and alive, I didn’t want to let go. “Where’ve you been? This party’s over, and it was a bust to begin with. You
could’ve livened it up. Mm
mmm
, you look good enough to eat. Where’ve you been?”
“We got tied up,” Carrie said from behind a gigantic pink azalea plant in her arms. “Where is everybody? Ruth, get this—”But she got the screen door open with her foot and scuttled through sideways before it could slam shut. “Happy birthday.” She sounded relieved, a chore off her list, as she plunked the heavy azalea down on the table.
“Oh, how pretty,” Birdie said, getting up to give Ruth a shy squeeze. “Dana, isn’t it beautiful?”
“I picked it out,” Ruth said. “Mom wanted a white one.”
“White? No, no,” I said, “pink’s much better. Why, it’s just gorgeous, and I know exactly where I’m going to put it.”
“I was thinking for nighttime,” Carrie said. “You know how white shows up at night in the garden.” She fluffed her hair off the back of her neck. She looked hot, tired, and distracted. I can always tell when her happy face is a mask, because she can’t smile naturally, her mouth just won’t soften. “Anyway, happy birthday, Mama.” Even her arms felt stiff, and her kiss on the cheek didn’t have any zip, no energy. “Sorry we missed your party. I thought people would still be here,” she said softly, and broke away. “Hey, Pop, I didn’t see you.” She hugged George, then stood back so Ruth could hug him, too. “How are you? You look mighty spiffy tonight.”
George smiled down self-consciously at his sweater and his wrinkled linen trousers. He did look unusually snazzy, but only because Carrie had found the outfit in the Eddie Bauer catalog and given it to him for his birthday. Last year—when she had money. “Thanks.” He winked at her.
“Like my dress?” I said, getting Ruth’s attention when I couldn’t get Carrie’s. “Too young for me, I know.”
“Oh, no, Gram, it’s great, it’s really nice.”
“Nah, old ladies shouldn’t wear red. Makes us look like madams.” Ruth giggled. “Sit, everybody sit. George, put that plant on the ground so we can see each other. Are you starving? Carrie, have a drink—I’m having another. There’s still
plenty of food—”Birdie was already heading for the kitchen to get it. I let her; I was the party girl. “George, get Ruth a Coke or something. What do you want, honey, a Sprite, some ice tea, we’ve got lemonade all made. Carrie, you want a whiskey sour?”
No, she didn’t want anything, and she wasn’t hungry—she called out to Birdie not to bring her anything. And they couldn’t stay long because Ruth had a soccer game early tomorrow, they’d just come by to give me my present and wish me happy birthday. I couldn’t believe it! No way were they getting away like that! I kept after Carrie and kept after her, and finally she broke down and said she’d have a beer. “Well, I should think so,” I huffed. “It’s my birthday, damn it, I’m seventy years old and you can damn well have a drink to toast me.”
That made her lift her eyebrows, but she finally smiled naturally. “How many of those have you had?”
“Not enough.” I reached for Ruth’s arm and squeezed it. “You do what I say, now, not what I do, you hear?”
“Yes, Gram.”
“And I’m saying to you, never drink.”
“Yes, Gram.” She and her mother exchanged tickled glances, but I didn’t care. I’d cheered everybody up. Maybe this was going to be a party after all.
“So,” I said. “Why are you so late, what held you up? We grilled salmon, we had vegetable kabobs, Birdie made a cake. What happened?” I repeated when Carrie didn’t answer, just looked uncomfortable.
“Oh, we just…couldn’t get organized, and then something came up, and I didn’t think you’d mind, you’d have so many other people here.”
Ruth was practically bouncing in her chair. “She got fired,” she said quickly, then hunched her shoulders.
“What?”
“You what? You got
fired
?”
Carrie sent Ruth a black stare under the hand she was
massaging her forehead with. “Yeah,” she said tiredly. “Yes, I got fired.”
“
Why
?”
Ruth said, “Because she wouldn’t do it with Mr. Wright! Ha—Mr. Jerk Face!” Carrie rolled her head back and shut her eyes.
“Is this true? No, I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true, Mama.”
“So we went to her office and got all her stuff, that’s why we’re late. Chris came down—Mrs. Fledergast—and they had to talk and talk.”
George said disbelievingly, “Brian Wright?”
“Yes, Pop, Brian Wright.” Carrie opened her eyes and looked at him coldly.
“When they went out on their date,” Ruth piped up again, “Mom wouldn’t kiss him good night, so he waited a while so it wouldn’t look bad and then he fired her!”
“It wasn’t a date. I told you, it was not a
date
.”
“He did it yesterday afternoon
.
He said not to come in Monday, but he’ll pay her for two weeks. What a dirtbag!”
“My lord,” Birdie declared, setting a plate of food in front of Ruth. “I think you should sue him.”
“That’s what
I
say,” Ruth said.
“For sexual harassment,” Birdie said.
“I’m not suing anybody,” Carrie said, as if she’d been saying it a lot.
“Well, I don’t see why not. He shouldn’t be able to get away with that.”