“I need a bit more time,” he says.
“How much?”
“Two weeks.” He says it as if expecting an argument.
She takes a breath and slides the plate back onto the shelf. “Fine,” she says.
“Thanks for understanding.” Then abruptly he asks, “You going to keep watching TV now?”
“I doubt it.” Already he’s bringing the conversation to a close. Is he so eager to be rid of her? “Fletcher—”
“Hey, did you pay the electricity bill?”
“Yes, I’ve looked after everything.”
“Thanks. Listen, I’ll call you again soon.” His voice is tentative, as though he knows what he’s getting away with.
“Sleep well,” she says wearily.
“You too. Bye.”
In the living room, George Ray seems to relax upon her return. Brid says there’s good news: the TV people have received a report of the Israelis freed and the terrorists killed. Neither she nor George Ray asks who was on the phone, but once Maggie has settled onto the couch and they’re all waiting for more details to be announced, Brid remarks offhandedly that she just remembered Maggie’s granny called earlier. She wanted Maggie to know that her father went upriver to some village and that’s why he didn’t get in touch. With closed eyes, Maggie thanks her for the message.
Friday morning, she feels nauseous again. It has been almost a week since Fletcher left. She should see a doctor. Opening the medicine cabinet, she hunts for something to settle her stomach and finds a stockpile of other people’s sanitary towels, nail polish, eye drops, and deodorants. Everything but what she needs.
In the camper van, she drives through Virgil without stopping, loath to run into someone who was at the party, and continues a few miles to Niagara-on-the-Lake. There she goes into a pharmacy for some Gravol before finding a hardware store that sells bathroom scales. A construction detour on the way home leaves her lost among side streets with her stomach so bad that she’s forced to pull over at a park beside the river. Sitting at a picnic table, she gazes out across a beach cross-hatched with driftwood logs to the place where the river meets Lake Ontario. An old American fort with a watchtower stands on the far side, hemmed in by garrison walls. Incredible how close it is. She could return so easily. Just a few miles’ drive to the nearest bridge, and she could be in Boston by nightfall; she could make Syracuse in time for lunch. What would she say to Gran if she turned up at her door? The news of Fletcher’s departure would seem only to justify her grandmother’s warnings.
Back at the farmhouse, Maggie goes upstairs with her purchases, steps on the scales, and finds she has gained four pounds. It’s surprising that Brid hasn’t said anything; surely she’s the type who would notice. In an old medical manual among the books on the living room shelf, Maggie looks up the symptoms. Dry skin—yes, but then that’s always been a problem. Cramped legs—well, of course, she’s on her feet all day. The indigestion and constipation—they could just be from stress. But all of these things together, and a month late? With the phone book in front of her, she calls the only doctor listed for Virgil and is told he can see her in a week.
The next day after dinner, Brid cajoles George Ray into staying a little longer and watching the Olympics with them again. It’s the last day of competition, but there’s still a miasma hovering over the events. Once more they play clips from the memorial service earlier in the week, and Maggie can’t believe they didn’t send everyone home already. George Ray’s beside her on the couch, while Brid takes up the armchair with Pauline on her lap. Half an hour earlier than usual, she announces Pauline’s bedtime. The girl bawls in protest, but Brid’s unrelenting and carries her upstairs. Eventually she returns alone with a bottle of red wine.
“Just grown-ups now,” she says, squeezing between them on the couch. To Maggie’s surprise, George Ray accepts the offer of a drink. Maybe he’s warming to the idea that he has gained the attentions of an attractive woman far from home. Brid treats his assent as a victory, then turns her focus to Maggie, urging her to have some too. Reluctantly she agrees, thinking she’ll just swish it around and nobody will notice. When Brid leans over to pour herself a glass, Maggie glimpses her small breasts swinging freely within her blouse.
After that, Brid gives up all pretence of watching television. She asks George Ray about Jamaica, claiming it’s for the sake of intercultural understanding. But when he starts talking about the country, she shows little interest in what he says, seeming more attentive to the way his lips move. Every so often she makes a little hum of encouragement and reaches out to touch his knee. Maggie worries she should be protecting him, but he’s married and a decade older than she is; he must have learned by now how to deal with the Brids of the world. Before his glass is even half empty, Brid refills it, and she glares when she realizes that Maggie has barely had a sip.
“C’mon, sweetie, let your hair down.” With flashing eyes, she reaches over to undo the first button on Maggie’s blouse, then laughs at her own trespass. To George Ray she says, “Don’t you think she should let her hair down?” Brid’s caftan rides high on her legs as she crosses and uncrosses them. Her nails are painted red but nibbled short. Beside her, George Ray leans forward to glance across the couch. Giving Maggie a sad smile, he points out that her hair is already down. Brid laughs as if this is the funniest thing she has ever heard.
She tries to draw them into conversation, at some points putting an arm around both at the same time. George Ray seems no more comfortable than Maggie, but Brid is dogged. Maggie resists an impulse to retire for the night, half curious to see how it will end, unsure whether she’s staying to prevent a seduction or to abet one. Maybe she’s a little jealous.
Through the news she sticks it out, but once Johnny Carson comes on, she declares she’s going to bed. George Ray stands promptly and says the same. Adopting a smile, Brid gives Maggie a long hug and a lingering kiss on the cheek that feels like it leaves lipstick. She’s on her fourth glass of wine.
“Are you sure?” she says. “You can’t stay a bit longer?” She offers to walk George Ray to the barracks and grows testy when he demurs. “I’ll come out anyway. I need a little fresh air.”
Maggie can’t help herself. “Jeez, Brid, give the guy a break.” She tries to make it sound humorous, but Brid’s eyes narrow.
“Relax, Auntie Maggs,” she replies. “You’ve got one back in Boston.”
Upstairs, Maggie is sleepless. Too hot; she opens the window and shivers at the chilly air that blows in. Her mind slips over to the barracks, to George Ray’s broad shoulders and Brid’s freckled breasts. Maggie couldn’t stay here with the two of them like that. The bed is lumpy, enormous. Finally she goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Before the water has boiled, there’s the distant slam of the barracks door and Brid’s voice shouting.
“Fine, you fucking prude!”
Silence follows, then a muttering that grows closer. When Brid appears in the mud room, she’s talking to herself, unaware of Maggie’s presence. “A bitch,” she’s saying. “God, I’m such a bitch.”
Maggie wants to hide under the table before Brid’s eyes fall on her. Once they do, she waits for the assault to begin, for all the woman’s spite to be heaped on her, but Brid looks through her as if she isn’t there.
“Don’t worry,” says Brid in a wavering voice. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Maggie stands and moves toward her. “What about Pauline?” says Brid. “She didn’t wake up, did she?”