Maggie tells her it’s all right, but she might as well not be speaking, because Brid rushes upstairs to her daughter’s room. A few minutes later, Maggie goes to peek in through the door and sees both of them asleep, sharing the bed peacefully with their two golden heads of hair dimly radiant across the pillows.
After Maggie wakes up, she stays in bed awhile, listening to the silent house, wondering how long she could remain here before someone comes to check on her. All morning, probably. Brid and Pauline must have gone out; maybe they’ve left for good. Eventually she hears the telephone ring and makes her way downstairs to answer, thinking it could be Fletcher. It’s a woman’s voice on the other end, though, telling her in broken English that she has a collect call. The operator says it’s from Wale. With a sense of trepidation, Maggie accepts the charges and hears a click. The line gains an underlying flow of static.
“Wale?” she says. “Where are you?”
The voice through the static is murky and phantasmal, but it’s him.
“Bangkok,” he replies.
“Bangkok?” In the background is the sound of car traffic. Jesus. He really is going to Laos. “I can’t hear you very well. What time is it there?”
“Dunno. Dark. Dark o’clock. Half past dark.”
He sounds wholly drunk. Maggie glances toward the hall, worried that Brid will come in and find out who’s on the line.
“You want me to get Brid?” she asks.
“No, honey, it’s you I want.” The way he says it makes her flush. There’s a burst of crackling before the line clears. “I’ve been dreaming about you,” he says, but she doesn’t want to hear about his dreams. Nervously, she looks up again to see if anyone is there.
“You aren’t really in Thailand. You’re putting me on, right?”
With slurring words, he affirms he’s really and truly in that country, and she asks him what the hell he’s doing there.
“Going to Laos to check on your dad.” At this response her stomach knots up further. It’s impossible. No, it’s not. Wale’s insane. He’s gone halfway around the world to prove it, and to make her crazy too. He waits on the line as if expecting more questions, but she refuses to play the game.
“You ran out on us,” she says.
“Ran out? I’m trying to show you I’m not so heartless after all.”
She isn’t going to be made responsible for his lunacy. “You’re not over there to impress me.”
“You think I’m a goon. A thug who shoots little kids.”
“I don’t think that.” In fact she does, but only because he’s made himself out to be one.
“You’re right, I’m a piece of shit. Some of the things I’ve done, I know I can’t make up for them.”
“Wale—”
“You have to believe me—your dad, if I’d seen anything coming …”
“Wale, would you listen to me? There’s nothing wrong. If you’d stayed here, you’d know. I heard from my grandmother, he’s fine, he just went over to a village—”
“You talked with him? You heard from him?”
“I told you, I got a call from Gran—”
“But you didn’t talk with him?” The way Wale says it makes all her relief fall away. She wants to hang up the phone and call Gran. “If I thought it was safe, I’d have asked you to come with me. I miss you, Maggie. It’s been a long time since I missed somebody.”
He’s interrupted by a voice shouting what sounds like abuse in another language. She says his name, but he doesn’t answer. Then suddenly he’s back and speaking in her ear.
“I’m off my face, aren’t I? The beer here is piss.” There’s the clonk of an empty bottle dropped onto pavement. “It’s so goddamn lonely. You know?” On the other end, a car passes playing a Simon and Garfunkel song. “Maggie, I wanted to tell you something. What was it—”
“You were dreaming about me,” she says feebly.
“No, something else.” There’s a noise like a long belch, then another voice in the background. “Shit, my ride’s here. I’m flying to Long Chieng in a couple of hours.”
“Wait, let me get Brid—” she says, but once she finishes speaking, she realizes he’s already gone. Out of the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of movement: Brid and Pauline coming in through the mud room door.
“Who was that?” asks Brid.
“Wrong number,” Maggie says, and she hangs up the phone.
No, honey, it’s you I want. That’s how real confession goes. Not in the church with the priest levying penance; not in the network studio with the cameras rolling. It happens in a phone booth by the roadside late at night when you’ve had a few too many, shouting down the line to someone on another continent. It’s a good thing Wale’s ride showed up. Whatever else he had to say, she’s pretty sure she didn’t want to hear it.
She’s also sure she doesn’t want to call Gran. How would she explain her worries without sending the woman into a panic? The barest description of Wale would leave Gran thinking that Maggie has involved herself with degenerates and crooks. Returning to the telephone, she dials the number, unsure of what she’ll say. The phone rings and rings without an answer. At last, a little thankfully, she puts down the receiver and goes back to bed.
It turns out Brid and Pauline are leaving too. There’s no explanation, just one stark sentence during lunch. Maggie nods as if the reasons are obvious. She doesn’t try to argue Brid out of it, only expresses concern about them making the trip to Boston in one day on their own. Even this statement she saves until they’re on the porch with the Toyota loaded and Pauline buckled into her safety seat, her uncombed hair standing up in a bright flaxen frizz. Brid says she’ll be all right, but she looks wan and keeps removing her sunglasses to rub at her eyes. From the car, Pauline’s wailing that she doesn’t want to go; she wants to stay with Auntie Maggs. This is a surprise. When did Pauline ever like her?
“Just so you know,” says Brid, “I’m not clearing out because of the Jamaican. Last night was nothing, okay? I’m going because I’m a mess, and because I know you don’t care whether I stay.”
“That isn’t true,” Maggie protests.
“You’re sweet to say it. Anyhow, good for you, not needing me. You’re tougher than I thought.” She sounds hurt that this should be the case. “I’m sorry, I’m just fed up with it all.” Looking out over the front yard, she dwells on the place as if seeing it for the first time. “Maybe a few years ago we’d have stood a chance, but people got worn down by everything. I thought maybe up here we could relax and try something new. Oh well.”
In her voice there’s at once a lassitude and a confidence, as if she’s been formulating this elegy for some time. Yet something doesn’t sit right. It couldn’t be that simple. There’s a vital element she’s missed, but there’s no time to figure it out: she seems ready to depart.
“What will you do now?” Maggie asks.
“Stay with my brother, I guess. God, I hate him. It’s going to be a train wreck.” She looks over at Maggie with concern. “What about you? You’ll be okay?”
Maggie nods, pretty sure that Brid’s just asking to free herself from obligation. Still, there’s a compulsion to provide some kind of self-defence, to articulate the thoughts she’s been mulling over in her head.
“I couldn’t go back now,” she says. “Anyhow, I prefer it on the farm. You know, working the land—”
“You don’t prefer it, sweetie,” says Brid with an earnestness that surprises her. “You think you do, but you don’t. I’ve watched you. You’ve been so unhappy here.”
The words strike Maggie to the quick. There’s such assurance in them. But if that’s what Brid has been thinking, why didn’t she say anything till now?