round felt hat before her hands tightened again on her
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purse. “We never miss the state fair.” She started to
move past Judith on the walk.
“Where’s Mr. Izard?” Judith asked, a hand on Meg’s
arm.
“He’s wandering around, having a smoke,” Meg
replied. “You can’t smoke in these rental cars, you
know.”
“We permit smoking,” Judith said. “Why don’t you
come in for a few minutes? The fog’s supposed to lift
soon. Then driving will be safer, especially in an unfamiliar city.”
“Well . . .” Meg flexed her fingers on the black
purse. “I’ll come in for a bit. Never mind Walt. He’s
happy just moseying around outside.”
Judith led the way into the house. “Have a seat at the
dining-room table,” she offered.
But Meg went straight into the kitchen, where she
fumbled with her purse.
“Would you prefer sitting in here?” Judith inquired.
“No. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” She
stood by the sink, looking down. After almost a full
minute, she turned and followed Judith into the dining
room. Meg sat down with her purse in her lap and her
shabby gray coat unbuttoned. “I take cream,” she announced.
“Fine,” Judith said, going back into the kitchen. She
fixed Meg’s coffee and poured a glass of orange juice
for herself. “Are you headed for the airport?” she inquired when she was seated at the big oak table.
Meg nodded. “We got a flight out at two. If the fog
lifts.”
“It should,” Judith said. “So you always attend the
Iowa State Fair,” she remarked in a casual tone.
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331
“Haven’t missed it since I was two,” Meg answered
with a hint of pride. “Best fair in the Midwest.”
“Do you and Walt own a farm?” Judith asked.
“A small one, just outside Riceville.” The corners
of Meg’s thin mouth turned down. “Walt’s dad sold
out to one of those combines years ago. They cheated
Mr. Izard. Now we’ve only got some chickens, a couple of cows, and a cornfield. It’s been a struggle, believe me.”
“Farming certainly has changed,” Judith remarked.
“But you must do okay. I mean, you and Walt are able
to take vacations like this one.”
“First time since our honeymoon,” Meg said, with
her usual sour expression. “We wouldn’t have done it
now except it’s our silver wedding anniversary. That,
and with—” She stopped abruptly, her thin shoulders
tensing under the worn wool coat.
Recalling Walt Izard’s gaunt frame, Judith gently
posed a question. “Is your husband ill?”
Meg scowled at Judith. “No. Why do you ask? It’s
none of your beeswax.”
“That’s true,” Judith admitted. “I’m sorry. It’s just
that I’m interested in people. Sometimes it gets me
into awkward situations.”
Meg’s face softened slightly. “Well . . . you can’t do
much about serious sickness. Trouble is, the doctors
can’t either. Folks like us can’t afford big-city specialists like some.”
“Maybe not,” Judith responded, then paused before
speaking again. “Shall I tell you a story?”
“A story?” Meg wrinkled her long nose. “Why do I
want to hear a story?” But a flicker of interest kindled
in her eyes.
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“You’ll want to hear this story,” Judith said, placing
her elbows on the table and leaning closer to her guest.
“It’s about a young girl from a small town in Iowa who
fell in love with a romantic young man.”
Meg tensed, her hands tightening on the purse in her
lap. But she said nothing. In Judith’s mind’s eye, she
tried to picture the thin, haggard woman across the
table as a young girl—the girl in the photograph that
lay between the pages of The Gasman.
“This young man had a vivid imagination,” Judith
continued, “and he wooed her with all the passion of
his creative nature. Unfortunately, the girl got pregnant. Her family insisted on a wedding. Since the
young man had roots in the area, he gave in, and they
were married. His bride made the mistake of believing
he’d keep his vows. She trusted him, even if she
thought his ambitions were out of reach. She couldn’t
understand why farm life in Iowa didn’t suit him. But
he had bigger dreams, and moved on, leaving her behind.” Judith paused, recalling the lock of hair. She
looked Meg right in the eye. “What happened to that
baby, Mrs. Izard?”
Meg sat stony-faced for a long moment. When she
finally spoke, her lips scarcely moved. “He was stillborn. My so-called husband had already left me. I
named the poor baby Douglas, after my father. We
buried him next to Pa in the family plot.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said softly. “Do you have other
children?”
Meg shook her head. “I couldn’t. Something went
wrong at the time of the birth.”
Now it was Judith’s turn to be silent. The fog
seemed to permeate the kitchen, like a sad, gray pall.
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333
“Your first husband took something else besides your
happiness, didn’t he?” she finally asked.
Meg sat up very straight. “You mean . . . the book?”
Judith nodded. “That’s what you came for earlier
this morning, isn’t it? The book. Your copy of the
book.”
Meg’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly.
“That Best woman—she was the one who all but stole
it from us.”
“Not your personal copy, though,” Judith put in.
“Bruno took it with him when he left you, didn’t he?”
“I could have killed him right then and there,” Meg
declared. “Pa’s book was his monument. It was all that
we had left of him, except for the manuscript he never
finished. And no one would buy that one from us.
Foolishly, we let the copyright on The Gasman run out
in 1985. We thought, what’s the use? There was never
more than the one printing. Then Bruno . . .” She spat
out his name as if it were tainted with gall. “Then he
used the book to make this big, big movie. Winifred
Best had gotten hold of the rights for him. Walt and I
couldn’t believe it when we saw it on a TV show about
Hollywood. Millions of dollars. And we were practically on food stamps. After all those years—thirty-one,
to be exact—that son of a bitch uses Pa’s book to make
himself even more rich and famous.”
“You never forgave Bruno, did you?” Judith asked
quietly.
Meg shook her head decisively. “Never. How could
I? He ruined my life, he destroyed my future, he stole
Pa’s book. It ate at me, like a cancer.”
“Cancer,” Judith repeated. “You have cancer, don’t
you?”
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Mary Daheim
Meg’s body jerked in the chair. “How do you
know?”
“I found a piece of label from a prescription bottle
in Bruno’s room the morning after he died,” Judith
said. “It was for thalidomide. If it wasn’t for Bruno and