12

BARBARA WALKED down Main Street, passing the Bijou Motion Picture Theater. They were showing The Sheik, starring Rudolph Valentino. A group of farm girls gathered around the marquee poster of the limpid-eyed hero bending over his lady like a lover in a dream. In church last Sunday, Father Bughola had condemned the movie, proclaiming it scandalous and lewd. Any of his parishioners who saw it would have to reckon with penance. Those farm girls would have to content themselves with Valentino's picture. Barbara nearly sniggered aloud at the sight of them smoldering over a movie poster. They put their heads together and tittered, as if they longed to be seduced and swept off their feet, surrendering to an imaginary lover who could spirit them away to a magical world where priests did not exist.

Poor cows. They better have some dream to help them through their lives. Barbara cast her eyes over their patched-together shoes and drooping stockings, their crooked hems and clumsy braids. She was willing to bet good money that they would all be married by the age of eighteen—at least half of them with a baby already in their belly. From their wedding onward, it would be a downhill journey into drudgery, a new baby every year, a husband with dirty fingernails who barked at them if they didn't have supper on the table at exactly five-thirty every night. Sigh over your movie star while you still can, she wanted to tell them. There will come a day when your dreams will dry up and turn to dust.

As if reading her mind, one of those hayseed girls spun around and threw Barbara a hard look. Barbara started at the sight of her freckled face, her wide-open eyes, the brown braid pinned around her head. Penny? Then the leap in her stomach subsided in a cold wash of disappointment. That wasn't her girl. Ducking her head, she walked on, her cheeks smarting. Of course it wasn't. Penny wasn't silly enough to stand around gawking at some movie poster. She was too sensible for that.

 

Barbara was about to walk into Renfew's when she stopped just short of the threshold.

"...the Maagdenbergh woman," someone inside was saying. A loud, braying voice. Peering through the screen door, she saw it was Mrs. Fisk with her yellow horse teeth. "Which goes to show," she said, "that maybe we misjudged her. That girl's getting an education now. They're letting her study for her high school diploma out at the farm."

"Well, they'd have to," Mr. Renfew replied. "That farm is too far away for her to come in to school."

"They never bent the rules before," someone else said. "The Maagdenbergh woman talked them into it."

"I saw the girl in town the other week," another voice said. "She's turning into a pretty young thing. Who'd have thought?"

"You have to admit," Mrs. Fisk said, "the Maagdenbergh woman is doing more for that girl than her own mother ever did."

Barbara walked away as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Her tears spilled right out in the open. By the time she reached the Hamiltons' back door, her legs were so weak that she had to sit down.

That Maagdenbergh woman came from money. What did she know about raising a girl on four dollars a week? What did anyone know about that? She had kept her daughter fed and clothed, decent and healthy, given her the best life she could afford. Hadn't she? She wasn't a monster like Sadie Ostertag. Most kids around here never saw high school anyway. Those farm girls she had seen in front of the movie marquee had probably not finished eighth grade. Penny already had a lot more education than anyone in her family ever had.

Not sending her daughter to high school was the choice any other woman like herself would have made. Why have her waste three years sweating over books when she could be earning wages? Unlike the Hamilton girls, Penny would have to make her own way in the world. She didn't have a daddy to send her off to college.

But Penny was smarter than the Hamilton girls, Barbara told herself fiercely. She should have been the one to tell her how smart she was and send her to high school. You've got a brain in your head and that will help you rise above this life. It should have been her, not the Maagdenbergh woman. Barbara held her head in her hands. Was it really too late to try to patch things up?

Every Sunday after church she had planned to ask Mr. Wysock for a lift to the Van den Maagdenbergh farm. And every Sunday, cowed by Mrs. Wysock's tight-lipped glare, she had lost her nerve. If she asked Mr. H. to drive her out there, he would refuse. She knew he would—if they were seen driving together, people would really start to talk. There was only one thing left to do. Only one chance, and she had to take it this Sunday, before the Hamilton girls returned from summer camp. She had to take her chance or lose it forever.

 

On Sunday, instead of going to Mass, Barbara unlocked the garden shed where the Hamiltons' bicycles were kept. Since Penny had disappeared with her own bike, Irene's imported English bicycle was the only one that would do. Mr. H.'s was too big for her, Ina's and Isobel's too small. As she wheeled it out of the shed, she told herself that no one would ever have to know she had borrowed it. Mr. H. had already left for church and would be going straight on to visit his wife in the Sandborn Nursing Home. He had a dinner invitation, wouldn't be back until late. After locking the shed again, she pedaled off through streets that were empty, since everyone was in church. The warm morning air rushed past her, lifting the hem of her apple-green skirt. The wind streamed over her face as she left Minerva behind in a blur. Soon she was pedaling down that long dirt road with shorn cornfields on either side. In a few weeks' time the farmers would plow the stubble under and plant the winter wheat. But at this moment it lay fallow and empty.

Only when she had cycled halfway out in the rising heat did she realize how long twenty-one miles could be. She kept pedaling, wiping the sweat off her face with a handkerchief that soon turned a dirty gray. About five miles from the Van den Maagdenbergh farm, an old Model T came up at her rear, nearly knocking her into the ditch as it barreled past. Three half-baked boys hung out the back windows, hooting and yelling how sweet her ass looked on that bicycle seat. Panic washed over her when she recognized them as the Nelson gang. Their speeding tires threw gravel in her face and left her coated in dust. Nearly losing her grip on the handlebars, she pulled to the side of the road, trembling and terrified. Only when their trail of dust disappeared over the horizon could she breathe again.

Hate welled up in her throat. She thought of the latest gossip going around about what had happened to poor Ellie Stadler. The girl hadn't been seen in town since it happened. Barbara reckoned she was too humiliated. Of course, no one could prove the Nelson gang had done it. According to the story going around, even the girl couldn't say for sure—it had been dark and the culprits had thrown a blanket over her head. So those boys were still roaming free, acting as if no one would dare to stand in their way.

Well, the Maagdenbergh woman sure had. Grimly Barbara climbed back on the bicycle, straddling the seat with her raw thighs. The Maagdenbergh woman had shot up their windshield, which must have cost them a pretty penny to fix. At least she had proved she was too much trouble to take on. Scum like that preferred easy victims, girls too young and scared to fight back. Barbara hoped the Maagdenbergh woman had taught the Nelson gang to leave her alone. Still, it made her ache to think of Penny out on that farm with nothing but that woman's rifle and temper to protect her if anything went wrong.

 

Finally she reached the farm and saw the sign: ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. For all she knew, the Maagdenbergh woman might take aim at her. As she made her way down the driveway, she almost felt like ducking and hiding behind the trees. But when she reached the farmyard, it was quiet. White geese dozed on the lawn. Before going up to the door, she went to the pump, working the noisy handle until water gushed forth. First she drank in long greedy gulps, slaking her dry throat. Then she rinsed out her handkerchief and wiped the dust from her face, neck, hands, and arms. She straightened her stockings and shook the wrinkles out of her skirt. Smoothing her hair, she made herself as neat as she could without a comb or mirror. She took a handful of grass and cleaned her shoes. By the time she looked at the house again, she saw the Maagdenbergh woman in the doorway. She was holding the baby, not the rifle.

"Who are you?" she called out.

Summoning all the dignity she could muster, Barbara marched past the geese and up to the back door. "I'm here to see my daughter." She drew back her shoulders in an attempt to hide her trepidation in addressing this monstrosity, this man-woman Penny had chosen over her. From the look of it, the Maagdenbergh woman had just finished nursing. Slung over her shoulder was an old tea towel the baby had spit up on.

"You mean Penny?" She shifted the baby's weight in her arms. "She's at Lake Griffin."

"Lake Griffin?" This Barbara could not grasp. "How did she get out there?"

"She drove the pickup."

Barbara shook her head impatiently. "That girl can't drive."

"She can now," the Maagdenbergh woman said. "It's not very difficult on the back roads."

That was no good at all. What if Penny ran into the Nelson gang somewhere on the road? What would she do then? "You let her swim alone?" she asked, not hiding her anger and fear. "Everyone knows that's not safe."

The Maagdenbergh woman looked at her for a moment before speaking. "She's a good swimmer. I was going to go with her, but the baby was feeling poorly."

"What time do you expect her back?" Barbara felt ridiculous, having to ask her.

"On Sundays she keeps her own hours, but usually she's back around sunset. Maybe a little later."

Sunset. Barbara thought of her wasted journey. Even if they gave her a lift back to town, how could she spend any time with Penny and still return the bicycle to the shed before Mr. H. came home? "I noticed you haven't been bringing her to church," she said.

"Church? Penelope's going on sixteen. It's her business whether she goes to church."

I don't need you to tell me how old my daughter is, Barbara wanted to shout. And what nerve she had, calling her Penelope. Nobody but Barbara had ever called her that. She felt betrayed that her daughter had told the Maagdenbergh woman her true name.

"Did you cycle out here?" The Maagdenbergh woman glanced across the lawn at Irene's bicycle, coated in dust. Then her eyes returned to Barbara. "We haven't even introduced ourselves. I'm Cora Viney. And you're Barbara Niebeck, aren't you?" She looked as though she was about to extend her hand for Barbara to shake, but then the baby started fussing and she had to rock her back and forth.

"Is it colic?" The question shot out before Barbara could stop it. "Try weak fennel tea and honey for that. And if you're nursing, don't eat any spicy food until the baby's weaned."

The Maagdenbergh woman looked thoughtful. "Was Penny colicky when she was a baby?"

Barbara looked away.

"You work at the Hamiltons', I hear."

When the Maagdenbergh woman gazed at her, Barbara felt herself shrink. Those eyes. She didn't just look at her but into her. She could open her up like a box and see everything inside. Barbara could read the knowledge in her eyes. Penny must have told her about Mr. H. About how her own mother had hit her and chased her out of the house. But those eyes seemed to know even more. Barbara had to fight to keep from breaking down and crying. What else had Penny been saying about her? What other secrets that were none of anyone's concern?

"She's a good kid," said the Maagdenbergh woman. "You must be proud of her."

"Oh, yes," Barbara managed, even though her throat felt as if it would collapse on itself. "I'm very proud."

"If you like, you can come in and wait for her. You must be thirsty. Can I offer you some lemonade?" Balancing the baby in one arm, she held the screen door open, inviting Barbara into the farmhouse kitchen. Barbara ached for a tall glass of lemonade. If anything more potent had been on hand, she would have downed that, too, the law be damned. But she could not step over the threshold, now that this woman knew so much about her. The Maagdenbergh woman's sympathy was too much to bear.

Barbara found it grotesque and just plain wrong that Penny lived here, that Penny had stumbled into this house and seen the Maagdenbergh woman sprawled in the aftermath of labor. The pervasive smell of mother's milk coming off of her brought back memories of her own childbirth, her painfully swollen breasts, and the baby that wouldn't stop crying. Barbara thought she would be sick.

"Mrs. Niebeck? Are you all right?" The baby turned in her mother's arm and regarded Barbara with eyes that were the same shade of blue as the delphiniums that grew in Mrs. Hamilton's perennial bed. "If you like, you can wait for her on the porch." Her voice was gentle. "It's nice and cool out here. I'll bring you some lemonade and sandwiches. Why don't you sit down on the porch swing?" She touched Barbara's arm.

"No." Barbara backed away. "Just tell her I came by." But before she made her escape, she braced herself one last time and held the Maagdenbergh woman's gaze. "Is she happy?"

"I think so." She paused. "She seems happy. I hope that if she wasn't happy, she'd say something."

"You fixed it so she can get her high school diploma." Barbara couldn't look at her anymore. "Well, that's good." She swallowed. "She's smart. She should get an education." Then she walked away. If the Maagdenbergh woman said anything more, Barbara didn't hear it for the rushing of blood in her head. She climbed back on the bicycle and pedaled off, unable to put into words how frightened she was of that unspeakable woman who had made her daughter flower.

Cycling down the road, it struck her that she didn't know Penny anymore. She had lost all claim on her. She'd chased her away, and Penny had forsaken her. It was only a matter of days before the Hamilton girls returned home and Mr. H. cast her off, too. She had no one. Eight miles from town, her front tire hit a sharp stone and punctured. Skidding, she lost her balance and tumbled with Irene's bicycle into the ditch.

 

Penny swam in the lake, clothed in nothing but pure water. This time, since she was alone, she had left Irene's hideous swimsuit on the shore. She splashed up liquid diamonds, then rolled over to float on her back. Her hair had come out of its braid and fanned around her head. Strands lay plastered on her chest. Closing her eyes, she let the sun baste her—a thing she would have to pay for that night when she returned home with the worst sunburn in her life. Cora would give her a bottle of calamine lotion. In the bathroom, her feet soaking in a pan of cold water, she would rub the cooling lotion into her fevered skin. But for now she let the sun burn into her like the eyes of a lover. She thought of the poster of Rudolph Valentino she'd seen on the theater marquee. Then she let that image fade and dreamt of the landscape of Cora's stories, the Patagonian mountains. She dreamt of Odysseus's sea voyage. Rolling over again and breaking into a gentle breaststroke, she dreamt of Circe the witch and of Calypso the nymph. She didn't dream about Penelope. If she had been Penelope, she wouldn't have waited twenty years for her husband's return. And she certainly wouldn't have wasted all those years just weaving and unraveling the same cloth. Swimming naked to her island, Penny thought of the lines she had memorized:

Helios, leaving behind the lovely standing waters, rose up
into the brazen sky to shine upon the immortals.

She took comfort in the grace of the words, in the strength of her arms and legs as she swam. She never felt safer than when held aloft in the water.

When she emerged from the lake and began to dry herself, a shiver of fear played at her. Girls weren't supposed to go swimming alone, especially not if they swam naked. But the forest rustled around her, the sun filtered through the dancing leaves, and she refused to let herself be afraid. I would die if I couldn't do this, she thought. Dressed again, she whistled as she made her way to the pickup truck.

 

It was dark by the time she got back. The farmhouse windows were lit up like jack-o'-lantern eyes, and the smell of Spanish beans and rice drifted out the screen door. On Sundays, Cora cooked supper. The way she made rice and beans, it didn't taste like poor people's food but like something rich and exotic. Coming in the door, Penny didn't feel her sunburn yet, just her hunger. At the table, between heaping forkfuls, she told Cora about her swim.

"I saw the geese flying south. The sky was full of them." She had cleaned her plate and was about to help herself to seconds when she noticed Cora was looking at her in a strange way. "What is it?"

"Your mother." Cora paused, letting those two words hang in the air like smoke. "She stopped by today."

Penny seized up in shock before she got a hold of herself. Taking a breath, she allowed the familiar resentment to ease back into place. "What did she want?" It was impossible to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Not much. Just to tell you that she was here. She was all dressed up."

Penny said nothing.

"She made a special point of asking if you were happy."

Penny closed her eyes. "Did be drive her out here?" She imagined her mother stepping out of Mr. H's car.

"Nobody drove her. She came by bicycle."

"What bicycle?" Penny stopped short, remembering that she had taken her mother's old bike. Now it was in the woodshed collecting spider webs.

"She seemed pretty disappointed you weren't here," said Cora. "It was a long way for her to come."

Penny stared at the wall behind Cora's head.

"She misses you. I think she might be sorry."

A noise tore out of Penny's throat. She began to itch and throb. When she touched her forearm, she could feel the terrible heat rising from her skin.

Cora frowned. "You're awfully red. Did you get too much sun?"

 

Virgil and Lucy Wysock were driving slowly in the direction of Minerva when they came upon Barbara limping and pushing a bicycle down the road. Two spokes on the front wheel were broken, and the wheel itself was mangled.

"Looks like you got yourself into a little scrape." Mr. Wysock pulled up beside her and clambered out of his pickup. "I s'pose you need a lift back home."

Shielding her eyes from the declining sun, Barbara nodded.

"Why look here," he said, bending down to examine the bicycle. "You got one of them fancy foreign models." Barbara stiffened as his eyes moved up her legs, traveling over her torn stockings and dirt-streaked skirt, over her bosom to her face and ruined hat. He grinned at her. "Now my kid brother Gus has a French bicycle he brought back after the war. A racing bicycle, he calls it. So I ask him if he thinks those Frenchies know anything about bicycles that we don't. And he says back to me that French ladies sure know a thing or two that ladies over here don't!"

Barbara forced her lips into a smile as he chortled at his own joke. She certainly didn't believe he had a brother young enough to have served in the war. He was sixty and had hair growing out of his ears. She helped him lift the bicycle and put it into the back of the pickup.

"Looks like you got landa dirty there, Barbara. Hey Lucy! You got any newspaper for Mrs. Niebeck to sit on?"

They found an old Minerva Gazette for her to tuck under her bottom so she wouldn't dirty their seat. Wrinkling her nose, Lucy Wysock shifted her bulk to make room for her.

"I never knew you had such a swell bicycle, Barbara," Mr. Wysock remarked as he drove into town. "In fact, that looks an awful lot like Irene Hamilton's bicycle. I've seen her riding it all over the place." He threw Barbara a sly grin. She just smiled blandly. Mrs. Wysock wouldn't even look at her.

 

"Thank you kindly," she said when Mr. Wysock dropped her off in the back alley behind the Hamilton house. "If we could keep this between us, Mr. Wysock"—she made herself gaze beseechingly into his eyes—"I would be very much obliged."

"I reckon you would, Barbara." He broke into a smile. "I reckon you would." Turning his back on his glowering wife, he tipped his hat.

Barbara returned Irene's bicycle to the shed and washed off the dirt. She would have to wait until morning to see what could be done about the broken wheel. Locking the shed, she ran into the house to clean herself up before Mr. H. got home. Her arms and legs were scratched and bruised from her fall into the ditch. At least she managed to salvage her clothing. If her stockings and hat were ruined beyond hope, diligent soakings and washings saved her dress and gloves. But her heart wouldn't stop its awful pounding. What was she going to do? The Hamilton girls were due back in two days.

 

When Mr. H. came to her that night, he kissed her water-wrinkled fingers and buried his face in her hair, still damp from her bath. Stroking her body, his fingers traced the angry red scratches.

"Barbara, what happened to you?" His voice was full of concern.

She heard herself laugh even as she blinked back tears. "Oh, that's nothing." She breathed in unsteadily. "I fell off the ladder when I was washing the outside windows. I landed in the rose bushes."

He held her close, tenderly stroking her wounds while she trembled in shame at how easily the lie had sprung to her lips.

"Well, promise me you won't bother about the outside windows anymore," he said. "Someone else can do them. I don't want you hurting yourself again."

Squeezing her eyes shut, she kissed him and wondered what would happen if she told him the truth—that she had fallen in a ditch on his daughter's bicycle. The way he held her, anyone would think he was falling in love with her. What sweet relief it would be to nestle in his arms and spill out her secrets. Look into his eyes and make her confession. I only did it became I missed my daughter so much. If he truly cared for her, he would try to understand.

But she was no fool. Men like Laurence Hamilton did not fall in love with women like her. He might act all besotted now, but how long could it last with his daughters due back? If she wanted to come out of this unscathed, she would have to keep her head. Twisting in his arms, she vowed to get the bicycle wheel fixed before he discovered the damage.

The next morning, Barbara set off for Timmerman's hardware store. One glance through the plate-glass window showed they had what she was looking for—two long rows of bicycle wheels hung from the ceiling. Her kid-gloved hands clutched her patent leather purse. She had the money to pay for it, whatever it cost.

The store was full of men who gathered around to gab. The place even smelled masculine, with the rubber of the bicycle tires competing with the metallic scent of screws and nails. Her high heels clicked on the dusty floor as she made her way to the counter. She smiled tightly, privately, careful to keep her eyes lowered, hidden beneath the brim of her hat. Stepping up to the cash register, she rested her gloved hands on the scarred wood and waited until Mr. Timmerman, blond and ruddy-faced, engrossed in a conversation about the price of yearling hogs, bothered to glance in her direction.

"I need a bicycle wheel," she told him when he finally sauntered over, laying his huge, oil-stained hands on the counter opposite hers.

He looked her over, his tongue curling over his bottom lip. "What model?"

"Thirty-three inches in diameter." She had made sure to take the measurement before coming to the store.

"That's the size, ma'am." He rubbed his greasy chin. "I asked you what model you was looking for. What particular make of bicycle?"

"Does it matter?" Her voice rose, then she shook her head and sighed. Why was he making it so complicated when any number of the wheels hanging from the ceiling would do the trick? "It's an Oxford Flyer."

He threw his thick neck back, one paw slapping the counter. "You ride around on an Oxford Flyer, Mrs. Niebeck?"

Behind her, she heard the men in the store laughing along. She bowed her head as she trembled in rage. Wysock, that old bastard, had been blabbing all over town.

"I don't see what difference it makes to you," she said.

"Oh, it sure makes a difference, sweetheart." His eyes moved over her face, down her front. "See, we don't got any foreign wheels in this shop. I'd have to order one from the Cities, and that'd take around three, four months."

She rolled her eyes. If he thought she was going to believe that..."You got plenty of wheels." She had to fight to keep her voice steady. "You got to have one somewhere that's thirty-three inches in diameter."

"It'd look funny." Timmerman leaned across the counter and breathed on her face. She took a step backward, bumping against someone who had edged up behind her. "An American wheel on an English bicycle ... now that would stick out like a sore thumb." He licked his lips again before delivering his punch. "Miss Irene wouldn't be fooled."

It was really hard to keep herself from smashing the boxes of screws to the floor.

"But maybe," Timmerman went on, tilting his head to one side, "if you was to be extra sweet..." He moved his hands across the counter toward hers. She jerked them away. "I might be able to arrange a special order for you."

All the men in the store were howling by now.

 

She didn't let herself cry until she was back in her room, the door locked. She sat on the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. Sometimes she was so lonesome, she feared she would dry up like a toad trapped in a child's bucket. Back in her early days at the Commercial Hotel, she'd had a friend named Agnes who comforted her when she was like this. Who knelt beside her, rubbed her hair, let her drink from her secret bottle of hooch while baby Penny slept in a dresser drawer. In the summer of 1908, Agnes had wrapped her arms around Barbara and said, "Honey, a gal as pretty as you can play a man like a bugle. Make them dance to your tune. You need to learn to play them so they can't play you." A year later Agnes had married and gone away.

Barbara rested her throbbing forehead on her knees. From where she was sitting, she could look under the bed and see the cigar boxes full of money. If she was smart, she'd take it all and run before the girls came home and discovered the bicycle. But right now the thought of how she had earned that money made her half sick. She was so tired that her bones ached. Once she thought she could follow Agnes's advice, play men and be their master, but she couldn't do it anymore. She was all played out.

 

That night when she lay in his arms, Barbara thought that surely he must tell her they had to stop it now, before his girls came home. She waited for him to lay it out in the open. But he said nothing.

In the morning when she came down to the kitchen, she expected to find an envelope of money and a note of dismissal. A man like him would prefer a note to a messy confrontation. She steeled herself in expectation of this. But there was no word from him just yet. She wished he would have some mercy and get it over with. He was stringing her along, prolonging the miserable suspense.

 

"It's awful what she's doing with Mr. Hamilton," Penny told Cora over breakfast. It was the morning after her mother's visit. Her skin chafed and gave off an agonizing heat. Although she wore her loosest cotton dress, the weight of the fabric on her burnt skin was almost unbearable.

"Sleeping with him, you mean? Maybe she really cares for him."

"But he's her boss. And he's married."

"These things rarely follow logic, Penny. The head and the heart are two different things."

"He gives her money for it." Penny's voice came out in a strangled whisper.

But even this failed to shock Cora. "It doesn't sound like your mother had an easy life."

So now Cora was taking her mother's side. Penny let out a tense breath. "I don't even know who my father is."

Cora regarded her calmly. "Did you ever ask?"

"Once or twice. She got mad and told me it was none of my business."

"Maybe she has a good reason for not telling you." Cora paused. "At first I couldn't believe it when she said she was your mother. She's so young and pretty."

"She had me when she was fifteen."

"The poor girl." For a moment it looked as if Cora was going to cry. "Think about it. What kind of person would take advantage of such a young girl?"

Penny's sunburn seemed to eat all the way inside her. She felt like clawing off her skin. Had her father been someone her mother worked for? Someone like Mr. H., except even older? Someone ugly and cruel?

"She's so pretty," Cora said again. "You know, she got all dressed up to come out and see you. She was wearing a yellow-green dress. Usually that color wouldn't suit a person with her complexion, but your mother would look good in anything."

"Not like me, you mean." Penny twisted in her chair. "I don't look anything like her, do I?" She wondered if she took after her unspeakable, unnamable father.

"Sometimes it's not easy being a mother." Cora looked over at Phoebe, curled in her basket. The baby had been screaming with belly pains, but now she was finally resting. Cora's eyes were shadowed and bruised-looking from her sleepless night. "One day Phoebe will want to know about her father. And I won't know what to tell her."

Penny couldn't think of anything to say.

"What bothers you most?" Cora asked. "The thing about your father? Well, trust me—it wasn't her fault. She was just a kid—your age. You can't blame her for wanting to forget someone who used her like that." She took a sip of coffee. "Or is it that she's having an affair? Do you think sex itself is something shameful?"

Penny couldn't look at her. For a moment she couldn't think. Cora had said the word sex so calmly, as if it were something as harmless as the weather report. "Sex." Penny managed to say the word aloud herself. She rubbed her burning arms. "What's it like?" She couldn't imagine Cora doing it with that man she had abandoned and threatened to shoot. Couldn't imagine Cora lying naked with him in an unmade bed, their legs tangled in the sheets. But Phoebe had come from somewhere. And if Cora thought she knew all about sex, then what was she doing here on this farm, alone with a baby and dressed in men's overalls?

"I want to be honest with you." The emotion drained from Cora's voice. "Most people aren't honest about sex. They can't even talk about it. But I'm a nurse and I ... I suppose I should tell you that when you're in love with someone, it's the most beautiful thing there is. But I can't honestly say that. Not from my own experience." She lowered her eyes. "Well, I hope it's beautiful for some people.

"Before I got married, I used to think that it was the most primal thing, that it would completely transfix me and turn me into some kind of heroine." She looked away from Penny. "He said that if I married him, I could be a free spirit. I traveled with him and my brother to Greece and then to Sicily, where we were married." She paused, pushing her hair away from her face. "It was the winter after the war ended. I remember it as a winter of oranges. In the Mediterranean, they have orange trees lining the public streets."

Penny had never seen an orange tree, but it sounded so lovely.

"I always wondered what it would be like," Cora continued, "to pick one of those oranges off the tree and taste it. I thought it would taste different than an ordinary orange bought in the market. He ... he told me that on our honeymoon he would pick me one of those oranges himself and feed it to me by hand." She rubbed her face, hiding her eyes. "But when he did and I finally got to taste it, it was bitter. A bitter orange." She met Penny's eyes. "There are bitter oranges and sweet oranges. Bitter oranges are for making marmalade and liqueur but not for eating on their own. I wanted to spit it out."

Penny held her glass of cold milk against her arm, letting it cool her burning skin. She couldn't think of anything to say. The words free spirit and bitter orange flitted through her head.

"Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like with somebody who wasn't him." Cora's voice was distant.

Penny thought of Antonio, the way he and Cora had looked at each other. "What about love?" she asked suddenly.

"Love?" Cora laughed. "Don't believe any of that romantic gibberish you see in the picture shows. I only found out what real love is when I became a mother." Penny watched the color rise to her face at this admission.

 

The night before the Hamilton girls' homecoming, Barbara lay naked, the weight of Mr. H.'s body grinding her into the mattress. The noise of the creaking springs filled the silent empty house. Swallowing her own sweat, she thought she was drowning. Someone had taken her by the shoulders and dunked her under the surface of a lake. She fought for air. Then her skin fevered as she grew pliant and liquid in his arms. Over the course of the long summer, he had turned into a lover. A good lover who knew just what to do to render her aching and limp. She let him push her over the edge until she cried out his name. Biting his hand, she tasted his salty flesh. Cold tears spilled over her cheeks as she thrashed in his embrace. He held her down, pinned into place, and traced the wet marks her tears had left.

"Barbara." Unlike anyone else in Minerva, he distinctly pronounced all three syllables of her name. Bar-bar-a. He made her name sound lovely, like water flowing over rocks. He was from out east—someplace in New Hampshire that she couldn't even begin to picture—so he talked differently from everyone else in town, his speech completely devoid of the flat nasal drone of the Minervans. Before, she'd taken his way of talking for granted. But now she couldn't shut it out. His voice sounded noble and pure. She hated him for making her love his voice.

"Barbara, don't cry like that," he pleaded, cupping her face in his unsteady hands.