THE NEXT MORNING Barbara woke up early, but not early enough to catch him before he slipped from her bed. On her dresser she found a ten-dollar bill, neatly folded in half. After a breakfast of black coffee and dry toast, she went to work. She opened the windows in the Hamilton girls' rooms to let in fresh air. She swept and dusted, got linens from the cupboard to make up their beds, which had lain bare all summer. Housekeeping wasn't only a matter of sweeping the dust out of the way but also getting the little details right. She went out to the flowerbed to cut zinnias and asters to put in the crystal vases on their bedside tables. She dug Ina's and Isobel's dolls and teddy bears out of the closet and arranged them on their beds. She fluffed their pillows.
He had left a note for her in the kitchen, asking her to prepare a roast beef dinner and also angel cake and pink lemonade—the girls' favorite foods. She baked an angel food cake so light it would float off the fork. In the gloomy dining room with its blood-colored curtains, she laid the table with the lace cloth and the Sunday china. The room, she thought, was crying out for flowers.
Taking the kitchen shears, she went out to cut the dark red roses Mrs. Hamilton had planted the first year of her marriage. Her husband took good care of them, making sure they were pruned once a year. Three times during the growing season, a gardener came with a load of horse manure, the best rose food there was. The dark roses grew in lush profusion, rising taller than Barbara, the fist-sized blooms arching over her head. Their intoxicating fragrance mocked her and their thorns cut into her calf.
***
That evening when Mr. H. brought the girls home from the station, Barbara went to the door to greet them. Ina and Isobel were in high spirits, tugging on their father's arms and competing for his attention. "I rode more ponies than she did," Ina said, jumping up and down. "And Irene hardly rode at all. She didn't even like the ponies."
Irene stood apart, hunched behind the row of leather suitcases. Her sisters were tanned from their summer in Wyoming, their blond hair bleached nearly white from the sun. But Irene was pale as mushrooms that grow in the dark. She had always been a plump girl, well developed for her age, yet now she was thin and hollow-cheeked. As Barbara began to wonder if she had been sick, Irene caught her eye and gave her a blistering look that made the blood rush to her face. Barbara fled to the kitchen and waited for her hands to stop trembling. Irene had given her the same look Penny used to give her.
While the Hamiltons ate their roast beef dinner, Barbara sat in the kitchen and darned Mr. H.'s argyle socks. Drawing her cardigan tight, she braced herself against the chill of the first cool night that marked the end of summer. Mr. H. had lit a fire in the dining room hearth. From the kitchen, Barbara could hear the crackle of the flames eating the logs. She could follow snatches of their conversation. Irene's voice was particularly loud.
"Where's Penny?"
"She's gone to work for the Maagdenbergh woman," her father replied before addressing Ina. "Tell me about your favorite horse at camp."
"Ponies!" Ina cried. "I rode ponies."
"You had to ride ponies, because you're little," Isobel said haughtily. "I got to ride real horses."
"Father, I don't believe you!" Irene's voice was challenging and shrill. "Why would Penny do that? Even she isn't stupid enough to do something like that."
"Irene," her father said sharply, "please lower your voice."
***
After her first solitary night in weeks, Barbara woke up to cook the Hamilton family's favorite breakfast of oatmeal, bacon, eggs, and sausage. When she carried the tray into the dining room, Mr. H. glanced up at her, his face reddening when she set his plate in front of him. "Thank you," he said before looking away and resuming his conversation with his daughters.
Her own breakfast went untouched. The walls of her stomach were so raw, she couldn't imagine getting so much as a glass of water past her lips. As she went to the dining room to collect the dirty dishes, Mr. H. was telling jokes to Ina and Isobel. Barbara heard their giggles but couldn't concentrate on the words. Irene had already left the table.
Barbara had started scouring the burnt oatmeal at the bottom of the saucepan when a scream ripped the morning apart. The door of the garden shed slammed. Methodically Barbara continued scouring the pot with steel wool while Irene charged in through the back door and began railing at her father. "My bike! Someone wrecked my bike." Barbara heard drawn-out weeping. It was then she remembered that the English bicycle had once belonged to Irene's mother. Her shoulders went rigid as she listened to their approaching footsteps. They came right up to the sink, where she was up to her elbows in dirty water, the dish soap stinging the scratches on her arms. Irene's face was white, pinched, and teary. Her father's was tight with anger.
"Mrs. Niebeck, do you have any knowledge of what might have happened to my daughter's bicycle?"
Barbara struggled not to flinch as Irene threw her a look of pure hate. When she tried to speak, she found she couldn't. Nothing she said or did now would make any difference.
"Do you have anything to say about this, Mrs. Niebeck?"
Mrs. Niebeck! She wanted to spit in his face. Instead she grabbed the dishtowel and dried her hands. Then she looked right into his eyes. "I borrowed it to visit my daughter last Sunday."
"You borrowed Irene's bicycle?" His voice was incredulous. "You thought you could just borrow it without saying anything?"
Barbara yanked off her apron, folded it briskly in half, and laid it over the back of a chair. "I'm leaving." She stepped out of the kitchen and climbed the back stairs. Through the pounding in her head, she heard him coming after her, heard him yell at his daughter to stay back. Closing her bedroom door against the noise, she dragged her suitcase out from under the bed and started hurling her underwear and stockings into it.
He entered without knocking. "What do you think you were doing? Irene's bicycle?"
"There's money under the bed," she told him. "Take that and buy her a new one." Turning her back to him, she opened the closet and pulled out her four dresses. She took her statue of Saint Barbara from its hiding place.
"Look at me!" He tried to grab her arm, but she slapped his hand away. "How could you do that to my daughter?"
"Well, what about my daughter?" She swung to face him and raised her voice to a pitch that made the color drain from his face. "I have a daughter, too!" Snapping her suitcase shut, she dragged it to the door.
"Barbara!" He stepped between her and the door. When he laid his hands on her shoulders, she dropped the suitcase, which hit the bare floor with a bang. She beat her fists against his chest.
"Because of you, I lost my daughter." Before she could fight her way out the door, he pulled her against him, kissed her forehead. He held her as she sobbed and cursed him. He told her he was sorry, begged her not to leave.
In the kitchen below, Irene trod up and down, her footsteps ringing through the house.