Bad News

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” Viveca said. “He sees the children all the time, they spend weekends at his apartment in the city.”

“New York City?”

“Yes.”

“He’s got a big place there, big enough for the kids?”

“Yes.”

Margaret shook her head. “So whadaya doing here?”

“Well,” Viveca said, “the family’s always lived here, ever since my great-grandfather built the place.”

“Yeah? What happens if you leave?”

“Leave? Oh, I couldn’t possibly leave.”

Margaret nodded. “Why not?” she said.

“Well . . . I was brought up to live here.”

“So, if you leave, does the house fall down?”

“No, there’s a nonprofit corporation that takes care of everything.”

Margaret said, “So you’re just like, here’s the famous painter’s family on display. Do you have to wear like Colonial costumes?”

“He wasn’t from that long ago,” Viveca said.

“Okay, flapper skirts,” Margaret suggested. “Is that what you wear?”

“No, we don’t wear costumes or do things like that. We don’t even see the visitors, they’re just downstairs and we’re up—Oh, did you hear that?”

Margaret looked very open-eyed and blank. “Hear? Hear what?”

“There was a rustling sound downstairs,” Viveca said.

“Didn’t hear it,” Margaret said.

Viveca leaned close and dropped her voice. “It’s mice,” she confided.

Margaret looked interested. “Oh yeah?”

“In the winter,” Viveca said, “there’s just no way to keep them out, since there’s nobody ever down there.”

“Huh,” Margaret said. “Tell me about this husband of yours.”

“Frank.”

“Be as frank as you want,” Margaret said, but then she shook her head and patted the air and said, “No, just a joke, I get it, the name is Frank. And Frank said he was leaving the house, not you.”

“Yes. And I know it’s true.”

“You want him back, you feel like shit, you—whoops, sorry, you feel really terrible all the time, and you can’t control your daughters because you don’t feel good enough about yourself, and you don’t know what’s go

“Yes,” Viveca said. She felt humble in the presence of this wise older woman.

“Okay,” the wise older woman said, “I tell you what you do. Tomorrow, when you get your phone back, you call this Frank. You tell him, ‘Honey, rent a truck and come get us, all of us, we’re blowin this mausoleum.’”

“Oh dear,” Viveca said. “I don’t know, Margaret.”

“What you tell him is,” Margaret insisted, “this separation is over. Come on, Frank, rent a truck or hire a lawyer, because we’re either gettin together or we’re gettin a divorce. And if it’s a divorce—”

“Neither of us wants a divorce,” Viveca said. “I’m sure of that.”

“Great,” Margaret said. “But if he wants one anyway—He isn’t alone there in that apartment in New York, is he?”

“No,” Viveca whispered.

“Men,” Margaret concluded. “So if it is a divorce—This guy’s pretty well-off, am I right?”

“Yes,” Viveca whispered. “He’s an executive with a chemical company.”

“So if it is divorce,” Margaret told her, “you rent the truck yourself and move the hell outta here. Take the girls and go where you want and meet a guy and never even tell him about this place.”

Viveca laughed, surprising herself as thoroughly as when she’d cried before. “I shouldn’t have told Frank about it, that’s for sure,” she said.

Looking out the window, Margaret said, “Here comes my ride.”

Yes, here came all those lights, back up the mountain. Both women rose, and Viveca said, “Thank you, Margaret.”

“Anytime,” Margaret said. “Remember, soon as you get your phone back, call Frank.”

“I will.” Viveca smiled. “And I’ll tell him I was a fool to let a house get between us.”

“Well, don’t give him all the marbles,” Margaret said. “Negotiate a little. Come on, I gotta go.”

Viveca carried the Coleman lamp, and they made their way through the house to the kitchen. “I can find my way down the stairs,” Margaret said.

“Margaret,” Viveca said, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“Nah,” Margaret said, “it was just me and my big mouth.”

“God bless it,” Viveca said, and kissed the wise older woman on the cheek.

“Oh, come on,” Margaret said, and turned hurriedly to the door.

Viveca said, “I’ll never forget what you did here tonight, Margaret.”

Margaret gave her an odd look. “Good,” she said.

Murch saw the downstairs door just begi

The family door opened before Murch got to it, and his Mom stepped out, waving to her son, then turning back to shout up the stairs, “You be sure to make that phone call!”

The only interior light source had stayed upstairs, and now it swayed like the signalman’s lantern in movies about nineteenth-century train rides. Murch’s Mom waved up the stairs, then came out and slammed the door, and hurried around to her side of the cab.

They both climbed up and in, away from the storm, slamming their doors. Murch said, “What was that all about?”

“Just a conversation we were having.”

“Oh.”

They waited about another ten seconds, and then a quick rat-tat-tat sounded on the metal wall behind their seats. Then Murch put the monster in gear and drove it around in a great circle to head down the mountain once more.

“Well,” Murch’s Mom said, “I think maybe I did some good in there tonight.”

“I think we all did,” Murch said.

“That, too,” his Mom said.

Two days later, Viveca and Mrs. Bu

At last, the perfect crime.

43

Little Feather didn’t know what to do. Here it was Monday morning, almost noon, and everything was going according to plan, and yet nothing was going according to plan.

The part that was Marjorie Dawson’s plan had ticked along like a charm. Her lapse in failing to send the a

It was true that John, when he and the others had left here last Thursday, had seemed almost cheerful, and certainly self-confident, saying this, at last, was a job for him, exactly the way Clark Kent says, “This is a job for Superman.” And it was also true that Andy had E-mailed Fitzroy on Friday evening that everything would soon be okay, and had E-mailed Fitzroy again yesterday that somebody would be coming up from the city today, but since then, Fitzroy hadn’t been able to reach Andy or anybody else—it was never possible to reach John—so what did this mean? Was somebody coming up from the city today? Who? And what difference would it make?