Olive nodded and said, “Yes, and that was a tragedy right there. Because one of the kids came out crazy, tried to stab her mother, the girl was sixteen, tried to stab her with a fork one day, and off she went to a psychiatrist in Portland.”
“Oh Jesus,” Lucy said.
“Yuh,” Olive said. After a moment she continued. “So the girl—what was her name?—I can’t remember the name of that woman—anyway, she was sort of on and off crazy for the rest of her life, she’d go off her medications and all hell would break loose, and then she’d go back on them. She moved out west, never came back home much at all.”
“Oh my God,” Lucy said. She sat up straight. And then she said, “So what is the point of this story? Pauline should have married the already married fisherman?”
Olive laughed. She really laughed at that. “Lucy Barton, the stories you told me—as far as I could tell—had very little point to them. Okay, okay, maybe they had subtle points to them. I don’t know what the point is to this story!”
“People,” Lucy said quietly, leaning back. “People and the lives they lead. That’s the point.”
“Exactly.” Olive nodded.
3
It was early May now, and the leaves were starting to come into being, bright little green leaves like young girls, shy in their beauty. Each day they grew larger; you could see this if you looked. Bob gave himself over to the joy he felt. When he and Lucy walked now, they both walked—Bob thought this—with more of a spring to their steps, and they were just—oh, they were just happy to be in each other’s company.
Bob finally told Lucy all about the Matt Beach case: because he had to. She listened with great attentiveness. “Bob, my God,” she said.
“Matt knows more than he’s telling me. And he seems to be getting more and more depressed. Although he does love that cellphone, he plays games on it, he was telling me.”
“Get the rifle out of his house,” Lucy said, and Bob said, “I sort of tried. But he said he would just go to Walmart and get another one. So I let him keep it. I mean—” Here Bob stopped walking and gave a huge sigh.
“You mean it’s his life,” Lucy said.
“Well, yeah—” But Bob was uncertain, as he had been since the conversation had taken place with Matt. He looked at Lucy, and she said, “Yeah, that’s a toughie. You need to speak to Diana one more time at least.”
“Exactly. I’d rather see her in person than speak to her on the phone. I’ll ask Matt when she’s coming up here again.”
—
They were happy, these two—walking and talking—they were just happy.
—
But then Lucy told him this: She said, “Bob, it turns out I embarrass my daughters.”
“What?” he said, stopping for a moment to look at her.
“Yeah. It makes me a little sick, but the last time I was in New York, Chrissy was having a little party—a dinner party at her house in New Haven for a few new moms, you know—and she didn’t invite me, which was fine of course because it was for new mothers, but then I found out that one of the other grandmothers was going—a woman I had met before. And that surprised me. So I asked Becka about it, and she hemmed and hawed and I suddenly said, ‘Wait, do I embarrass Chrissy?’ And Becka blushed, she blushed, and said, No, Mom, it’s not that you embarrass her—”
Bob felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it.
“It’s not that. Really, Becka finally said. And then Becka said, ‘Oh Mom, you know Chrissy likes nice things, and—’ And what? I asked her. Bob, it was so awkward! So I told Becka never mind, not to worry about it. But it was clear to me, Bob, something about me embarrasses my daughters, and when I think of what I came from and what they came from, oh it just makes my head spin—”
—
And then Bob’s phone vibrated again. “Hold on,” he said to Lucy. He took it from his pocket and glanced at it. “It’s Margaret,” he said. He looked quizzically at Lucy and said, “I better take this.”
“Take it, take it,” she said, with a flurry of her hand.
Bob stopped walking—Lucy walked a bit ahead and waited for him, he understood that this was to give him his privacy—and he answered the phone and said, “Margaret, are you okay?”
He realized that he had never heard her sobbing before. She said, “Bob, I might be losing my job! Right after I gave that fucking sermon in Boston! Oh Bob, Bob…” And she began to sob again.
He saw Lucy ahead of him, sunlight was on her, and she stood looking away. Wrapped in goldenness went through his head.
“Margaret, what are you talking about?” He turned away from Lucy.
And she said, through her sobbing, “A woman on the ministerial committee told me that Avery Mason is trying to get me out. Bob!”
“I’ll be home as soon as I can. Hang on for fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, crying.
—
Bob walked slowly over to Lucy and said, “Margaret might be losing her job.”
“Oh Bob.”
They walked back to their cars in silence, and Lucy’s presence never left him. He said as he got into his car, “I’ll let you know about this as soon as I can,” and Lucy said, “Don’t worry, Bob. Oh God, I am so sorry.”
He added, “And I don’t believe your girls are embarrassed by you. I bet it’s something else.”
“Who cares, don’t worry about that,” Lucy said. “Just worry about Margaret.”
*
