62 THENEWYORKER,AUGUST 5 &12, 2019
woman—and she thought, Who are you,
Ann? She knew that the girl had a brother
somewhere, but what was his story? She
couldn’t remember. She knew only that
they weren’t in contact—was he on drugs?
He might have been. The mother had
been a drinker, Olive knew that. And
Ann’s father had divorced her mother
years ago; he’d been dead for a long time.
She said again, “Well, awful sorry.”
“Thanks.” Ann stood up—remark-
ably easily, considering that she was hold-
ing the baby—and walked away. She just
walked away! It took Olive some time
to stand up; she had to heave herself
onto one arm and roll a bit to get her
feet under her. “Oh, honest to God,” she
said. She was panting by the time she
got to the car.
O
n the way back, Olive said, “Chris,
why didn’t you tell me that Ann’s
mother died?”
He made a sound and shrugged.
“But why wouldn’t you tell me such
a thing?” Through the window, the trees
were still bare, their limbs dark, poking
toward the sky. They passed a field that
looked soggy and matted down in parts,
the streaming sun revealing it all.
“Oh, her mother was nuts. Whatever.”
In the back seat, Little Henry sang
out, “Goggie, goggie. Train, airplane!
Daddy, Mama!” Olive turned to look at
him, and he smiled at her.
“He’s just singing all the words he
knows,” Christopher said. “He likes to
do that.”
“But I don’t understand,” Olive said,
after waving to Little Henry. “I just don’t,
Christopher. She’s my daughter-in-law,
and I’d like to know what’s going on in
her life.”
Christopher glanced at her quickly,
then back at the road; he drove with
one arm draped across the wheel. “I
really didn’t know you cared,” he said.
He looked over at her again. “What?”
he asked.
Olive had started to ask a question.
“Why—?”
“I just told you why.”
And Olive nodded. Her question,
which she did not ask, was: Why did you
marry this woman?
T
hey made it through another night,
and one more day, and then the
final night arrived. Olive was exhausted.
In the entire time, except for Little
Henry, the children did not speak to
her. But they stared at her—with in-
creasing boldness, she thought, because
whenever she looked at them they were
looking at her and, instead of glancing
down, as they had at first, they contin-
ued to stare, Theodore with his huge
blue eyes and Annabelle with her small
dark ones. Unbelievable children.
Finally, they went off to bed in the
study, and Olive sat with Christopher
and Ann and the baby while Little
Henry—such a good boy!—was asleep
upstairs. Olive was getting used to the
breast being stuck out in the open now;
she didn’t like it, but she was getting
used to it. And she felt sorry for Ann,
who seemed to her diminished in her
grief. So she made small talk with the
woman, and Ann seemed to try to do
her best as well. Ann said, “Annabelle
wanted those rubber boots because we
were coming to Maine. Isn’t that sweet?”
And Olive, who could not think what
to say about this, nodded. Ann eventu-
ally went upstairs with the baby, and then
Olive was alone with Christopher, and
she realized that the moment had come.
“Christopher.” She forced herself to
look at him, although he was looking
down at his foot. “I’m getting married.”
It seemed forever before he looked at
her and said, with half a smile, “Wait.
What did you just say?”
“I said I’m getting married. To Jack
Kennison.”
She saw the color leave his face; with-
out a doubt, his face became pale. He
looked around the room for a moment,
then turned to look at her. “Who the
fuck is Jack Kennison?”
“He lost his wife a while ago. I’ve
mentioned him on the phone to you,
Chris.” She felt as though her face were
flaming hot, as though all the blood that
had drained from her son’s face had
made its way to hers.
He looked at her with such genuine
astonishment that she felt she would
take it back immediately, the whole
thing, if she could.
“But is it content?”
• •
