Free The Lies that Bind by Judith Van Gieson Page A

desert here, one that spread pollen and soaked up valuable water. Martha had tried to leave home and had ended up taking home with her. You had to wonder why she hadn’t stayed put.
    Cindy came jogging down the road as the van let me off in front of the house. “ Muchas gracias ,” I said to Chico.
    â€œ De nada ,” he replied, backing slowly out of the driveway.
    Cindy wore a gray warm-up suit, and her tied-back hair was falling down. She ran the way girls used to run—awkward as the Tin Man. Her elbows were pressed to her sides, her hands flopped loose and her heels swung out. She was sweating, so I knew the exercise had gotten the heart pumping and the blood flowing, but her movements lacked grace and power. She jogged like a woman who was going through the motions but deep inside was ambivalent about being strong. She stopped when she got to me, put her head down and caught her breath. “Whew,” she said. “Find us okay?”
    â€œAs soon as I saw the white clapboards, I knew this was the house that Martha built.”
    She laughed. “Mother knows what she likes. C’mon in.”
    I followed her through the front door into a large central hallway, which was guarded by a great white-hunter trophy, a stuffed bear standing upright with one paw extended as though he wanted to shake your hand. His claws could have used a trim, his eyes were glassy and his fur needed a good beating to get the dust out. It wasn’t something you’d want to stumble across unexpectedly or in the dark.
    â€œWhere did that come from?” I asked.
    â€œWhit’s grandfather shot it in Montana. It’s been in the family for ages.”
    There was a gun rack along the wall, filled with ancient and dusty-looking rifles that had probably been in the family forever too. Hunting is the kind of skill that gets passed along from father to son. The rifles rattled as I walked by. The Oriental rug on the floor was so worn in places the hardwood floors showed through. I tripped on a loose edge and caught myself against the banister. A large mirror with a gilt frame balanced over a spindly-legged table. A stairway led up to the second floor. Someone had been here before us and left his trail: scuffed and muddy riding boots flopped at the foot of the stairs; a sweatshirt hugged the banister; a few stairs up, a navy-blue T-shirt had collapsed in a heap. Cindy began climbing the stairs, picking up the clothes one by one. I followed. When we got to the second-floor landing we found white riding pants stained with dirt. What came next? I wondered. Jockeys? Boxers?
    Boxers. Cotton, pale blue and lying beside the shower stall in the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Cindy picked them up too, opened the closet and dumped the load in a laundry basket.
    â€œWhit,” she said. “He grew up with maids and never learned to pick up after himself. One summer when he was a kid, the maid quit. The family had a dinner party their last night in the summer house, and they just got up and left the table the way it was, full of dishes, and the kitchen full of dirty pots and pans. The next summer, when they remembered what a mess it was, they hired a new maid to go in and clean it up.”
    I’m not the neatest person in the world, but I do pick up my own clothes, and sooner or later I do the dishes when I use dishes. The towels on the bathroom racks were navy blue with the white monogram WCR, I noticed. Their edges were frayed, and the nap had worn off long ago. Wedding presents? I wondered. I tried to remember how long ago it had been. Twenty years? Old money hadn’t wasted any money on new linens.
    I followed Cindy back down the stairs and through the living room. The sofa was big, beige and ugly. The cotton stuffing was oozing out of the upholstered arm of a wing chair. A large portrait of somebody’s mother in an evening dress hung over the fireplace. “Mom?” I