Free Helen Hath No Fury by Gillian Roberts Page A

committed to women’s rights. Now, her expressed beliefs were cloned from her husband’s, so far to the right and so antifeminist that it was incredible she tolerated, let aloneembraced such notions. Apparently, she’d vowed to love, honor, and adopt his driving ambition as her own.
    None of us, including Denise herself, talked much about Roy Stanton or his campaign in book group. One night a month, etiquette trumped politics.
    “Zack’s very take-charge, very enthusiastic, but still, he’s new to it, and young. I shouldn’t stay long.” This time, Denise managed not to grimace as she said her stepson’s name.
    I’m not sure I could have been as noncommittal about Zachary Harris.
Aimless
has become an old-fashioned word, but it described the obnoxious young man wandering through life with only the enormous chip on his shoulder as company. His mother had died right before he entered Philly Prep, and a whole lot of slack had been cut for the grieving child, so much that for six years, he used that slack as a hammock in which to sulkily doze away his days. And when he wasn’t aimless, he was aimed in the wrong direction, involved, I’d heard, in petty crime and unsavory pursuits.
    But now, five years after high school, he’d turned around. He’d been infected by the same congressional lust as his father, for whose campaign he now worked. According to Denise, suddenly and completely, he’d found his place in life. Some discover religion. Others discover politics. Whatever works, works.
    “What I meant,” Clary said, “was would everybody mind if we more or less … discussed whatever it is that we came for? I mean … Helen. Now?”
    Her sister, Louisa, sat picking at her cuticles. Sooner or later she’d find a way to turn this into a this-is-all-about-me session, but for now, she was quiet, which was good for everything except her cuticles.
    “How’s Gretchen?” Tess asked.
    Clary shrugged. “Exactly as you’d assume—devastated,stunned, bereft, needy—and afraid she provoked this. Apparently, she’d been nagging for some computer system—I’m not sure what. And Helen had really gotten mad. Told her that she had no idea how hard life was, and what a bad time they were going through. Gretchen didn’t know what Helen meant. I assured her that all marriages hit speed bumps, that things were tense at work, and that she, Gretchen, had nothing to do with what her mother chose to do.” Clary gulped, put her hands up, signaling that she was empty now, that she’d said all she knew, and her chin was out pugnaciously, as if daring us to contradict her, or to mention her glittering eyes.
    I had a mental image of Gretchen, the child in pain, and saw her blur and be Petra, as well. It hurt even imagining what either of them was feeling. I redirected attention to Helen, not her child. Not anybody’s child. “Clary?” I asked. “How about you? You see her every day. Did you have any inkling she was suicidal? Did you see her that morning?”
    Clary sighed. “I wasn’t there that morning. I had an appointment in Jersey. She was gone by the time I got back.” She frowned. “I mean she’d left the office.”
    “Would it be horribly wrong to ask whether business problems could have overwhelmed her?” Denise leaned forward, earnest and worried.
    I love questions like that. If it
was
horribly wrong to ask that, then how should we react? By shouting “yes!” and stomping out? Punishing her with silence or the dunking stool? The question was awkward, given that Helen’s business partner was not apt to reveal serious problems.
    Clary obviously also felt stymied. She cocked her head, looked to the distance, and said only, “I can’t imagine why.”
    A nonanswer.
    When nobody followed up on that, Clary burst into tears. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. This isn’t like—I just can’t—”
    My own eyes stung and I looked down, as well. The entire room grew quiet, but this time, it felt appropriate, like a