Free Leaving Lucy Pear by Anna Solomon Page B

had once grown, his full, sorrowful mouth staggeringly lovely. He had sipped his tea—ginseng, to soothe his perpetual certainty that he was dying, procured by Bea from Chinatown on her last trip into Boston—and dozed off again, the hair in his nostrils trembling with each breath like live, warm forests. Out the window, the old hydrangeas bowed leggily toward the ground, their buds narrowly containing their blossoms. It had gotten to be June somehow. The breeze was gentle. Somehow the days had gone along, stacked up,and led here. What had Bea done in those days? In the towers made of days, where had she been? Inside, of course, exerting herself at this or that, but for what? In a few weeks, her cousins would come up from Boston and New York to drink themselves silly for the week leading up to Independence Day. Uncle Ira would stay upstairs, pretending he couldn’t walk, and Bea would not out him. She hadn’t decided yet what to do with Emma Murphy during that time, whether to pay her on top of Story’s wages for the extra work or give her a week’s holiday and spare her the circus.
    Bea liked the woman, so far. She was good with Uncle Ira. She didn’t speak to him in a baby voice. And she was competent—almost—at the housekeeping Bea had assigned her to occupy the hours when he slept. She made mistakes here and there—she’d used a good pillowcase as a rag and broken a vase and seemed to have little knack for organizing, or maybe it was categorizing, so that Bea had trouble locating items Emma had put away, and sometimes, it seemed, items Emma would have had no reason to put away: a single shoe of Bea’s, shoved into a box with another pair, a pen placed on a shelf in the pantry. But Bea said nothing, in part because something in Emma’s face warned her off, a willfulness that seemed to defy her broad, deferent cheekbones. Also, Bea didn’t want Emma to correct herself. Her faults were a comfort to Bea. Bea could not be replaced.
    She left Ira’s gentle snores. She felt a little guilty, in the great room, as she grabbed up the pillows Emma had fluffed and arranged the day before and flung them into a heap next to the fireplace. Lillian would be here soon. Bea’s skin twitched, like an animal sensing weather.
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    â€œWhat’s the point of this?” Lillian asked almost as soon as she walked in. She pointed to the pillows, as Bea knew she would. “Are you trying to live like an artist?”
    She was thinking of Aunt Vera, of course, who had spent wholedays painting a flower or a ship or nothing anyone recognized while the house went on without her, loud and unkempt, or who disappeared entirely. Once when Bea was nine she and her parents came up to visit on a summer afternoon to find that Vera had gone off on a fishing trip. She’d left nothing for a meal—Bea’s cousins’ mouths were black from eating blackberries all day. Uncle Ira laughed proudly as he described “the locals” Vera had met down at Raymond’s Beach, how she’d waded out to their skiff in her dress. He drove everyone to a clam shack in Essex by way of apology, but Henry hated clams—he hated eating anything that resembled the live version of itself. Lillian was so irritated she bought a glass of beer, thinking no one saw—Lillian said women who drank beer might as well have beards—and swilled it in one gulp down by the marsh behind the shack. Bea had seen.
    â€œHere.” Bea marched over to the pillows, gathered them in her arms, and arranged them on the sofa, much as Emma had had them. Her mother’s anger at Vera, she thought, had actually been jealousy. Lillian had wanted a Yankee name and the freedoms that came with it, the ability to sail and ski, fearlessness, immodesty, joy. It wasn’t as if she kept house with any more vigilance than Vera had. She just paid Estelle to do it and hoped having