Free The Angry Woman Suite by Lee Fullbright

basis, and I thought it intriguing, one of us having a life in town apart from Grayson House—it was a mystique only heightened by the arguments I overheard at night, invariably started by Lothian. All the women would end up getting involved though, and while I could never make out everything that was said, let alone understand what any of it meant, the argument went something like this: Lothian once had a young man who’d gotten away from her and it was all Grandmother's fault he’d gotten away. Lothian would shout next that it had actually been my mother’s fault the young man had gotten away. At which point my mother would point out that he existed only in Lothian’s head. He didn’t exist anymore! And then Stella would screech at the top of her lungs—what Stella always did when things got out of her control. And that’s when Grandmother, in her most imperious voice, would tell everyone to shut their traps. But Lothian, shooting for the last word, would yell it had actually been Stella’s fault that her young man had gotten away—and, in fact, everything was always, always Stella’s fault, starting with Matthew Waterston. And that was the real reason Stella had “more than a nodding acquaintance” with the loony bin! Because of what had happened to the Waterstons!
    It worked. Mother intercepted my pathetic expression. “Never mind,” she said to Lothian. “He's my son. I'll tell him when to be quiet.”
    Lothian smiled. To the untrained eye it probably looked like a sweet smile, but I knew better. My stomach started churning and I wanted desperately to hum. Mother got to her feet.
    “Sister,” Grandmother warned.
    “Why,” Mother asked her, “do you encourage Lothian to mock me?”
    “You made your bed,” Grandmother said calmly, needles flashing.
    “That's the problem,” Lothian said conversationally, getting to her feet and smoothing her sweater over her hips. “Magdalene made a bed. Several of them, I hear. Isn't that the problem, Mama? Tell her, Mama.”
    “Yes—I've told her.”
    My stomach pains were unbearable, and for some stupid reason I looked to Earl, who was staring at his feet. I knew once we were upstairs he’d say I’d started the whole thing, but it wasn’t true. The most innocent question could start the women off.
    “You couldn’t keep him,” Mother said to Lothian, sounding sad. “Really, no one could.”
    Was him the one who’d gotten away? Were they starting in with that again?
    Lothian lunged for Mother, but like a flash Stella inserted herself between her sisters and whirled like a top, stamping her huge feet and waving her long arms, twirling so hard and fast her pale hair came loose from its knot and its thin strands flayed the air, putting me in mind of what an escapee from the Portsmith asylum might actually look like.
    “Stop it!” Stella shrieked. “Stop it!” This sounded like “Awpa! Awpa!”
    Predictably, Mother dropped onto a chesterfield, and Stella and Lothian faced each other, panting. I glanced around the room. Earl still looked mesmerized by his feet, and Grandmother, impervious, clicked her needles together. I’d have bet neither had even looked up. Lothian gestured pointedly at the portrait that had started it all.
    “Francis dear, the day has finally come, and, well … Waterston be damned. There’s just one thing you need to know, and that’s why we let your mother keep her damn painting hanging over our heads. It’s a reminder, dear.” Carefully, oh so slowly, Lothian bent and put her embroidery hoops back in her box. “You see, it helps keep the hate alive. And hate is all we have left.” Lothian straightened and smiled. “I’m going upstairs.”
    I switched my attention back to Stella, who was trying to comfort Mother. But Mother didn’t want comforting. “Stella, give me a minute!” Mother said, extricating herself from Stella’s frantic clutches. Even though Mother tried being kind to Stella, Stella never knew when she