Free Agnes Mallory by Andrew Klavan Page B

that’s not so terrible. And, you know, he’d set his picture up at Fox, and there was money again, and he said everything would be different. I was absolutely, completely, totally convinced that he wanted to have the baby.’
    â€˜You know, I don’t think we really have to go through all this right now,’ my mother said. She wore an expression of stony disapproval – and a shapeless green muu-muu meant to hide her fat.
    May pulled up at the rebuke. ‘Oh … I’m just saying, Claire … you don’t know how lucky you are, that’s all. Here with your family …’
    My mother’s baggy face contorted once, and she pushed her last string bean through its butter with her fork. We all looked down, in fact, and our plates were strewn with only bones and wisps of mashed potatoes and streaks and puddles of butter. The carving board was down to a few gristly strips and there were just crumbs on the napkin in the bread basket. May’s plate alone was nearly untouched, but then she’d taken so little to begin with. And though she lifted her fork now, she only sat poised with it. Her head bowed, her black hair pouring forward.
    â€˜You just don’t know, Claire,’ she said in a high, squeaking voice. All at once, the disaster of her tears was upon us. We repressed Bernards – who knows? – we might’ve died of the embarrassment. But luckily, May lifted her head quickly, and knuckled the damp cautiously from her underlids. ‘I don’t know why I should be crying. I’m so, so happy now – now that it’s over. But I mean you don’t know … every day he would come home, night after night, creeping into bed at eight-thirty, nine o’clock, hardly saying a word to me.’ She gave a juicy snuffle.
    â€˜Are you done?’ my mother said to me. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll call you when dessert is ready.’
    I would’ve gone, I wasn’t all that riveted by this grownup stuff. It was the sight of her more than anything that held me. But May, turning to Dad now, just carried on, hoarsely: ‘I finally confronted him, Michael. That’s how it finally happened. He was leaving for work, he was going down the stairs. We had this beautiful curving staircase going down to this marble foyer with an absolutely magnificent chandelier hanging above it. And Ben was going down the stairs, and I was still in my nightgown. And I thought: “No. Just: No.” And I got out of bed – and this was with the worst, the most awful morning sickness anyone anywhere can imagine, just crippling, utterly crippling nausea – and I just didn’t care, I just ran – I ran – to the top of the stairs. I said, “Ben, you have to tell me what is going on. You have to tell me right now.” And, Claire …’ Because Mom and I were watching her again. ‘Claire, I just wish I could describe, I wish I could paint for you the lofty, sanctimonious expression on his face. If I could paint some sort of … patron of Renaissance art being shown flying up into heaven, that was Ben, that was the look on his face. He says, “May …” That was his lofty voice: “May, I’ve joined Alcoholics Anonymous. I’ve found a higher power to help me deal with all my problems from now on.” I mean, he was that self-satisfied. And so I said, “Well, what is that supposed to mean? You’re just going to go to bed every night and leave every morning from now on? You have your higher power, so you don’t need me anymore? Is that it?” And I can’t, I can’t convey the holier-than-thou expression on his face. “Oh, May,” he says, “Oh, May, stand with me now, this is the crisis point of my life.” And I just said, well, you know, “What about my crisis? Ben. I’m the one who’s pregnant. Everyone says, oh that’s so wonderful and