Ken and his crew were leaving. They walked past her without looking at her, as if indeed she had ceased to exist. Santino, however, lingered behind. “A letter arrived for you just two days ago,” he said, “I was going to give it to Knight Air for you, but now . . .” He withdrew it from his case. It bore a Minneapolis address. She recognized her younger sister’s handwriting. “Ken was too hard on you,” he added. “I enjoyed working with you. You are not like these others.” He motioned at the aircrews and relief workers crowding the tables. “You are one of us.”
That remark having sewn up the rents Ken had torn into her self-esteem, she feared that Kristen’s letter would reopen them. Returning to Mary’s tent, she switched on the lightbulb dangling from the ridgepole, sat down, and reluctantly opened the envelope. Inside were three pages, filled on both sides with Kristen’s backhanded script. The family brain had been designated to be the family scribe, responding to the letter Quinette had sent to Nicole more than two months ago. The first three pages crackled with scorn—“You said in your—can I call it wedding announcement?—that your news was going to come as ‘something of a shock.’ That was perceptive. Also a class A understatement. Mom wasn’t shocked, she was devastated!”—and with reproach—“You’ve never shown our mother much consideration, but with this, all you’re showing her is contempt”—and with rebukes— “Since Dad died, you’ve acted like you’ve got something against her, and me and Nicole too, and you’ve done everything possible to cause as much worry and pain as possible. Your marriage is your crowning achievement in that department.” The last three pages were an outpouring of distilled vitriol: “In case you think we’re a bunch of cornbelt racists, I’ll just say that our issue isn’t your husband’s skin color. It’s what he is. In your letter, you made him out to be some kind of African George Washington. Sorry. Since you went over there, we’ve kept up on events in that part of the world, and we know about the unspeakable things those African guerrilla leaders are doing over there. It’s beyond us how you could decide to spend the rest of your days with a man who has blood on his hands, how you could turn your backs on us and just throw your life away, like it’s an old dress.
“You said that no one can choose whom she falls in love with. That’s true. It’s also bullshit, and here’s the bullshit part—we don’t think you’re in love with this Michael Goraende. You’re in love with some image or idea of yourself. You’re the star in your movie, and your husband is the leading man.
“Guess what Ardele is telling her friends? That you’ve married an army officer and are living overseas on an extended assignment. That pisses me off sometimes, but what else can she say? She can no more comprehend what you’ve done than if you’d announced that you’re going to Mars. Meantime, she’s afraid that something awful will happen to you, that she’ll never see you again even if you aren’t killed or don’t come down with some awful disease. I can’t say the same is true of Nicole and me. It wouldn’t bother us a whole lot if we never see you again, because of what you’ve done to Mom.”
Quinette set the letter down, wondering how much of it had been a faithful representation of the family’s collective opinion and how much had been colored by Kristen’s own feelings. For sure, nasty little asides like “You’re the star in your own movie” were hers alone, and Quinette didn’t quite believe that Nicole never wanted to see her again, or that Ardele thought she was in love with an image of herself. That too was pure Kristen. She and her younger sister never had gotten along.
Mary pranced in, sassily swigging a Tusker from the can. “Bad news? You’re like this.” She squeezed the corners of her mouth and tugged it into a pout.
“Expected news. It’s just about unanimous. Now my family agrees with everyone around here, but maybe for different reasons.”
“Let me guess. Their little girl married a nigger.”
“I’ll bet that’s what they really think, but they won’t admit it.”
Mary sat beside her. “You’ve done something pretty extreme. You can’t expect applause.”
Quinette was silent for a moment. Ostracized here, rejected by her family, she grasped for her