but novels. She’d lost her taste for fiction. Sometimes she thought it was because spending even a few hours in an imaginary world would make it too tempting for her to consider other versions of her own story, other ways it could have unfolded. A different ending, a true happily-ever-after.
“Look at that snow,” said Bethie, sounding as satisfied as if the weather had been arranged just for her. Jo drove them down the mountain, over a bridge that crossed the Farmington River, and along the two blocks that made up Avondale’s downtown. There was a Catholic church, a glowering heap of brownstone, and down the street, a white clapboard Episcopalian church, with a cross thrust up into the wintry sky. The town’s library, housed in a two-story Georgian mansion with the children’s section in the basement, where Jo sometimes felt like she’d spent half of her life, listening to story hour and picking out books. Down the street there was a small supermarket, a liquor store, a five-and-dime called Fielder’s, and the elementary school. Jo turned again, into a neighborhood of residential neat ranch-style houses and small Colonials with perfectly square lawns and even a picket fence or two. Jo saw Bethie taking it in and waited for some crack about “Little Boxes,” or suburban conformity, but instead her sister kept quiet, her eyes on the sky and the snow.
“Dave’s at work, in Hartford. I hope he makes it home.” The truth was, Jo was hoping Dave wouldn’t make it home. She liked the idea of hunkering down with her daughters and her sister, the four of them weathering the storm together. Already, she’d stacked three days’ worth of logs by the fireplace and had a week’s worth of old newspapers ready for the girls to roll and fold into knots. There were flashlights with fresh batteries and candles in every room, and she’d braved a trip to the supermarket that morning, where her fellow housewives were acting practically feral, grabbing for the last loaf of bread or gallon of milk or four-pack of toilet paper, as if everyone’s snow-day plans included French toast and diarrhea.
“Wait until you see the girls,” Jo said. “Kim writes poetry and short stories, with illustrations and everything. She’s in a combined second- and third-grade class, but she’s already done all the third-grade work, so they’re talking about skipping her right to fourth grade. And Missy . . .”
Before she could continue listing Kim’s academic achievements or describing Missy’s prowess as a striker on the six-and-under Wildcats soccer team, Bethie interrupted. “And Dave? How’s he doing? How are things?” There was the tiniest pause before Bethie spoke the word “things,” and Jo heard what her sister was really asking. How’s heterosexuality treating you? Still living a lie? Speaking rapidly, Jo said, “Dave’s terrific. I mean, it took him a while to figure out what he was going to do. To figure out what would work. As you know. But I think this is it.” Jo was sure that Bethie must have noticed by now her husband’s inability to stay in one place, at one job, for very long. It hadn’t taken Jo long to realize that her husband was all about the fast buck, the quick, easy score. Behind every great fortune, there is a crime, Dave liked to say. So far, Dave hadn’t committed any crimes—at least, not that Jo knew about. But she worried, and she was careful not to ask too many questions when her husband pulled the suitcases from wherever Jo had stashed them and announced yet another new venture in another new town.
“He’s selling used sports equipment?” Bethie’s voice wasn’t quite mocking, but it was definitely skeptical. Again, Jo told herself not to take the bait.
“I know. When he told me, I was thinking, ‘How’s that going to support us?’ But people in New England are sports-crazy. Soccer, hockey, lacrosse, tennis. Everyone ice-skates, everyone skis. And everyone’s kids outgrow their cleats and their boots and their poles and their bindings.” Dave had started with one RePlay Sports store, which he’d opened with two of the fellows who’d gone in on his sports bar in Hartford and the guy who’d invested in the apple orchard in Vermont. She had to give Dave credit, Jo thought. He never held a job for long, but he never made long-lasting enemies, either, or left his former partners feeling so burned that they wouldn’t give him seed money for his next project. The bar had