“Nothing, Mother,” Margaret said, and she winked at Maggie.
22
IT WAS CONNIE, OF ALL PEOPLE, WHO had taken her mother-in-law to the grave of her daughter, back in one corner of the cemetery where Connie had grown up. Connie had called Angelo Mazza the morning after the funeral, and then she had called Mary Frances, and picked her up in Tommy’s station wagon. Mary Frances slid into the passenger seat, clutching her black handbag as though this excursion was the most natural thing in the world. There was no conversation. Mary Frances took out her rosary and said it soundlessly, the silence punctuated by the clicks of her crystal beads on their silver chain. When they drove through the gates to Angelo’s little house she let them slither back into the blue velvet pouch in which she kept them.
“This place is very pleasant, Concetta,” Mary Frances said as she emerged from the car.
Connie actually thought the flowers looked tired at this time of year, a little florid in their color, like a woman wearing too much makeup to disguise her age. The rose of Sharon and the hollyhocks were ragged, and the daisies had gotten leggy and fell over in untidy clumps. Most of the day lilies were gone, and the handsomest parts of the cemetery were those that had turned a deep green, in a final burst of good health before the early frosts defoliated them. As though he had been thinking the same thing, Angelo emerged from his house carrying a small pair of clippers. He looked neat and elegant in his gray pants and white shirt.
Connie felt as tired as she’d ever been in her life. Part of it was the pregnancy, and part was the heat, and part were the events of the last few days. That morning two police officers had arrived at the front door. They were young, boys really, ten years younger than she was, and they wanted to talk to Maggie.
“I understood that the builders would not be pressing any charges, that they had agreed to receive restitution from the family of the boy responsible,” Connie said.
“We have to do our own investigation, ma’am,” one of the officers said quietly, and Connie flinched at that last word, and felt very old. She was glad Tommy had gone over to Scanlan & Co. for the day. She called Maggie down from her bedroom. Maggie was barefoot, her hair wet from the shower, and she froze at the bottom of the stairs as she saw the blue uniforms.
“We’re particularly interested in the last fire,” the officer said.
They sat on the couch and Maggie sat on the floor cross-legged, her shoulders slumped, her arms limp. “Why are you talking to me?” she said.
Connie started to speak, but before she could the officer, flipping through a spiral notebook, answered, “We talked to a Miss Hearn, who said she had no association with the fires. She sent us to a Miss Malone, who said the same. She sent us to you.”
Connie could see Maggie only in profile. She had always known that the day would come when her daughter’s transformation would be complete, when she would not only be separate but equal, when she would become adult. Connie knew that this could take a long time; she felt that for herself it had happened just the other day, in the parking lot at the high school and in John Scanlan’s hospital room. She had expected it to happen when Maggie got her first period, developed breasts, fell in love. But it was happening here, now, horribly. There was a tightness around the square jaw, a hard glint in the eye, that was the look of a woman. It was like that just for a moment, and then it was replaced by the soft vulnerable look of a child who has been mistreated. Maggie’s mouth was open, but nothing came out. Then Connie had said, “My daughter was here with me that night. She couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
The older of the two cops had looked at her for a long time. Connie was quite sure that they’d heard such a story from a mother a hundred times before. Finally he said, “We’re happy to know that, ma’am,” as he slapped his notebook shut and rose.
On the ride with Mary Frances to the cemetery, Connie thought of that moment, and of the moment when she saw Maggie’s face