Sexton’s generation moved in? An entire section of my dissertation was devoted to the symbolism of the bay window—that large two-way glass through which the suburban female saw and was seen, pined and posed. Try as I might, I could not avoid feeling watched through mine. But watching was how it worked; we watched the children together, children everywhere, even in the trees, the adults inside aware, keeping watch, until eventually each front door was opened and one by one, the children were called in.
I force myself to continue to walk forward.
Juliet! the curvy woman says, stepping toward me first, her arms wide open. It’s so good to see you.
She embraces me before I can even lift my arms. I feel her warmth through her shirt. One of the other women steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. When she smiles, I remember that I’d always found the gap between her front teeth attractive, because she never gave a damn to have it fixed, and always smiled anyway, more than any person I’d ever known.
My friend comes last—Alison. Our daughters love to play. Alison and I embrace. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since our return.
I know I haven’t written you a thank-you note yet, I say to Alison. But we ate every single one of the casseroles you left us. Every last bite. Straight out of the dish. We didn’t even put it on plates. I just want you to know how much we’ve appreciated it.
I’m so glad, Alison says.
We step apart. Her eyes are wet. She blots them with her sleeve.
Alison, I say, taking her hand. For a week or so there, you left a casserole every day. I got used to it! I would check the stoop. You never rang the bell. You were the casserole fairy.
I didn’t want to disturb you, Alison says, laughing. I didn’t want you to feel you had to talk.
But that’s what was so kind about it, I say. It was so kind, but so impersonal. You know we needed food. And you were right—we did. My mother is an awful cook. I’d forgotten. I haven’t seen her in years! What she does is, she pours cans of V-Eight into a pot, then adds anything from the freezer. Meatballs. Frozen corn…
The other women watch me, their heads tilted.
So anyway, thank you. I don’t think you can begin to understand how meaningful it was—
Please, Alison says. I know that you would have done the same for me.
I stare back at her. Her face is so delicately constructed, so responsive. But I almost laugh. I would never have done the same for her. That’s my point. I might have written her a poem. I might have scarred my arms for her, cut off my hair. But I would never have made her a casserole.
We hear a vehicle approach. We turn, expecting the school bus, but it is not the school bus. It is a police car, sliding our way with its lights off. We track the car as it passes us with a hush and proceeds down the street. A police car on our street is an anomaly. We give it our complete attention. It passes the Reynoldses’, the Olivieras’, it passes the Lehman-Rosses’.
My house is at the end of the block, just before where the road forks left, toward the pond, or right, toward town. The street has a very slight upward grade, so that my house remains quite visible even from this distance. The police car pulls up in front of my house. Two figures emerge, dark as crows against the sun-beaten grayed tar of the streets, the pale green of spring. They shrug on their coats.
I have an idea, says Alison, as if something splendid has just happened. Why don’t I take Sybil to our house when she gets off the bus today? To play?
The other women nod vigorously. They are all trying not to look in the direction of my house, a locus of sheer trouble.
Cora has been begging to play with Sybil, Alison continues. It’s been so hard to hold her