Stiltsville: A Novel - By Susanna Daniel Page 0,134

I’m not sure this is the time—”

“Dad and I talked about it,” she said.

I looked at Dennis. I saw something like contrition in his eyes. If times had been normal, if Dennis had been well, I would have told Margo we’d discuss this in private. But these weren’t normal times, and it was rare that Margo wanted to talk, so I put my napkin in my lap and leaned back in my chair. There was a warm breeze off the golf course. It was almost eight o’clock, and still men drove carts this way and that, their deep voices carrying in the breeze. “OK,” I said. “What is it I suspect him of?”

Dennis made a sound to get Margo’s attention, then shook his head.

“You didn’t tell her?” she said to him. She sounded touched. To me, she said, “It was months ago. Dad told me that Stuart and the therapist—well, they’re a little too close for comfort.” She put her fork down on her plate. “That pixie bitch.”

“Oh, my,” said Marse.

Paul said, “Sweetie, he’s a flirt. A lot of men are. It doesn’t mean—”

“He thinks he’s in love,” she said.

Paul looked at Dennis and Dennis shrugged, agreeing. I scooted my chair until I was beside Margo. It made scraping noises on the cement patio. I put my arm around her, but she wasn’t crying anymore. She looked relieved. “People make mistakes,” I said. “They get caught up. They go overboard.” I could scarcely believe I had said it.

“They do, people do,” said Marse. She was on Margo’s other side, holding her hand.

“It’s been a year,” said Margo.

“Has anything happened?” said Marse.

“He says no,” said Margo. “He swears. And now he wants to take this contracting job, and move, and he expects me to go with him, even after this.”

“Move where?” I said.

She wouldn’t meet my eye. “Seattle.”

“You can’t possibly move to Seattle,” said Marse. “It rains every day there.”

Paul nodded. “Seattle is out of the question.”

“Well, he’s going,” Margo said. And—it shames me to remember—my first response was panic. I couldn’t have Margo so far away, and—this was possibly even more imperative to me at the time—Stuart could not leave, not yet. We needed him. He was the only one who could lift Dennis out of the bathtub when Lola wasn’t around. He was the only one who liked to do yard work and play poker past midnight when everyone else but Dennis wanted to sleep. He could drive the boat and load the wheelchair into the car, and, most important, he was distracting. If he’d been with us at the table, I might have told him so. As it was, I said to my daughter, “Then you’ll just have to let him go.” I’m glad I said it. It was the right thing to say, I thought, and when Margo looked at me—my daughter, searching my face for guidance—I was sure of it.

That night, I lay next to Dennis in his little cot, my head on his chest, and listened to his raspy breathing. “I didn’t know you were suspicious,” I said to him. “Did you know I was?”

He shook his head. I wanted him to talk to me. I wanted so badly to talk.

“Did you not tell me because you didn’t want to upset me?”

He shrugged.

“Did you not tell me because I depend too much on Stuart?”

He was still.

“I guess I do,” I said. “Some mother I am.”

He made his sweet, throaty laugh sound.

“Should I have told her?”

He made a noise, a definitive sound that meant no.

“Why is it that you can break her heart but I can’t?”

He shrugged again. It was true—if I had told her, she would have argued with me and been angry. Dennis, though, had leeway. It wasn’t meddling when it was her father. She trusted him never to hurt her intentionally. This wasn’t rational, and I didn’t think it was based on historical evidence, but it was how things were.

I stopped by Margo’s house later that week, when I knew she would be at work. Stuart was in the backyard, mowing the lawn. It seemed that anytime I stopped by, he was outside, keeping busy. I stood at the sliding glass doors in the living room until he noticed me and turned off the mower.

“I let myself in,” I said when he was standing in front of me, sweating through his shirt.

“That’s fine.”

“I just want to know when you’re moving. I’m not mad.”

He wiped his face with one hand. “I appreciate it. No