Sylvia turned and walked out, too dumbfounded to even be enraged. There was nothing to say to that. And for exactly three years, almost to the day, she said nothing. When Marg called, she hung up. When Marg came by, she asked her to leave. If Sylvia saw her in the street, she walked away. But then, the week after their second child was born, Marg dropped off a present (as she had also done for the first baby, that time with a note that went on for pages, and the present had not been for the baby at all but for Sylvia, creams and books—light reading, Marg wrote in her letter, and Sylvia had thought the only reading she wanted to do in relation to Marg was heavy, something swift and brutal, something bruising and unafraid, unafraid to say lies, lies, lies). This time, for the second baby, Marg had bought a cute little jumper with a matching hat and booties and her card was kind and wished her well. That was it. Sylvia called and asked her if she wanted to meet her nieces. It was silly, she told Hugh later, for their children not to know their aunt.
Sylvia pulled back and shook her head.
“Do you want more tea?” Marg asked, standing up. “Anything?”Sylvia shook her head again, more emphatically, and watched as Marg made her way to the coffee counter. The man who had talked to the couple earlier was back: tall, thin, slightly stooped, still wearing his cap. He had a cluster of small paperbacks in his hand, the edges soft and frayed. They looked like the mysteries that had once lined the walls of that cabin so long ago. He stopped at the couple’s table to show them his purchase, spreading the books like a fan.
“I’ve been reading Condorcet lately,” he said. “It relaxes the brain.”
Bob smiled. The woman looked up, her face mildly curious. “He’s not worth it, you don’t think he’s worth it?” the standing man said. Sylvia heard insecurity in a voice that was otherwise boisterous and bold. He wanted Bob’s approval. Bob seemed to agree that Condorcet was not “worth it.” He said something that she couldn’t hear.
“Yes, but you never followed any of that, did you? You believed in the stone, in kicking the stone!” The standing man’s voice was louder now.
Barbara Leckie has previously published a short story in The Literary Review, and is currently working on a collection of stories tentatively entitled Older Women.
