Lillian felt tears come to her eyes.
“When my father got back from the war, he was disappointed in his bride. He had grown up, and she had not. But, of course, that was then, and he made the best of it, and in due course, another child was born, little Arthur. I looked just like a Manning, and my father was deeply relieved. He was a military man. His specialty was equipment. He was proud of everything he knew about equipment, whether it was a machine or a horse. He could deploy a flock of pigeons, fix an engine. He was just like me — he despaired of the glamour boys who always had to run out ahead of the supply line because they were too impatient to wait. But he liked the army, the order of it, and he was a great patriot. Just like me.”
“Just like you, Arthur.”
“One day, my mother put me down for my nap. I was two and a half, and a good sleeper. She rocked me, held me, carried me to my bed, and then she covered me and told me to have a nice long sleep, that we would have cake for dinner. I remember every word.”
Lillian felt her heart start pounding.
“Then she went into her room and got the belt of her dressing gown and she tied it to the bottom of a fat newel post, and then she hanged herself. When my father came home for his dinner, he saw her there. I was screaming from my room.”
Lillian started shaking.
“My father never hid any of this from me. He told me what I asked to hear, and he told it honestly. The woman he found to take care of me was a kind and loving woman, and when he sent me to boarding school, he sent me to a pleasant place with lots of animals and playing fields, and he made sure I was big enough and strong enough to defend myself, which I was. He never said an unloving word about my mother, but he would look hard into my eyes, Lil, and what he was looking for was that weakness, that failure of spirit. That fatal inability to take it, whatever it is.”
Lillian said, “You can take it, Arthur.” She was sure of this — he looked intent and perplexed, not broken, or breaking. But he said, “Wisner couldn’t.”
“You hated Frank Wisner.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because he was wrong and foolish all the time?” Then she said, “There is no one like you, Arthur. You make Frankie look dull and Henry look stupid and Timmy look shy. You make Joe look weak. I cannot live without you.”
And they both knew what that meant.
—
BY THE SUMMER before ninth grade, Debbie had become a pretty good rider, and she was too big for the pony, which was fine, because Fiona had a new horse, another old racehorse but more elegant than Prince, a bay with a star named Rocky (racing name Roquefort, with French bloodlines). Fiona loved him. He was a jumper; though he could not be hunted, he could jump six feet, and had done so. Oddly enough, he wasn’t bad on the trail — his problem was not spookiness, said Fiona, it was bossiness. He would go on the trail with Prince if he could go first. That was fine with Prince.
Fiona didn’t scare Debbie anymore — she was used to Fiona. Everyone at school thought Debbie was lucky to be friends with her.
In the hot weather, they rode trails every day. The first time they stole a watermelon, Debbie was nervous. But it was easy. They walked Rocky and Prince along a trail that ran along the far edge of a sandy watermelon patch that was hidden from the house and barn by both a line of trees and a stand of weeds. Fiona stared at the watermelons as they walked slowly past, and when she saw a ripe one, she slid off Rocky, handed the reins to Debbie, and skittered over to it, bright and oblong in the sun. Then she stood up, looked around, hoisted it (it was heavy), and dropped it. It burst open in a glory of reddish pink. Because she was Fiona, she offered pieces to the horses first, and Debbie saw that they knew what they were getting. Rocky stuck his nose into the wet sweetness and sort of slurped it up, licking and chewing at the same time. Fiona said, “We have to remember to wash their bits.” Prince had his turn, and then Fiona ran over and got pieces for Debbie and herself. After they were finished, Fiona took a dollar out of her pocket and secured it under the broken melon.
The second time, Debbie and Fiona were talking about a show Fiona had entered and didn’t notice the horses’ ears flicking. They took the exact same path to the melons, and Fiona jumped off Rocky and handed his reins to Debbie. Debbie was looking into the woods, not toward the farmhouse, because she was just a little afraid of having a deer jump out and spook Prince. Fiona broke the watermelon and brought some over, then went back for more. It was then that they heard the shout, and about a moment after that that they heard the other thing, the shot. Debbie had never heard a shot before, that she knew of. But the horses threw their heads, Fiona dropped the pieces of melon, and she jumped onto Rocky as fast as Debbie had ever seen her. They took off down the trail that ran past the edge of the melon field, Rocky in the lead, Prince right behind him, and there was another shot. Fiona, who was bending over Rocky’s neck, yelled, “Ouch!” and her hand came around and touched her behind. Then Prince shied to one side and almost lost Debbie, but she stayed on. They galloped. Debbie did not see a trail; she had to keep her head low and let Prince figure it out, because she had no idea where they were going.
They ended up near the top of the hill behind the farm, and when they came out into a little clearing, Debbie could see the farmer. He had his shotgun over his arm. The horses were breathing hard — the run up the hill had taken the wind out of them. Fiona dismounted and ran her hand over her behind and then over her right arm. There were marks — tiny red dots. She licked them. She said, “That’s salt. He fills the shells with rock salt and shoots them.”
“He’s done that before?”
“He shot me twice last year, but he didn’t hit me.” She ran her hand over her behind again. “It stung. Did it go through my breeches?”
“No. There aren’t any holes.”
“Okay. Well, I guess we’ll stay away from him for a while.”
“Maybe Prince got hit. He spooked.”
But there was no blood on Prince. Once again, when they got back to Fiona’s, a half-hour ride from the top of the hill, and the horses were cool and calm, Fiona kept her adventures to herself. It was summer, so her mom was home, sewing in the dining room. She said, “Oh, hello, girls. Beautiful day — not too hot, for once. You having a good day?”
And Fiona kissed her on the cheek, easy as you please, and said, “Not much going on.”
“Oh, that’s the good old summertime.” When Friday came, and Debbie had her slumber party with her other friends, the good girls, she had to admit that she found them a little numerous and irritating.
—
SHE WAS AHEAD of him, walking down Maiden Lane, almost to Front Street. Frank recognized her from the back, just the way her hips shifted from side to side. He sped up, and came up to her right at the corner, and they stood there, waiting on the traffic. He pretended not to look at her; he was adept at that. She was wearing a black wool coat, nicely cut, cheap. Of course, her face was much older — she would have been almost the same age as Frank in ’44, so in her early twenties. That would make her at least thirty-eight or so. Frank gave her a little smile, somewhere between friendly-on-a-deserted-street and would-you-like-to-get-a-drink. She glanced at him and looked away. Of course, she didn’t recognize him — he was no longer a GI, his hair had darkened, he was wearing a very expensive suit and custom-made shoes. He dropped back and let her go ahead. He slowed his steps and watched her, and the farther she got away from him the more certain he was that he was right — it was she, “Joan Fontaine,” the love of his life, the prostitute (but so unprofessional) that he had spent — what? — four, five hours with on Corsica after the Italian campaign. He watched her walk toward the entrance of a pleasant-looking red brick building on the corner. When she had closed the door behind herself, he walked that way and passed the door. He did not stop, but he noted the address: 158 Front Street, between Maiden and Fletcher.