Tips for Living(8)
I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t pick up a bowling ball and pitch it at her head. I took a deep breath and made another promise: no matter how hard it was for me to be around Helene, no matter how much discomfort I felt, I wasn’t going anywhere. “You can feel your emotions without acting on them,” Dr. Feld had said. “If you bottle up anger, eventually it explodes. It’s called an emotion because it’s meant to move. Just breathe and let it.”
I was determined to let that inner river flow peacefully. To remain in the class and stay civil. I vowed to attend every Pilates class on the schedule, in fact. Helene already had my husband, my loft, and, arguably, the baby I hadn’t been able to conceive. I wasn’t about to let her take Pilates away. She wasn’t going to mess with my core.
I drove home after class proud of the dignified way I’d handled myself. But as I stopped at the end of my driveway and pulled a cream-colored linen envelope out of the mailbox, my composure shattered. I recognized Hugh’s handwriting instantly. Helene must have told him about joining the class on Monday. He’d always preferred letters rather than texts or e-mails for condolences or making amends. Had he written to apologize for Helene’s obnoxious presence? For their moving here? “I’ve made so many mistakes, Nora . . .”
Dear Nora,
I’ve been resisting writing because I know how angry you still are. But I can’t wait any longer. I’m putting together a retrospective. A comprehensive one. I’d like to include an early sketchbook along with the paintings—to show how the work has evolved. The sketchbook I gave you on your twenty-eighth birthday is by far the best. Those first studies of you are some of my strongest. I hope you won’t give me trouble on this. It’s only a loan—and after all, it is my work. Can’t you please try to let go of your rage at me, Nora? Hasn’t enough time passed? Say the word and I can have my assistant call FedEx and arrange to pick up the sketchbook. I still think of you fondly.
Hugh
For a moment, I could barely breathe. What a fool I’d been to expect an apology. Hugh hadn’t even acknowledged the distress his interloping had caused. He’d only written because he needed something. When would I learn? A little furnace in my belly fired up. Too damn bad! Hugh would have to do without his favorite sketchbook. I didn’t even keep the book at home. I stored it at Aunt Lada’s, along with other reminders of life with him. I wouldn’t respond to the letter. Wait. Should I write him back and tell him what a selfish bastard he was? Or should I let him borrow the book to show how little I cared about him anymore? I couldn’t decide which would be more satisfying.
Take your time deciding. You are not on his clock. And remember, you will not let this make you a bitter, angry woman.
The next evening, Kelly sent an e-mail canceling Friday’s class. She explained that she couldn’t arrange any other time for her sonogram appointment, and rescheduled us for Sunday morning.
Bleary-eyed after what felt like another poor night’s sleep, at 7:30 a.m. on Sunday I dragged myself out of bed to get ready for class. I went into the living room, picked up the remote, and clicked on the local news before starting to make coffee. The screen was filled with uniformed police and squad cars with flashing lights. What was up? Lots of local and county cops involved. That looked like . . . What did she just say?
No. It can’t be. Oh my God. Impossible. That’s . . . Oh God.
I sat on the couch, eyes locked on the television. Questions swirled around in my head so rapidly I thought I might faint. How? Who would do that? And why?
In the midst of my confusion, I have to confess I felt a teeny, tiny bit of relief—relief that if the report was right, I wouldn’t have to hate Helene and Hugh anymore.
Because Hugh Walker and Helene Westing Walker were dead. Someone else besides me had wanted them that way. Someone with a lot more nerve.
From the Pequod Courier
Tips for Living
by Nora Glasser
Where the Wild Things Are
We know how it works. Pequod’s businesses raise their prices in summer to carry them through the slower months. Summer People expect it. They can afford the markup. The rest of us hold our collective breath until after Labor Day, when the town empties out. No more. We’re turning blue now that Summer People flock here on weekends off-season, stealing our parking spots and crowding our exercise classes. Prices stay inflated, and we’re paying a premium for our muffins. We return from the market stunned at how few groceries our money buys. We want to help our local businesses profit, but we also need to eat. So why not employ survival methods from long ago? Methods used even before the wandering tribes settled down to plant and harvest? Forget “farm to table” and “artisanal.” We’re talking precivilization. Hand to mouth. Put on your boots and stalk that wild asparagus. You’d be amazed at what you’ll find in that acre of woods the developers haven’t cleared. Go down by the creek and pull up leeks, ramps and sorrel. Learn to love chickweed. How about acorn mash? It’s nutty. Develop a taste for the “earthy,” but remember: choose those fungi carefully, or you’ll end up feeding the worms.
Chapter Two
I was numb. Everything had an aura of unreality. It was as if I were watching an episode of Murder, She Wrote. A small seaside community on a misty fall morning with stunned and sleepy citizens in robes and slickers gathered on the street in front of the victims’ residence, the police working the crime scene and stretching yellow tape across the drive.