Page 25 of The Paradox Club

“I did,” said Marie, dropping the cigarette on the brick steps and grinding it out under her shoe. “Lots of times.” She blew a long plume of smoke toward the street and turned to Tess. “Would you like some lemonade?”

“That would be very nice, Marie, thank you,” said Tess, trying on kindness to see how it might feel.

Tess thought Marie might have invited her into the den to sit, but instead her mother poured out two glasses of lemonade and stood at the kitchen counter drinking one of them. Tess picked up the other and took a long drink. It tasted of happier days—of days when her father had just come in from mowing the lawn and Vivian was putting plates on the table and Marie was cooking fried chicken.

“Aunt Vivian says you have a boyfriend.”

“How would she know?”

“Small town.”

“It’s true. I do have a companion. His name is David, and he installs and services heating and air-conditioning equipment.”

“Wow, you went the other way.”

“He’s a good man, Tess. He makes me happy. And he doesn’t start fires.”

“Harry didn’t start the fire.”

“There is so much you don’t know, Tess.”

“I’m getting sick and tired of people saying that. If there are things I don’t know, then tell me.”

“Now is not the time.”

“It’s never the time. And I don’t understand why you always have to blame someone for what happened. You blame Harry, you blame Vivian, you blame me.”

“You want me to tell you something?” said Marie, setting her glass on the counter. “Okay, I’ll tell you something. David and I got married.”

Tess almost couldn’t swallow her mouthful of lemonade. She felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach by this simple declarative sentence. She suddenly realized why Marie hadn’t led her into the den—what she hadn’t seen when she glanced into that room on the way down the hall laden with paper towels. Harry’s picture no longer stood by the television.

“Marie, you didn’t…” began Tess, but she couldn’t complete the thought. Instead, she ran down the hall and threw open the door to Harry’s study. The Museum of Harry Maxwell—books untouched on the shelf, a neat stack of papers on the desk where he had left them—had been replaced with a pair of exercise bikes and a yoga mat. The built-in bookshelves held nothing but an assortment of DVDs and a large television. Only Harry’s desk, cleaned of its papers and shoved into a corner, gave any hint of the room’s former occupant.

“You erased him,” said Tess, turning to Marie, who had followed her. “You erased Harry. Just like you erased me.”

“Harry erased himself,” said Marie, not rising to Tess’s tone of anger. “Your father is dead, Tess. Dead. When will you get that through your thick skull?”

“But that doesn’t mean his books and his picture and his desk should be…”

“Those are things, Tess. Things are not life. I don’t need Harry’s things anymore.”

“Still, you had no right to—”

“I had every right. Harry gave me the right when he…” A pause hung in the air and then Marie’s tone softened. “David and I are married, Tess. He’s a good man. You’d like him.”

“But couldn’t you have waited?”

“Waited for what, Tess? I’m done with waiting. Done with living in mourning. Believe me, I’ve been through all the stages of grief. The anger lasted a particularly long time. But I’m through grieving.”

“But Harry—”

“Harry would want me to move on with my life,” said Marie.

“Harry would want you to take care of your daughter,” said Tess with bitterness.

“The past is past, Tess. And it’s much more complicated than you will ever know.”

“Then explain it to me.”