“I know you don’t approve of me, Jean,” Martha said, folding her long legs under her on the couch. “I’m used to it. People have disapproved of me as long as I can remember.”
“One can hardly ‘approve’ the break-up of a family,” Jean replied stiffly.
She hated being aligned with the forces of narrow-mindedness and conservatism, even though that was where she felt most at home. She had quite admired Martha at their first meeting and she was intrigued rather than alarmed by lesbianism. As a touchstone, she imagined her mother’s opinion—and rejected it. She would be disgusted—therefore, Jean chose not to be. But none of this could be said.
“She was mine before she was his,” Martha was saying.
“But now there’s a child to consider.”
“I meant the child.”
Jean blinked, confused.
“She was named for us, you know. Martha and Gretchen.”
Jean was utterly unprepared for this and had no idea what to say.
“No, I didn’t know.”
In the silence that followed this exchange a pin-drop of sound came from behind the closed door. It was less than a breath, but Martha’s quick glance confirmed that she had heard it, too.
“She’s here, isn’t she?” Jean said.
Martha hesitated, on the edge of a denial, and then the bedroom door opened and Gretchen stood there. Her loveliness was never off duty and she wore it like armor today.
“It’s all right,” she said to Martha, who had sprung up, as though to her defense. “I want to talk to Jean.”
There was something defiant in the tilt of her chin.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No, I’d like to talk to her alone. You go.”
Gretchen squeezed Martha’s hand and waited until she had swept up a purse and keys from the table and left, closing the front door behind her.
“Oh, Gretchen,” was all Jean could say.
“Don’t be angry with me, Jean,” she replied with downcast eyes. “I can’t help it.”
Without the fortifying presence of Martha she looked much less assured.
“I’m not angry, Gretchen. It’s nothing to do with me. Even Howard’s not angry.”
“Dear Howard.” She perched on the edge of the couch as though not quite at home. “Is he all right?”
“Well, I don’t know about ‘all right,’” Jean replied. “He’s very concerned about Margaret. And you. He asked me to give you this.”
She handed over the envelope and Gretchen opened it in front of her, shaking her head as she counted the money.
“He’s very generous,” she said. “I didn’t expect anything.”
“Do you really mean to leave him and live here?”
“Yes.”
“And what about Margaret?”
Gretchen seemed nonplussed by this question.
“Well, she’ll be here too, of course, with me. Where else would she be?”
“But school? Will she have to leave her friends and start somewhere new—around here?” Jean waved an arm to signify the hinterland of Luna Street.
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” said Gretchen as if this was the first time she had given any thought to the matter. “She’s in her last year—it would be too much upheaval. I’ll take her back to Sherwood Park each morning on the train and pick her up. I think that’ll be best. Don’t you?”
“Best?” Jean echoed, struggling to adjust to this new casual, thoughtless Gretchen. “No, what would be best for Margaret is what she already has.”
Gretchen flinched as though Jean had flung a glass of water in her face.
“But I can’t,” she said in a stricken voice. “I’ve never loved anyone but Martha. All these years with Howard—I tried, I really tried. And it’s not fair on him, either. He deserves someone who can love him properly.”
For an uncomfortable moment it occurred to Jean that all along Gretchen had been auditioning her for the role of Howard’s comforter; coaching her, finding excuses to throw them together—the thought revolted her. She shook her head.
“You can’t really be suggesting that you are doing this for Howard’s benefit. He is heartbroken.”
“Don’t say that,” Gretchen pleaded. “I can’t bear to think of him unhappy. But I can’t lose Martha again now that I’ve found her.”
“That’s what I don’t understand. If you wanted to find Martha you could have done it years ago. She’s not been in hiding. It took me no time at all.”