“What did Carrie say?” Irene pressed.
“She admitted it. Well, she didn’t deny it.”
“What didn’t she deny?” Harriet asked. “You’re using what she didn’t say to make claims against Carrie’s own husband? A vice-principal? That’s a pretty sketchy way to be convinced of something so awful.”
“What would you say if I accused your fiancé of leaving bruises on your neck and your wrist? You’d deny it, wouldn’t you?” Ruth could feel the heat rising in her chest.
“I’d tell you that you were crazy, he’d never do that, and how dare you say so. And to mind your own business.”
“Exactly. First Carrie said it was an accident. Then she said he was sorry and wouldn’t do it again. Again!”
Harriet rolled her eyes. “That kind of thing doesn’t happen here.”
That’s the assumption Ruth had made, and it had been echoed by Lillian.
They were wrong. Ruth knew it.
“She was with us yesterday,” Irene said, sounding noticeably irritated. “She was fine. Couples fight. Some get physical. It’s between them, and I’m sure it’s not dangerous.”
“You’re overreacting.” Harriet lit another cigarette.
“I’m not,” Ruth said. She wanted to pound on the table, make somebody listen to her. Instead, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think she’s in danger. She thinks everything will be okay when she tells him she’s expecting.” Ruth felt bad for betraying Carrie’s confidence, but she was in danger. Ruth had to speak up.
Irene gasped. “A baby!”
“Ruth!” Harriet said. “Carrie wouldn’t sleep with him if he hurt her.”
“I don’t think she would have a choice; she’d be afraid to say no.”
“Leave it alone, Ruth. Be happy for them,” Irene said. “Let them adjust to the news. I’m sure they’re fine.”
“Irene’s right,” Harriet said. “And it’s not like he’d hurt his own child.”
Irene checked her watch. “My, look at the time.”
The girls stubbed out their cigarettes and gathered their belongings, sunglasses, and pocketbooks. Ruth understood it was a ruse, but she didn’t know if she was more angry, hurt, or disappointed. One thing she knew—she couldn’t feel more alone.
“That’s it?” Ruth asked. “You’re leaving?”
“We can’t butt into someone’s marriage,” Irene said.
“He hurt her.” Ruth didn’t know what other words to use to make them understand. She wished Dotsie was there. Or one of her college friends from New York. Or someone from Legal Aid. They would listen to her. They would see the need to protect Carrie.
“Says you,” Harriet said. “Marriages are private. I think you’re overstepping.”
“Me too. It’s none of our business,” Irene said. “And if it was true, which I doubt, there’s nothing you can do.”
Ruth suddenly felt like she didn’t know anything about anything anymore. Was she overstepping? Overconfident in her knowledge? Was everyone else right and Ruth wrong?
Shirley came downstairs, cuddling Heidi, and the girls cooed at the child. Shirley noticed the women had their bags and were ready to go. “Leaving so soon?”
Harriet must have seen the chance to get in Shirley’s graces with her knowledge of social parameters. “We started at ten. A bit later than usual.”
Ruth was ready for them to leave.
Later that day, when Shirley had gone out, Ruth called to check on Carrie. No one answered the telephone. Well, at least Ruth had the house to herself, with no more social obligations until dinnertime. That was a blessing. She would capitalize on the break to study. She couldn’t waste a minute. She ran upstairs, plopped on the window seat, and opened her study guide.
Several pages in, Ruth looked up. Her whole future was at stake, yet she was unable to concentrate. Today was another disaster. Yesterday she’d alienated Carrie and Lillian. Today it was Harriet and Irene. Still, she couldn’t let go of her worry about Carrie. She had to help her friend, but how?
When Ruth walked up the cement toward Carrie’s house, she remembered how much she had liked their conversation on the covered patio. How quickly they had gotten comfortable in their relationship. As Ruth rang the doorbell, she hoped that Carrie would remember that too. Ding-dong.
She hoped that Carrie had had time to cool off from their argument yesterday. That she’d give Ruth another chance to be her friend.
Ding-dong.
Ruth heard movement inside. Soft footsteps. Yet no one answered the door. If Carrie had household help, someone would open it, would let Carrie know she stopped by.
The door never opened.
Ruth’s gut told her Carrie was home. Alone. That she had somehow peeked out and seen who it was. Ruth thought about ringing one more time and decided against it. She turned and went down the walk.
When she got home she found herself still alone. Shirley was at her Sisterhood meeting, or maybe it was mah-jongg day. Ruth wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
She went right to the kitchen and pulled out flour, sugar, milk, and eggs. She took out the KitchenAid stand mixer. She would bake a cake for her husband. She couldn’t focus on her books right now. At least it would look like she was trying to be domestic, for now. Prove to herself—and her in-laws—that she could fit in. She could be a good wife and a lawyer. She was competent. But could she be a competent friend?
As she worked furiously, the kitchen filled with the scent of yummy batter. Warm wafts of sugar floated around her. Yes, baking was definitely a mood enhancer.
An hour later, when the kitchen timer went off, Ruth delighted in the pleasant scent as she opened the oven door.
Her face sagged, just like the middle of the cake.
She tested it gently with toothpicks. The inside was only half-baked. The rim was like a brown brick. There was no salvaging this mess.
She dumped it in the garbage and watched the heavy mass sink to the bottom; its gooey middle hit the wall of the bin as it went, smearing uncooked batter along its path.
Ruth plopped down at the kitchen table, buried her face in her hands, and cried.
Chapter 22
LILLIAN
“Constance, Susan, and Peppermint,” Lillian said, flipping the switch off the percolator. The Saturday morning coffee had finished brewing a half hour ago, when she had set a breakfast of hash and eggs, toast, and coffee in front of Peter. She lifted his now-dirty dishes from the table setting in front of him and placed them in the sink with unnecessary firmness.
“What are you talking about?” Peter rose, mouth agape, pushing his bottom jaw to the right. This expression of his annoyed her. He would not twist his face like that if he knew it demoted him from a Jewish Jack Kennedy to Barney Fife. The plaid golf knickers didn’t help.
“Philip Tanner’s wife, daughter, and blue-ribbon golden retriever,” Lillian said. “And don’t mention Russia if you don’t want to rile him.”
Peter nodded. He’d be seeing Philip Tanner soon.
That would have to do. He could work with those facts. She had lost the motivation to look for more. She was tired of propping him up all the time.