Read Online Helen Hath No Fury by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online Page B

parents know and they’re furious—and if I told her—then she’d never, ever come back!” Bonnie’s eyes flooded and she shook her head, angrily. “I did the worst thing. I did just the worst thing,” she said. “All day long that’s all I can think about, what I did.”
    “You stopped at her house. There’s nothing to berate yourself about. If she gets in touch, tell her to call me.”The words came out of my mouth of their own volition. I hadn’t known I was going to say them. And once I had—and they took on supernatural quality, floating over to Bonnie who then looked at me through moist and suddenly adoring eyes, as if I possessed special wisdom, the ability to save, to heal the sick, and to work miracles—I was the one who felt sick. I was the one who thought I’d just done the worst thing.
    Bonnie was too young and naive to ask what I’d do when and if Petra called. She simply accepted. I was about to fail two girls, instead of just one.
    “Here,” I said, ripping a page from my notepad. “I’ll write you a late note for your math teacher. But take this, too—” And I wrote on a second sheet. “—my home phone.”
    It shouldn’t be like this, was all I could think of as I watched Bonnie walk away. Nobody should have to run away from home. Nobody should have a home so terrifying and cold. Stone, they’d named her. Petra, stone. Maybe it was wishful thinking on their part, the hope that she’d be just like them.

Eight
    O UR IMMEDIATE IMPULSE HAD BEEN TO HUDDLE TOGETHER , shield ourselves against the specter of Helen’s death. But twenty-four hours later, when the book club members emerged from the elevator into the loft, each hesitantly bearing a casserole or covered bowl, facial expressions and body language said, “Why are we doing this? What did we have in mind?”
    With death instead of a book to discuss, we lost all our self-assurance. It was so much easier dealing from the intellect than from the heart, which has no language. We were sheepish and tongue-tied. Why we’d thought that by congregating we’d come up with the wisdom and comforts we craved, I don’t know. Through history, people have searched in vain for what to say about, what to make of death. Revelations weren’t likely to occur just because my group was grieving.
    Judging by expressions and uncomfortable silences and the overfussing with the dishes they’d brought, I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling inadequate because I didn’t know what to say and do. In another culture, it would have been easier. We would have fallen upon each other and sobbed, wailed, keened. That used to seem primitive to me. I now recognized it as astoundingly pragmatic, perceptive, and wise.
    Our awkwardness wasn’t only about Helen’s death orHelen. It was also about how afraid we are to admit we’re afraid. For all our grown-up status, for all the things we do and all the roles we play in life, the knowledge that we aren’t in charge of a whole lot that’s important is terrifying—and not something we like to let out of the bag. So we smiled and put our collective sustenance on the table, where I’d set out plates and forks and napkins. And we eddied around, making small talk like people at a dreadful cocktail party.
    The feeling persisted that I should do something, that I was the hostess—although that wasn’t exactly true. I was more the venue provider, which sounded so chilly and distant that it didn’t even serve as something I could tell myself for reassurance, so I hostessed up, urging everyone to help herself to food, and with heaping platters balanced on knees, we settled around the room on the borrowed folding chairs.
    Mackenzie emerged from where he’d been holed up in the bedroom. “Won’t bother you ladies,” he said in his soft bayou-edged voice. “Wanted to express condolences. From all I heard, Helen was an impressive woman, and I’m sure everybody feels her loss and will for a long time.” He poured