Read Online Nothing Is Quite Forgotten in Brooklyn by Alice Mattison - Free Book Online Page A

to vacuum, sometime before Friday. But today was only Sunday. She tried to decide whether she was morally bound to mention Marlene’s visit, if it meant Joanna would give up her internship to avoid seeing Con’s old friend. She could never figure out just why Joanna disliked Marlene.
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    The motel near Fort Ticonderoga was more than two hundred miles from Brooklyn, but when Joanna’s voice reached Con’s ear she grabbed air with her free hand as if to seize her child.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Mom? Are you crying?”
    â€œI didn’t know where you were.”
    â€œSure you did,” said Joanna, sounding uncertain.
    â€œDid you run away? How did you get there?” Con said.
    â€œBus. Dad gave me money. He told you,” Joanna said.
    Con felt physically ill, as if the room had just lurched. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI had money. He gave me enough for lunch, and emergencies.”
    â€œBefore he left?”
    â€œOf course before he left. Look, he told me last week you said this was okay.”
    â€œHe told you I said it was okay?” said Con stupidly.
    â€œYou didn’t know,” Joanna said, her voice flat.
    â€œNo.” Jerry had deceived her, and the news shoved itself into Con’s body with as much force as if the deception had been sexual, maybe more force. He had conspired with their child to deceive her.
    â€œI sort of knew you didn’t know,” Joanna was saying. “That’s why I didn’t say anything, just in case. Stop crying, Mom. I’m fine.” Then her voice became quiet. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œBut why didn’t you call me?” Con said. “Why didn’t you tell me, once you were there?” She wasn’t angry with Joanna. She pictured Jerry, somehow overhearing this conversation and shrugging, his shoulder moving in an easy way as he dismissed any notion that Con might have been consulted, as he dismissed her. She saw his shoulder, his neck, the way his thin arm would slightly rearrange itself as the one-shoulder shrug moved down through his fingers, as he shook out of his fingers the very idea of telling her. The imagined arm and shoulder made her know what she felt. She was in the kitchen, and as she talked to Joanna, the objects belonging to her mother, there on the counter—the bottle of sherry, a dying plant, the cat food and water dishes, some bowls and canisters—looked more and more fragile, sadder and sadder, as if they were the last quiet frame of a tragic movie. Joanna didn’t answer.
    Con took the receiver to the table and sat down with it. “Where is he?”
    â€œDriving around. Figuring out old roads. Tomorrow we’ll be in a boat, if he can find some local to rent us one.”
    He had never given Con a thought. He was figuring out roads, he was not even making sure that she didn’t discover what he’d done. Once he’d made the plan with Joanna, Con had not been in his mind at all. It was as if the marriage had ended so long ago that she was no longer still opposite him at the imaginary table we all carry in our minds—she was not a loved presence and not even a presence. She said, “When is he coming back to the motel?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI need to talk to him,” said Con. She hadn’t told Joanna anything. “Tell him my purse was stolen.”
    â€œStolen?”
    â€œYes. Look, I better hang up and call the police. The police in Philadelphia are looking for you.”
    â€œI hope they don’t talk to the school!” Joanna said.
    â€œMaybe you should have thought of that.” Con said good-bye. She was too relieved to be more than slightly angry with Joanna, even though Joanna was old enough to have known what was wrong with her escapade, whether Jerry knew or not.
    She phoned the police and called off the search. She phoned Howard and got his machine. She was glad she didn’t have