it for hairs and bone and stuff and then analyze what it came from. When they’ve just been on a kill, the shit’s all kind of black and runny which makes it more difficult to handle. And really, really smelly, you know? God, that kind of wolf shit, can it stink! It’s better when they haven’t eaten in awhile, you know, the turds are kind of firmer. Easier to pick up. With your fingers.’
Courtney nodded sagely. To her credit, she hadn’t flinched once. Helen knew her father was giving her his hurt stare and she told herself off for being so childish. She’d had way too much to drink.
‘Anyway, that’s enough of that shit,’ she said. ‘Courtney, why don’t you tell me about your shit? You’re a banker right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Got any money?’
Courtney smiled, easily. She had class, this girl.
‘Only other people’s,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘And you’re a psychologist.’
‘Well, I never practiced.’
‘Practice makes perfect and you seem pretty damn perfect to me.’
‘Helen . . .’ Her father put a hand on her arm.
‘What? What?’ Helen looked at him, all innocence.
He was about to say something, then gave her a sad little smile instead. ‘Who’d like dessert?’
Courtney said she needed to go to the bathroom, though after how little she’d consumed, Helen couldn’t imagine why, except to touch up her nails maybe. When she had safely gone, Helen’s father said,
‘What’s the matter with you, baby?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s no rule that says you have to hate her, you know.’
‘Hate her? What on earth do you mean?’
He sighed and looked away. Helen felt her eyes suddenly fill up with tears. She reached out and put a hand on her father’s arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He took her hand in both of his and looked, with great concern, right into her eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ he said.
She sniffed and fought back the tears. God, she couldn’t make yet another scene in this place, they’d have her committed.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I worry about you.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.’
‘Have you heard from Joel?’
She had prayed he wouldn’t ask. Now she was sure to cry. She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment, and took a deep breath.
‘Yep. He wrote me.’
No, she wasn’t going to cry. Joel was thousands of miles away and it was all over, anyway. And here came dear old Courtney, heading out toward them through the restaurant, smiling with new resolve and freshly glossed lips. Helen resolved to give her a break. She wasn’t so bad. In fact there was something tough and sassy about her that Helen found appealing.
Who knows, she thought, someday they might even be friends.
6
H elen flew back to Boston that same evening. She had planned to stay the weekend with friends in New York but she called them from the airport and made some excuse about having to get home. In truth, she simply wanted to get out of the stifle and clamor of Manhattan.
The rest of the lunch had been better. Her father gave her a beautiful Italian leather purse that Courtney had helped him choose. Courtney had a present for her too, a bottle of perfume, and redeemed herself vastly in Helen’s estimation by eating a giant slice of chocolate gateau.
To her father’s obvious pleasure, the two women had even kissed goodbye, with Helen undertaking to be in Barbados for the wedding, though refusing flatly to be a bridesmaid. Not even Matron of Dishonor, she said.
It was getting on for ten o’clock by the time she’d driven down from Boston and swung east onto Route 6, which would take her all the way up the Cape to Wellfleet.
In her haste to get out of New York, she had forgotten it was a Friday night, when the going was always slowest. Most of the way it was bumper to bumper with weekenders and tourists, their car roofs stacked high with bicycles, boats and boogie boards. Helen longed for the fall when the place would empty out and
Courtney nodded sagely. To her credit, she hadn’t flinched once. Helen knew her father was giving her his hurt stare and she told herself off for being so childish. She’d had way too much to drink.
‘Anyway, that’s enough of that shit,’ she said. ‘Courtney, why don’t you tell me about your shit? You’re a banker right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Got any money?’
Courtney smiled, easily. She had class, this girl.
‘Only other people’s,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘And you’re a psychologist.’
‘Well, I never practiced.’
‘Practice makes perfect and you seem pretty damn perfect to me.’
‘Helen . . .’ Her father put a hand on her arm.
‘What? What?’ Helen looked at him, all innocence.
He was about to say something, then gave her a sad little smile instead. ‘Who’d like dessert?’
Courtney said she needed to go to the bathroom, though after how little she’d consumed, Helen couldn’t imagine why, except to touch up her nails maybe. When she had safely gone, Helen’s father said,
‘What’s the matter with you, baby?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s no rule that says you have to hate her, you know.’
‘Hate her? What on earth do you mean?’
He sighed and looked away. Helen felt her eyes suddenly fill up with tears. She reached out and put a hand on her father’s arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He took her hand in both of his and looked, with great concern, right into her eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ he said.
She sniffed and fought back the tears. God, she couldn’t make yet another scene in this place, they’d have her committed.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I worry about you.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.’
‘Have you heard from Joel?’
She had prayed he wouldn’t ask. Now she was sure to cry. She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment, and took a deep breath.
‘Yep. He wrote me.’
No, she wasn’t going to cry. Joel was thousands of miles away and it was all over, anyway. And here came dear old Courtney, heading out toward them through the restaurant, smiling with new resolve and freshly glossed lips. Helen resolved to give her a break. She wasn’t so bad. In fact there was something tough and sassy about her that Helen found appealing.
Who knows, she thought, someday they might even be friends.
6
H elen flew back to Boston that same evening. She had planned to stay the weekend with friends in New York but she called them from the airport and made some excuse about having to get home. In truth, she simply wanted to get out of the stifle and clamor of Manhattan.
The rest of the lunch had been better. Her father gave her a beautiful Italian leather purse that Courtney had helped him choose. Courtney had a present for her too, a bottle of perfume, and redeemed herself vastly in Helen’s estimation by eating a giant slice of chocolate gateau.
To her father’s obvious pleasure, the two women had even kissed goodbye, with Helen undertaking to be in Barbados for the wedding, though refusing flatly to be a bridesmaid. Not even Matron of Dishonor, she said.
It was getting on for ten o’clock by the time she’d driven down from Boston and swung east onto Route 6, which would take her all the way up the Cape to Wellfleet.
In her haste to get out of New York, she had forgotten it was a Friday night, when the going was always slowest. Most of the way it was bumper to bumper with weekenders and tourists, their car roofs stacked high with bicycles, boats and boogie boards. Helen longed for the fall when the place would empty out and
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