Read The Joyce Maynard Collection for Free Online Page B

stars?
    I could burst out the door and run to their houses now. I could grab the phone and dial a number. The police. My father. Not my father: he’d use this as evidence that my mother was crazy, the way he always said.
    But I didn’t want to do this. Maybe Frank had a weapon, maybe he didn’t. Evidently he had killed someone. But he didn’t seem like a person who would hurt my mother or me.
    I studied my mother’s face. For once, she actually looked fine. There was a pinkness in her cheeks I wasn’t accustomed to, and her eyes were locked on his eyes. Which were blue.
    Actually, I have a silk scarf collection, my mother said. They were my mother’s.
    It’s about keeping up appearances, Frank said, in a quiet voice. I think you understand what I mean.
    I got up and went to the door. Closed it, so nobody could see inside. I sat there in the living room, with my legs folded under me, and watched the two of them climb the steps up to her room: my mother first, Frank following behind. They seemed to walk slower than normal, climbing those stairs, as if every step required thought. As if there was more at the top than just a bunch of old scarves. As if they weren’t even sure what might be up there and they were taking their time now, thinking about it.
    After a while, they were back. He asked her which chair she found the most comfortable. Nothing near a window was all.
    You could tell from the way he winced now and then that he was still hurting from the injury, not to mention the appendix surgery. Still he could do what he needed to.
    He had brushed off the seat first. Ran his hand over the wood, as if he was checking for splinters. Not roughly, but with a firm grip, he put his hands on her shoulders and lowered her onto the seat. He stood over her for a minute, like he was thinking. She looked up, as if she was too. If she was afraid, you wouldn’t have known it.
    To tie her feet, he’d gotten down on the floor. My mother was wearing the type of shoes she favored, that looked like ballet slippers. He slipped them off her feet—first one, then the other, his hand cradling one arch. He had a surprisingly large hand, or maybe it was just how small her feet were.
    I hope you don’t mind my saying this, Adele, he said. But you have beautiful toes.
    A lot of dancers ruin their feet, my mother said. I was just lucky.
    He took one of the scarves from the table then—a pink one, with roses, and another that had some kind of geometric design. It seemed to me he placed this against his cheek but maybe I imagined that part. I know that time seemed to be standing still, or moving so slowly at least that I had no idea how many minutes had passed, when he wrapped the first scarf around her ankle and began to tie. He had attached the chair to a piece of metal that ran under the table, where you could put an extension leaf in for times when you had company over and you needed to make room for more people. Not that we’d ever had to do this.
    It seemed as if Frank forgot I was even there as he positioned the scarves—one on each ankle, that he attached to the legs of the chair, one around her wrists, tied to each other in her lap, so that she looked as if she was praying, sitting there. Sitting in church, anyway. Not that we ever went.
    Then he seemed to remember me again. I don’t want any of this to upset you, son, he said. This is just something a person has to do in these types of situations.
    One other thing, he told my mother. I don’t want to embarrass you in any way by saying this. But when you feel a need to use the restroom. Or have any intimate need that might require privacy. Just say the word.
    I’ll just sit myself down beside you if that’s all the same with you, he said. Keep an eye on things.
    Just for a second, that look came across his face again, where you knew he was hurting.
    She asked him about his leg then. My mother wasn’t a big