Envious Shadows

Comments and reviews

In Envious Shadows, R. P. Burnham has given us a full blooded novel, driven by plot, character and issues of racism, sexism, infidelity, the struggle to survive economically in a small Maine town and the overarching love that can redeem us from sorrow and loss. This is a book that will provoke thought, feeling and rage at hatred and inequity. Surely this is the most we can ask of any writer when we pick up his book.

–Laurel Speer, poet and former columnist for Small Press Review

R. P. Burnham demonstrates his knack for storytelling in his novel, Envious Shadows. He keeps the reader interested in the plotline while also managing to interweave a penumbra of moral lessons about love, prejudice,and judgment in a modern context. Envious Shadows is filled with a highwit and a talent for creating relatable and realistic characters. For those looking for a strong plot with an accompanying wisdom for modern life, Envious Shadows is a must-read.

–Jesslyn Roebuck in identity theory.com web blog July 2006

Envious Shadows is a deftly crafted, engrossing contemporary novel, one of those works that is not afraid to face the grim realities of life and the cruelties of society as well as the redeeming power of love... A beautiful work that depicts life in all its grim realities, Envious Shadows is a rewarding read.

–Mayra Calvani, Bloomsbury Review

Envious Shadows is a marvelous book. It is about a black and white relationship which has strength to resist the intermittent brutality of human nature. With the lightest of hands, the essence of your personality is present on every page, leading the reader forward toward an understanding of human nature as it should be. The book never lags for a instant, and it is full of realistic details on a wide framework of topics which range from dealing with the psychological integration of half-way house residents into society, the intricacies of the game of softball, the atmosphere of pubs, the challenges facing building contractors, the mindset of the KKK, to the correct planting of roses. There isn’t a pompous moment in it and it is loaded with quiet wit, with seriousness, with irony, and through it all there shines not only a knowledge of literature but a knowledge of life. … I was very taken by your last novel but I truly believe that Envious Shadows is even better, and that is as it should be. From Shelley’s poem on the first page to Millie’s soothing advice at the end, the book is truly a living work which encompasses modern dilemmas.

–Susan Davey

ENVIOUS SHADOWS

by

R.P. Burnham

SMASHWORDS EDITION

******

PUBLISHED BY:

The Wessex Collective on Smashwords

Envious Shadows

copyright 2005 by R. P. Burnham

Cover: Malevolence by William Blake

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

#

Who reigns? There was the Heaven and Earth at first

And Light and Love;—then Saturn, from whose throne

Time fell, an envious shadow ...

Shelley, Prometheus Unbound, II, iv, 32-34

*****

Table of Contents

Today and Tomorrow

A Car, a Cottage, and the Persistence of Memory

Dangerous Games

Love and Hate

A Gathering of Like-Minded Men

Secrecy

Refuge

Live and Let Live

Two Serious Conversations

The Last to Know

Meeting Secretly

End of the Affair

Snowbound

Girls Night Out

Losing the Way

Roses

Trapped

The Fatal Shot

It Doth Repent Me

A note about the writer

##

Today and Tomorrow

Fiona Sparrow could hear someone’s high-pitched screaming and the sounds of things crashing to the floor that told her one of the residents was having a psychotic episode in the recreation room upstairs. She had been working in the kitchen of Phoenix Landing, a halfway house for schizophrenics and manic-depressives in Portland, Maine, helping the cook and four residents prepare the evening meal, and would not have noticed the ruckus had she not gone into the dining room to see if there were enough soup spoons for the meal. Feeling the incipient panic welling up inside, she wished she had not volunteered to check. This was only her second week of full-time employment at the house and the first time she would be called upon to do her duty and display her knowledge of the field in which she had just earned her B.S. degree from the University of Southern Maine. She could hear Dr. Kevin Blanchette telling her on her first day that in addition to her other duties to help prepare the residents for life in the community, she was to drop everything and back up any other attendant who was in trouble. These people are generally nonviolent, he had said, but in certain moods they can be as dangerous as trapped animals.

Remembering these words, she felt her heart pounding as she raced upstairs and entered the rec room where she was surprised to see that it was Eddie, the only black resident, who was causing the problem. His round, pleasant face, which usually had the appearance of scholarly thoughtfulness, was contorted in rage as he stood with his fists clenched in front of the table where he had been painting in acrylic. Most of the artistic accouterments were scattered across the floor. Mark Lewis was on the other side of the table talking to him as calmly as he could. Come on, Eddie. Calm down, calm down, he kept repeating. Other attendants had told Fiona that Eddie was capable of being disruptive but that the sign was a change in his paintings’ subject matter from benign land- and seascapes to weird and compelling interior landscapes abstract expressionist in style. She could see that the painting he was working on was a seascape of the rocky coast of Maine with a lobster boat anchored in the bay, so supposedly he should be mellow. Her glance also took in the rest of the room. Karl Edwards, whom she already knew to be a trouble-maker (he had purposely tripped the fire alarm, causing the fire department to come last week, and had had three or four temper tantrums in front of her already), was surfing the web on the residents’ computer. A picture of a red sports car was on the screen, but he was currently watching Eddie and Mark with a pleased grin on his face. The other resident, Ann Marie Renault, was listening to music through headphones and was apparently oblivious to the commotion in front of her. Her eyes were closed and her body swaying to the music she alone could hear.

Now in the room, Fiona was more embarrassed and indecisive than afraid. Mark Lewis was a heavyset blond man with small wire-framed glasses and a thin, blondish mustache. He was big enough to ordinarily intimidate the residents. A more likely scenario would be for her to be having difficulty and calling on him for help. With the situation reversed, she did not know what to do.

Then she heard someone else rushing up the stairs and felt better almost instantly. She could watch and learn and not have to intervene. The new arrival was Sylvia Kroger, whom she had known for several years and with whom she had been in several classes at USM. She was tall, thin, and plain. She tended to be moody, even standoffish, and was sometimes patronizing. Fiona, never liking her very much, was surprised when Sylvia suggested she apply for the job at Phoenix Landing. She felt grateful towards her but had to confess she still didn’t like her. She was an experienced attendant, having worked here for two years, however, so right now she was glad to see her.

Sylvia was frowning as she regarded Eddie, frowning and angry. With a curl of her lip she whispered, I bet he didn’t take his medication this morning. Sure as hell, I’ll get into trouble.

Didn’t you see him take his pill? Fiona asked, but before Sylvia could answer Eddie began yelling.

What’s it to you I don’t have supper? I’m going to finish this painting and another one I’ve got to do. I don’t need any interference from the CIA, FBI or NAACP, so you can just leave. He picked a brush up off the floor and made as if he was going back to work, then paused. You know how vile it is to spy? It’s a betrayal—that’s what it is. You’re a turncoat.

Mark raised his eyebrows and put his hands with his fingers splayed on his chest, assuming a pose of perfect innocence. I’m not a spy, Eddie. I work here. I’m doing my duty.

He must have hidden it under his tongue, Sylvia whispered. Usually I see when they do that, but this morning I was distracted. Rita Delaney couldn’t find the blouse she wanted to wear and was acting up.

Fiona nodded, but said nothing. Sylvia was soliciting an ally, not imparting information.

You want me in jail, don’t you, Eddie said, his voice suddenly calm. I’m sorry I’m going to have to disappoint you. Painting isn’t a capital offense.

Mark, Sylvia called to get his attention. She made a sign as if taking a pill and swallowing. I don’t think he swallowed, she said, mouthing the words almost inaudibly.

Mark nodded in acknowledgment, then turned back to Eddie. You’ve got to realize I’m only here to help you. You can paint later. Now it’s time to get ready for supper.

Eddie’s face clouded. You want to help me, get my sister. She’ll explain everything.

Other people were coming up the stairs now, and everyone except Ann Marie, who was still blithely listening to her private concert, looked towards the door. Kevin Blanchette and Eric Williams entered the room, the former the director and the latter one of the night attendants here an hour early. The male reinforcements were welcome in case Eddie had to be subdued. But first Kevin, in the role of Dr. Blanchette, Director, would try moral suasion. He was a youngish-looking man in his late forties, with thinning hair and very dark eyes. He let the attendants call him Kevin but did so with the air of doing a favor to inferiors. He liked, in fact, to project a professional aura, and it was plain to everyone that he liked even more the sound of Dr. Blanchette. Fiona was still not sure what to make of him. She kept shying away from the conclusion that he was an ass.

Eddie, he said, you know we’ve talked about this before. We dine collectively here. We have to or else the cook would never get her work done. You know that, right, Eddie?

Eddie’s face had been undergoing a transformation. While his behavior towards Mark showed that he regarded himself as superior to the mere attendant, he was clearly afraid of Dr. Blanchette. Yes, sir, he said in a whiny voice that made Fiona wince. His dignity had deserted him, and without it he was naked and exposed. Is this necessary? she wondered before her attention went back to Kevin.

Did you take your pills this morning?

Eddie looked down at his painting and mumbled something inaudibly.

Is that a yes or a no?

After a long silence Eddie looked up, his face defeated and ashamed. No, he mumbled, then louder, no.

Kevin folded his arms on his chest, then cradled his chin in one hand. You like to be free, don’t you, Eddie? Because the way to be free from your voices is to take your medication.

A stubborn, hard look settled on Eddie’s face. I ain’t heard voices in months. I don’t need that stuff. It makes me a zombie.

But, Eddie, don’t you think the reason you haven’t heard voices is because you take your pills?

At first Eddie looked as if he was going to cry. His face crinkled up and he began hyperventilating before the hard, stubborn expression returned. He was still afraid of Kevin, Fiona thought, but he was more afraid of the medication. She wondered if the profession she had chosen for her life’s work simply bullied people into a conformity that robbed them of whatever life nature gave them. Sylvia didn’t consider Eddie’s dignity or his wishes; she thought only of getting into trouble. The rest of them were convinced that making Eddie a zombie was the best thing, but did they realize for whose benefit it was best? Perhaps worst of all, Eddie knew he was a zombie under medication.

Kevin, to do him credit, wanted to avoid forcing Eddie to take his medication. He looked at Fiona and made a sign, which at first she did not understand. When she did she felt herself blushing. His eyes and a slight nod towards Eddie told her that he wanted her to try to reason with Eddie because she too was a black person. Simultaneously she realized that her blackness was the reason she was empathizing with him and hoping he wouldn’t take the pills and that she knew racial solidarity could not take precedence over professional duty. She was in an absurd situation where she would have to play a role, not be herself. She was used to that, but it was a small consolation. She stepped forward and with a resignation she could not hide said, Eddie, you should take your medica-tion. Avoid trouble. Do what’s best.

He had called Mark a turncoat to his face. With her only his eyes spoke. He looked at her for a long moment, then turned away. It would be a long time, if ever, before he would ever trust her again.

But she didn’t have to continue the otiose exercise, for one of the attendants downstairs with the other residents came up to say that Eddie’s sister, Lucille Durham, was here. Someone had apparently phoned her. She came up immediately. Clearly a woman used to projecting a presence, she entered the room with stately grace. She was overweight, but instead of being a fault it contributed to her presence. Her face was classically African, and her large dark eyes brimmed with intelligence and authority. Her hair was very short, almost a crewcut, but it complemented perfectly her large gold earrings. She wore very bright colors, a yellow blouse, a purple skirt, and a lavender neckerchief above her massive bosom. Fiona was instantly intrigued. Her own complexion reflected her white blood. Her skin was light, tawny in color, and very smooth. Her black hair, also worn short just below the ears, was straight. Her most African features were her flat nose and thick lips, but nothing about her face compared to Lucille’s magnificence. She felt as if an African princess stood before her. Apparently she had the same effect on everybody else, for all stood aside as she made her way up to her brother. She went directly to him and gave him a kiss, then put her arm around him protectively. When they shifted position to talk to Kevin, she took her arm away but her hand sought his and clasped it. There was obviously a very strong bond between the two. Eddie relaxed the moment she appeared, and the tension that had filled the room was swallowed up by her presence. I know Eddie needs his medication, she said to Kevin in a sonorous voice, but I hope there will be no trouble.

I don’t think so, Kevin said. He spoke in a respectful and friendly tone. Obviously he knew and liked Lucille. If you want to talk to him, we’ll be glad to leave you in privacy.

She exchanged a glance with her brother that seemed to convey much wordless informa-tion. I don’t think that will be necessary. What would you like, Eddie?

His face softened so that he looked like a trusting child. I wish I could come home, he said plaintively.

I wish you could too, Eddie, but it’s not possible right now. I know that medication isn’t perfect, but it’s the best they have now. You know what I think?

What? His eyes widened in hope.

I think someday soon they’ll come up with a better pill. Until then you’re going to have to take the medication available. There’s one other thing, though. She turned to Kevin Blanchette. Is it possible to adjust the medication, give him less, so the effects aren’t so severe?

Kevin glanced at Eddie as he considered. Maybe a little. We could begin now after I consult with our psychiatric nurse.

As Fiona watched in admiration this black woman mastering the situation, the conviction had been growing on her that Lucille Durham wanted to talk to her. She had noticed Lucille observing her now and then. She seemed surprised to see a black woman among the attendants, but whether it was surprise or some other emotion, she was genuinely interested, and by that curious ability to read nonverbal signals that Fiona, as the only black person in Waska, Maine when she was growing up, had grown adept at perceiving, she was certain Lucille would draw her aside before she left. And she was right. After the medication was administered and everyone began dispersing, Lucille came up to her and asked, Could you walk me out after I say good-bye to Eddie? I’d like to talk to you.

Once outside and on the sidewalk, she said, Well, sister, you’re new here, I see.

Yes. I just started two weeks ago, just after finals were over at USM.

Lucille nodded, watching her with friendly interest. Uh huh, I see. Are you graduating or is this a summer job?

No. I mean yes, I’m graduating and it’s a regular job. It took seven years of both full time and working while going at night, but I’m finally graduating.

Congratulations! She smiled. It sounds like you really earned your degree. That means you must have really wanted it. I admire that. My name is Lucille Durham, by the way, she said, putting out her hand. You are…?

I’m Fiona Sparrow. Her handshake was firm, her gaze steady.

Your accent tells me you’re from Maine.

Fiona nodded. Yes, Waska. I was the only black person in town. My mother is a white woman from Waska. My father is from Boston, but I’ve never met him.

Oh, really? Does he know about you?

Fiona looked away. He did. I don’t know about now. In fact, I don’t even know if he’s alive.

Lucille followed her eyes down the street. Does that bother you?

Such a question, which Fiona would ordinarily regard as impertinent or prying, was so obviously good-hearted in intent that she answered without any hesitation. Sometimes. It used to bother me more, but what can I do?

Eddie and I didn’t have a father either. I understand. She flashed a radiant smile. I mean I really do. To tell the truth, you remind me of myself ten or fifteen years ago. I also graduated from USM, though I did it in four years because I had an aunt who helped me with money. But I went through the same kinds of struggle… She put her hand on Fiona’s shoulder. Now, sister, let me say that if you ever want to talk I can be reached at the city’s social services office. I know, you see, how it is to be the only black in an organization. People assume you’re there because of affirmative action. They expect you to be speaking jive and listening to hip-hop. They’re surprised when you speak standard English. They expect you to be incompetent. Do these things ring a bell with you?

Fiona nodded guardedly. They did ring a bell, but she didn’t like to talk about them.

Lucille seemed to understand her attitude. She spoke more generally when she said, Our liberation is far from complete. But we have a duty to the race. But perhaps you don’t agree? She smiled at the same time she raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Nervously Fiona returned the smile. I do. I felt a duty to Eddie, for instance. He knows the pills make him a zombie. He even used that word. When he had the problem, I was secretly hoping he wouldn’t take the medication. He wanted to paint, you see, and…

Lucille’s smile disappeared and she looked concerned. Well, Eddie is sick. I think Kevin is trying to do the best for him. He was a very intelligent and good student, but in high school he started having symptoms of schizophrenia. Sometimes I wonder why we all don’t have them. To be black in America is to be schizophrenic. She looked at her watch. Goodness gracious, look at the time! I’ve got to get home and cook supper. Our two kids are the reason I couldn’t handle Eddie anymore. They’re a handful, believe me. I had to let him go until the kids were older. But remember what I said—any time you want to talk. And keep an eye on Eddie for me.

To be black in America is to be schizophrenic.

Once alone Fiona began thinking about that remark until her head with filled with a thousand thoughts and memories. She knew from experience what that remark meant and remembered in high school how a similar remark by W .E. B. Du Bois had suddenly made clear to her the ubiquitous feeling of living a double life where what was said and done did not square with inner reality. She couldn’t recall Du Bois’s exact words, but it was something about always feeling your twoness—American and Negro; two souls, unreconciled desires in a dark body. Du Bois was also half white. Lucille, unlike her, self-confident and outgoing, was both an inspiration and a reprimand. Fiona admired her; she had never seen a black woman so strong that she dominated the room and its inhabitants; she made Fiona feel proud for her race and want to be her friend; but, she thought, suddenly filled with doubt, she would have to measure up. We have a duty to the race, Lucille had also said. That other remark implied that she regarded Fiona as a potential leader. Flattering, yes, but had she won enough victories over circumstances to lead by example or was she herself still in need of help? On thinking it over, she rather suspected that her life had been small and unheroic, failing more than achieving. She had learned very early the dangers of asserting herself. Children when angry think of the cruelest thing they can say to inflict pain. If a child was fat he would be called a ton of lard; if she wore glasses she would be called four-eyes. Fiona found in the first grade when she accidentally knocked a girl off a swing that the words reserved for her were stupid nigger. She wasn’t even sure what it meant but felt its force in the eyes of the surrounding children as some-thing that separated her and kept her from being normal. It brought stinging, childish tears as its immediate effect and the death inside of something vital and sustaining as its permanent effect. Ever afterwards she was careful not to assert herself or draw attention to herself. She learned to smile and be conciliatory, to defer to others: she learned to hide herself away. She was if anything the exact opposite of Lucille Durham.

Why? Because she was alone. Her mother, who was very supportive and often told her that it was us against the world, couldn’t help her, for her mother wasn’t with her at recess or when children played together after school. It wasn’t enough to have a mother, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, not when she was the only black in Waska. She grew up with the biggest reality in her life being the split between her real self hidden away and her physical self of tawny skin, flat nose and full lips. People saw those physical characteristics; they didn’t see her. Equally important, people being mirrors, she didn’t clearly see herself. That, she realized, was why Lucille’s remark about being black and schizophrenic resonated so powerfully in her mind. Nor, particularly when she was young, did she meet herself in books she read in school and at home. She identified somewhat with characters who were orphans or lost because they had cares, they didn’t fit in, they experienced estrangement. But literature did not speak to her. Only in high school did she grow personally interested in history and the social sciences because in those classes they frequently talked about black people in America, though even then she noticed the topic was always seen as a problem. From things she learned in school she started reading books by and about some of the black leaders who began and continued the long struggle for liberation— Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, W. E. B. Du Bois, Dr. Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X. The first time she was stirred to a mixture of pride and sadness in her race was when she read in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass that slaves never sang when they were happy but when they were most unhappy. Something of the strength and resilience of black people made her proud of her black blood for the first time in her life, even as she shed tears of sadness thinking of their burdens.

She kept that pride hidden away, however—she was sure no one in Waska would understand it—and so her real self was still submerged and hidden just as it was a mere hour ago when she didn’t dare to support Eddie’s desire to paint in peace. Internalized schizophrenia had solidified into a social role. Other more fundamental confusions existed then and still existed. Her mother’s love gave her a sanctuary of security even if not an identity. Nor did she always forget that most people were very nice and that she had many, many positive experiences growing up. Hundreds of times when she was a girl she played with her cousins and neighbors and was perfectly happy. In high school she played softball and field hockey and had many wonderful times, sometimes even experiencing pure joy. She loved the democratic ethos whereby every member of the team rooted for everyone else. Her teammates would greet her at home plate after she hit a home run with hugs, mob her when she scored a goal in field hockey, and be supportive friends with her at social gatherings. But while she remembered these good times, they did not outweigh some of the painful things that had happened to her. One that made her understand that bad experience made a deeper impression than positive experience, that pain was more vividly powerful than pleasure, happened when she was eight or nine and went with a group of girls to a friend’s house to swim in the family swimming pool, only to find when they got there and the mother saw her that the party was canceled. Some explanation was offered, but she knew and so did the other girls that the long conversation the mother had with her daughter before they came out to announce the cancellation was about her. That and memories of seeing people wipe their hands on their pants after touching her could still make her cringe. The other factor that could easily obscure her memories of positive experience was the ever-present subtle racism she had to endure. Often it was nothing more than people’s expectations or lack of expecta-tions of her—a teacher who would think she was not up to a challenge requiring mental acuity or creative intelligence, students when they broke into groups to do a project assigning her the simplest tasks, people who were surprised when she spoke articulately on some subject. One time when she was working in the town’s drugstore in high school a woman brought back some off-the-shelf nostrum and exchanged it for a less expensive one. Fiona had to deduct the amount from the refund and give the woman change. She had already done the math in her head and knew that from the $5.34 refund she was to take $4.60 and return 74¢, but the woman clearly thought such calculations were beyond her. Shouldn’t you get the manager? she asked, meaning: shouldn’t you get the white man. Such experiences constantly put her in situations where she had to prove herself, but because she was not demonstrative, she would never say anything even when she had proven herself.

This was the life in which Lucille had seen the promise of leadership. Fiona smiled wryly at herself, straining to keep her perspective and therefore her sense of humor. Exhorting herself to be assertive and self-confident did not begin today, though remembering how Lucille had wordlessly communicated with Eddie she hoped that the older and more experienced woman could see a potential in her that she herself could not see. If nothing else, to have another person believe in her was a gain. She had, after all, accomplished some things in her short life. There were many times when in exhaustion from going from work to school and from school to work, finding it almost impossible to find time to study and never the time to get a proper amount of sleep, she didn’t think she would ever get her degree, and yet now she had earned it and was even working in her field. As she walked back into Phoenix Landing, thinking that her workplace was aptly named, all in all she felt better.

Sylvia was waiting for her when she came in. Apparently she had seen the conversation with Lucille, for she asked what they were talking about. Nothing much, Fiona said, not at all pleased to feel she had been spied upon. She just wanted to make sure Eddie was being taken care of.

Is that why you stayed out there five minutes more? Thinking about Eddie?

Yes, Fiona said, now angry with herself for failing her first test of assertiveness. She wanted to tell Sylvia to go to hell and mind her own business, but knew she couldn’t. Why do you ask?

Sylvia shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Oh, no reason. I was just waiting to ask you if you’d like to go to Gritty McDuff’s for a beer after work.

Fiona suspected that she was still worried about getting into trouble, but with a slight chance that Sylvia simply wanted human contact, that she was lonely, she softened. Don’t worry. I’ll back you up if Kevin asks. Or has he already?

She shook her head and appeared hurt and nervous. I just thought having a beer would be relaxing after the blowup.

Sorry, Fiona said even more softly. I’m meeting my cousin and we’re going back to Waska. Maybe some other time.

She watched Sylvia walking upstairs to the attendants’ office with a feeling of helpless perplexity. How inscrutable human motivations were! Maybe it wasn’t lack of assertiveness that held her back but some half-seen, half-felt knowledge of human complexity. In that case doubt was more appropriate than willfulness. She knew even before reading Hamlet in her required literature class that doubt led to inaction. Maybe leaders were people with limited understanding. Maybe Lucille—but she stopped that line of reasoning. If Lucille was not genuinely insightful and knowledgeable, then nothing was sure. She sighed dramatically, still holding on to her humor and perspective as she went upstairs to finish filling in her log for the day. She briefly told her night replacement about Eddie and a few other items, then checked to make sure the camera the house owned had film in it because tomorrow she was going on a field trip with a group of residents to Portland Head Light and Prout’s Neck. The camera was ready for action, so her work-day and duties were done. She looked for Sylvia to say good-bye, but she was already gone. Kevin nodded to her from the inner office as she went out, a perfunctory nod that made her wonder if he was displeased with her efforts earlier. But that was to be too paranoid, she decided as she walked to Monument Square to meet her cousin. She had told a small lie to Sylvia when she said they were going back to Waska. They were, but first they planned to have dinner at the Tandoor Restaurant. Right now, however, she didn’t think about that lie or about Sylvia, for her head was still filled with Lucille and when not thinking of her inspirational example she thought about her cousin Marilyn and what she had been suggesting for the last month. The feeling grew upon her that today was going to decide much of her life for the coming years, and the realization made her feel very uneasy.

The square as always was filled with activity. Street kids and punks with lip rings, nose rings, eyebrow rings, probably rings in hidden places. Pigeons and gulls looking for handouts from little old ladies, others pecking at debris on the ground or in trash receptacles. Middle-class and working people waiting for buses, tourists with shopping bags bulging from L.L. Bean. She walked past the Grecian woman at the top of the Civil War monument, and waited across the street from the library for her cousin.

When Fiona was a girl she was best friend’s with Marilyn’s older sister Tammy, who was exactly her age. But Tammy was now in graduate school in Florida, and Marilyn, whose two fewer years had seemed enormously distant when they were young, had been growing closer to her cousin during the past few years. They commuted together in Marilyn’s car to Portland each day. Marilyn, who was in her second year of teaching the third grade at a public school in South Portland, had been living with a man in Waska until a few months ago when they broke up. Since then she had been hinting to Fiona that they should get an apartment together in Portland. Fiona lived at home with her mother, and at the age of twenty-five was tempted by Marilyn’s suggestion. What made her hesitate was her cousin’s well-deserved reputation as a predatory female who couldn’t live without a man. Rooming with her was likely to be a very impermanent arrangement that would last only as long as the time it took to find a new man.

Her power over men was strange. Though she had a big bust, she wasn’t very pretty in Fiona’s opinion. She was the power hitter for the Courtney Academy women’s softball team that Fiona and Tammy played on and looked it. She was muscular and heavy-thighed, but with a so-so face accented by clear milky skin, wavy light brown hair and stunning blue eyes—her best feature—she swept just about any man she took a fancy to off his feet and into her bed. Fiona suspected without any real proof that it was what happened there that gave her her power over the male sex.

While thinking about this, she was surprised to be awakened from her reverie by Marilyn herself, who was yelling at her as she came up, Fiona! Here I am! She was wearing a knee-length skirt and a white blouse with a pearl necklace at her throat as opposed to Fiona’s typical jeans and light blue jersey. You must be in quite a fog. I just drove right by you on the way to the parking garage. I yelled, waved, tooted, whistled and made faces—nothing. You just stood there.

Oh, Fiona said, I was thinking of something. We had an incident at Phoenix Landing today. I’ll tell you about it when we get to the restaurant.

Marilyn nodded, hardly listening. Her face brightened. Hey, guess who I heard from today? Tara Wright. Should we go directly to Tandoor to make sure we get a seat?

I guess so. What did Tara want?

She wants to get the softball team together for a reunion and, you know, play a game. It’s the seventh anniversary of our state championship game this weekend. What days did you say you had to work? She wants you to be there."

Saturday and Sunday. I have Memorial Day off.

Good. That’s what I told her. She thinks about ten or twelve from the team can make it—everyone who’s in Maine this summer. She knows Tammy can’t be here. We could have a game of five or six to a side, make right field foul, and have some fun. She’s also thinking of joining the summer league if enough want to. I think they only play slow-pitch, though. I’m not wild about that.

They were at the Tandoor Restaurant now. Upon entering the richly exotic atmosphere resplendent of eastern spices, they were glad to see plenty of seats were still available. One of the waiters came over and led them to a table, where they ordered a beer and samosas for an appetizer. The onion chutney that was one of the sauces that came with the samosas was Fiona’s favorite thing on the whole menu. At first they talked about playing softball this weekend. Fiona found herself looking forward to it as a break from routine and told Marilyn she’d probably be interested in playing in a league this summer even if it was only slow-pitch. Then after they had each ordered a chicken dish and enough raita and nan for both of them, Marilyn asked her about the incident at work that had put her into such a fog.

Well, it was stupid, Fiona said by way of beginning. It was one of the residents named Eddie. He hadn’t taken his medication in the morning—probably he held it under his tongue and then spit it out later—but he was quiet and minding his own business painting with acrylics up in the rec room. He just wanted to paint, you see. He was being quiet, not bothering anybody as I said, but the rules are the rules. An hour before dinner you put away what you’re doing and then break into groups to talk about the day with your attendant.

It’s too regimented, you mean.

Fiona nodded as she broke off a piece of nan and dipped it into the raita. I know these people need order in their lives, but really. Every second of every minute? We’re supposed to be teaching them to function in society, not prison.

But won’t they be unable to function without medication?

That’s true, but here it was really a separate issue. Eddie was okay until he was told to stop painting. I saw his point of view and agreed with it. If I was director I would allow residents the dignity to finish a task they had started. She took a mouthful of her chicken dish and chewed thoughtfully. I mean it’s so trivial, the interference. It demeans them. I’d like to say something at a staff meeting, but I know I don’t dare to.

Marilyn caught the waiter’s eye and asked for some more Masala tea. Well, you just got started. You don’t want to get the boss on your case. Miss Johnson, my principal, likes to have her own way. She’s a fussbudget and drives everyone crazy. She paused when the waiter returned with the tea; then after a sip and a satisfied sigh, she said, What I do is humor her, then do it my way.

It’s even worse, though. Because I’m black Dr. Blanchette thought I might have some influence on Eddie—

—You mean this Eddie is a black person?

Yes. So he asks me to talk to him, see? I had to say what I didn’t believe. It was awful.

Marilyn put her fork down and leaned forward, her face looking concerned. I wouldn’t blame yourself. Everyone has to do that at work some time or other. You’ve got to play the game according to the rules.

I just wish I’d be more, you know, assertive. It seems like I never say what I’m thinking or feeling.

Fiona, you’re shy, that’s all. Lots of people are shy.

It’s more than being shy. It’s being black. Eddie’s sister, Lucille Durham, is a wonderful, powerful woman. She works for the city in social services. You know what she told me?

Marilyn, looking up from sopping