“You’ve always loved tea — it will make you feel better.”
As Joan started from the room, she braced herself for whatever parting words her mother might have for her, but Emily said nothing more.
The eye of the storm,
Joan thought.
I feel like I’m in the eye of the storm.
And she knew that no matter which way she turned, the storm lay dead ahead.
* * *
THOUGH JOAN KNEW she was driving far more slowly than safety might demand, she made no effort at all to accelerate the Range Rover along the winding mile that separated Hapgood Farm from Granite Falls, ignoring Matt’s groans as half a dozen honking cars raced past them. The last traces of the pleasure she’d taken in the perfect autumn morning had gone up in the smoke of the fire, and the forest, which only a few hours ago had beckoned to her to spend the weekend basking in its splendor, now appeared to be closing around her, suffocating her. As she rounded the last curve and the town itself came into view, she slowed even more. Her eyes fixed for a moment on the sign announcing that the town had been founded in 1684, and she remembered her third grade teacher — Miss Rutherford, who had died just last year — explaining to her class that Granite Falls had begun as a fur-trapping outpost. It grew slowly over the centuries, retaining the tidy orderliness of so many small New England towns, sufficient unto itself and far enough from any major city that it never became inundated with weekenders and summer people.
She crossed the bridge over Granite Creek, which wound along the western edge of the town before meandering south through a corner of Hapgood Farm on its way to drain into the Merrimack River, a dozen miles southeast. As Joan turned onto Prospect Street and drove by the high school — as unchanged in the last century as everything else in Granite Falls — she found herself wondering once again why her parents had come here in the first place. All she really knew was that it had happened before either she or Cynthia was born, and that after her father left — when she was still too young to remember him — her mother had stayed. Even before the disease had robbed her of her memory, Emily Moore had steadfastly refused to talk about why her husband had left. As for why she herself had stayed in a town where almost everyone else had roots that went back generations, Emily only shrugged her thin shoulders. “There was a job here,” she said. “What was I supposed to do? I had two children to raise. I couldn’t leave.”
A trap,
Joan thought now, her grip tightening on the steering wheel as she pulled around the corner onto Burlington Avenue.
The whole town is a trap. Mother sounded just as trapped back then as I feel now. And today she looks like a trapped animal.
Another thought came to mind: Had the animals for whose hides the town had been built felt the same fear when the traps closed on them? But even as the idea came to her, Joan rejected it.
It’ll be all right,
she told herself.
Whatever happens with Mother, I’ll get through it, just like I’ve always gotten through things.
She braked the Range Rover to a stop in front of the house in which she’d grown up. The crowd, its enthusiasm for the fire quenched along with the flames themselves, had all but disappeared, though Ralph Gunderson was still chatting in his front yard with Phyllis Adams, who had come over from her house across the street. As soon as Joan saw the disapproving look on Phyllis’s face, she knew what her mother’s neighbors had been talking about. Phyllis confirmed it: “It’s such a shame, isn’t it? Of course, we’ve all known Emily shouldn’t have been living alone, haven’t we?”
Joan tried to ignore the sting of Phyllis’s words. As late as yesterday afternoon her mother had refused even to discuss the
As Joan started from the room, she braced herself for whatever parting words her mother might have for her, but Emily said nothing more.
The eye of the storm,
Joan thought.
I feel like I’m in the eye of the storm.
And she knew that no matter which way she turned, the storm lay dead ahead.
* * *
THOUGH JOAN KNEW she was driving far more slowly than safety might demand, she made no effort at all to accelerate the Range Rover along the winding mile that separated Hapgood Farm from Granite Falls, ignoring Matt’s groans as half a dozen honking cars raced past them. The last traces of the pleasure she’d taken in the perfect autumn morning had gone up in the smoke of the fire, and the forest, which only a few hours ago had beckoned to her to spend the weekend basking in its splendor, now appeared to be closing around her, suffocating her. As she rounded the last curve and the town itself came into view, she slowed even more. Her eyes fixed for a moment on the sign announcing that the town had been founded in 1684, and she remembered her third grade teacher — Miss Rutherford, who had died just last year — explaining to her class that Granite Falls had begun as a fur-trapping outpost. It grew slowly over the centuries, retaining the tidy orderliness of so many small New England towns, sufficient unto itself and far enough from any major city that it never became inundated with weekenders and summer people.
She crossed the bridge over Granite Creek, which wound along the western edge of the town before meandering south through a corner of Hapgood Farm on its way to drain into the Merrimack River, a dozen miles southeast. As Joan turned onto Prospect Street and drove by the high school — as unchanged in the last century as everything else in Granite Falls — she found herself wondering once again why her parents had come here in the first place. All she really knew was that it had happened before either she or Cynthia was born, and that after her father left — when she was still too young to remember him — her mother had stayed. Even before the disease had robbed her of her memory, Emily Moore had steadfastly refused to talk about why her husband had left. As for why she herself had stayed in a town where almost everyone else had roots that went back generations, Emily only shrugged her thin shoulders. “There was a job here,” she said. “What was I supposed to do? I had two children to raise. I couldn’t leave.”
A trap,
Joan thought now, her grip tightening on the steering wheel as she pulled around the corner onto Burlington Avenue.
The whole town is a trap. Mother sounded just as trapped back then as I feel now. And today she looks like a trapped animal.
Another thought came to mind: Had the animals for whose hides the town had been built felt the same fear when the traps closed on them? But even as the idea came to her, Joan rejected it.
It’ll be all right,
she told herself.
Whatever happens with Mother, I’ll get through it, just like I’ve always gotten through things.
She braked the Range Rover to a stop in front of the house in which she’d grown up. The crowd, its enthusiasm for the fire quenched along with the flames themselves, had all but disappeared, though Ralph Gunderson was still chatting in his front yard with Phyllis Adams, who had come over from her house across the street. As soon as Joan saw the disapproving look on Phyllis’s face, she knew what her mother’s neighbors had been talking about. Phyllis confirmed it: “It’s such a shame, isn’t it? Of course, we’ve all known Emily shouldn’t have been living alone, haven’t we?”
Joan tried to ignore the sting of Phyllis’s words. As late as yesterday afternoon her mother had refused even to discuss the
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