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a child? And if I did survive? What then? I had never thought of myself as a mother. Why hadn’t I?
    Matthew was entirely occupied with his work and perhaps did not notice his wife’s mortal fear. And then—rather quickly—his case was won. Of course Matthew was the younger, assisting prosecutor. Nonetheless, it was quite an impressive and celebrated win for such a young attorney. Do you remember? McFarlene was hanged in New Haven. Matthew was even present for the execution—can you imagine? Despite—or perhaps because of—my own (I presumed) imminent death, I longed to hear the details.
    Was there a look of dread or a look of peace on McFarlene’s face as he walked his final steps? Did he have any last words? Did his neck make a snapping noise after the trap was sprung? Is it true that the eyes bulge out in the terminal moments? Is it a purely physical response to the rope’s constriction, or is it perhaps a final begging sort of gesture—begging to see just one more moment of life on Earth?
    I suppose Matthew would not have been able to answer about the eyes since the convict’s face is always covered. In any case, he would not have wished to answer any such questions. He surely would have been troubled to hear them out of the mouth of his sweet young bride. Besides, my condition made him regard me with even more delicacy than before.
    Once the “unpleasant business” (as Matthew often called the execution) was over, Matthew was entrusted with ever more important cases. We enjoyed a respectable, even enviable, position in New Haven society.
    We were the model of a happy young family, poised for even more auspicious times. At least, I believe that is how we appeared . There was a darkness growing inside me by then, however. I hid it well, but I pictured it often as a black tulip—like the ones I used to see with Father at his friend Mr. Cogdill’s grand greenhouse.
    Strong and pointed foliage unfurling. Petals with all the beauty of a crow’s plumage.

 
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    Chapter 11
    Haverton, Connecticut
    December 5, 2014
    T he wind was freezing, but the sun was shining. And we needed paper towels. At least, as much as you could really need paper towels. It was a decent enough excuse to walk to the nearby convenience store. Lucy was usually pretty happy rolling around in her covered stroller, and I was usually happy if there was a coffee in its cupholder—even if it was convenience store coffee.
    I made my way back slowly, pushing the stroller one-handed as I sipped. As I took the corner to our street, the stroller’s plastic wheels groaned painfully over the gravel on the sidewalk and refused to straighten. I had to put down the coffee for a moment and use both hands to reorient the stroller in the right direction. Coffee splattered out of the cup’s little sip-hole, and I muttered a couple of curse words under my breath.
    As I picked up the cup and continued toward home, I saw that our neighbor was watching me from her driveway.
    Patty, I had to remind myself. She looked so uncannily like Liza Minnelli that L names always came to my head first when I grasped for her name.
    â€œTiiiii-naaaaaah” Patty called when she saw me looking back at her. Patty seemed to keep her cat on a tight meal schedule. “Time for breakfast!” “Time for lunch!” “Time for din-din!” she called consistently at eight, one, and six o’clock. Chad had recently claimed that he’d heard her calling “Tina, time for your bath!” Patty—who was divorced, in her sixties, and, in her words, “still waiting for grandbabies”—always seemed eager to interact with Lucy.
    â€œHi there,” I called as we approached her driveway.
    â€œHello,” Patty said. “I saw you walk by when you left. I hope you two didn’t go too far in this windy weather.”
    â€œJust to SmartMart.”
    Patty nodded. “Can I say