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him.
    This was what Sharon saw reflected in the glass doors of her kitchen that evening: a blue table, the father of her children, her oldest, who looked nothing like her, her middle one with just a bit of her in the chin, her youngest exactly alike, as if child by child, she was becoming visible on the outside, frightening her with what she might be bringing to them. And last she turned her eyes to gaze at a good girl with long blonde hair framing her face, biting her fingernails.

CHAPTER
FIVE
    E leanor’s house was on a corner lot at Macklem and Lumley. It was big for this neighbourhood, renovated, with a garage attached, the porch painted in shades of purple, a dream catcher with wind chimes hanging from a hook above the door, the chimes ringing in the wind that brought rain Saturday morning and snow in the evening. Sharon walked over, pulling the children’s wagon, in it plastic containers of soup and stew. She carried the food up first, then brought the wagon up the stairs, leaving it on the porch as she tried the door. Unlocked. Not unusual in Seaton Grove. Bending down, Sharon stacked the containers one on top of another, using her chin to balance them as she straightened up and walked in.
    Eleanor’s husband, Bram, had knocked down all the non-weight-bearing walls to make the most of a long but narrow space. A grouping of two couches and an armchair was at the front end where stairs led to the second floor. Here a bay window faced the street. The dining area was at the far end on the right, the galley kitchen on the left, separated bya counter. Beyond the round dining table, a window overlooked the backyard and a door led outside to it. Knickknacks were everywhere, on shelves, on the ledge of the bay window, on top of the stereo, all of them dusted. A rubber-tree plant loomed in the front corner, the great green leaves wiped clean every day. Goldfish swam around in a glass bowl on an end table. It was a room that belonged to people who worked with their hands in practical ways, painting porches not pictures, or rewiring houses as Eleanor’s husband did. There were a few of these still around in Seaton Grove, a mechanic on Lumley, a couple of retired construction workers in the houses that had been refaced with white stone on Ontario Street.
    “Eleanor?” It had taken Sharon a moment to realize that the house was full of women.
    “Oh good, you’re here.” Eleanor bustled toward her. She was wearing one of her plus-sized outfits that came with a plus price tag, a silk scarf and matching earrings. “Do you have any idea where I put the corkscrew? I can’t find it anywhere and you always know where things are.”
    Sharon paused, ignoring the sound of chatter in the living room, a picture forming in her head: Eleanor in the kitchen, trying to do too many things at once. “Try the oven,” she said.
    “The oven?”
    “That’s what comes to mind.”
    “Okay, you’ve got the magic. I’ll check. Let me help you with that,” she said, taking the containers out of her arms. Sharon clung to her coat, under it a cashmere sweater, ancient, shrunken but warm.
    The other moms circulated, voices low and slow, faces serious. They’d come with food and cards, and were dressed in dark clothing as if to make amends for their relief that the tragedy wasn’t theirs, for enjoying this unexpected night out, for being nosy, for feeling superior. They stood in groups of three or four, breaking apart and reforming around the couches at one end, the dining room table at the other. On the kitchen counter, wine glasses were lined up.
    I like this tulip shape, especially for red wine. And a good size. You don’t want to look cheap. My new wine glasses are all ten ounces. It must be so hard on the family. You never get over that kind of loss. Life has to go on. I heard … You heard? I heard that Heather’s tried this before. Then why would they keep a gun in the house? They didn’t. She stole it. You can’t stop someone if