“No shit,” Hannah said, but her voice was uncharacteristically little-girlish.
“Ruth said you’d say that!” Harry told her.
Okay, now I get it—who wouldn’t get it? Hannah was thinking. I wish I’d met him first! Hannah was really thinking. But a part of her, which always undermined her outward and only seeming self-confidence, told Hannah that even if she had met Harry first, he wouldn’t have been interested in her—at least not for more than one night.
“It’s nice to meet you, Harry,” was all that Hannah was able to say.
Eddie saw Ruth coming outside to greet them, her arms wrapped around herself in the cold. She’d spilled some flour on her jeans, and there was a touch of flour on her forehead, where she’d pushed aside her hair with the back of her hand.
“Hi!” Ruth called to them.
Hannah had never seen Ruth look like this; it was something beyond being happy.
It’s what love is, Eddie realized; he’d never felt so depressed. Looking at Ruth, Eddie wondered what had ever made him think she resembled Marion—how had he even imagined he could be in love with her?
Hannah glanced back and forth; at first covetously, at Harry—then enviously, at Ruth. They’re in fucking love! she realized, hating herself.
“You’ve got flour on your forehead, baby,” Hannah told Ruth, kissing her. “Did you hear that sound?” Hannah whispered to her old friend. “My panties, sliding to the ground—no, actually hitting the ground!”
“Mine, too,” Ruth told her, blushing.
Ruth’s got it, Hannah thought—the life she’s always wanted. She’s got it. But all Hannah said to Ruth was: “I gotta wash my hair, baby. And maybe put on a little makeup.” (Hannah had stopped looking at Harry—she simply couldn’t look at him.)
Then Graham burst out the kitchen door and ran to them. He grabbed Hannah around her hips, almost knocking her down; it was a welcome distraction. “Who’s this brat?” Hannah cried. “This can’t be my very own godkid —he’s too big! Who is this brat!”
“It’s me! It’s Graham !” Graham yelled.
“ You can’t be Graham—you’re too big !” Hannah told him, picking hi
m up and kissing him.
“Yeah, it’s me—it’s Graham!” Graham shouted.
“Say ‘yes’ not ‘yeah,’ baby,” Hannah whispered to the boy.
“Yes, it’s me—it’s Graham!” the boy repeated.
“Come show me to my room, Graham,” Hannah said to him. “And help me turn on the shower, or the bathtub—I gotta wash my hair.”
“Have you been crying, Hannah?” the boy asked. Ruth looked at Hannah, who looked away. Harry and Eddie were standing by the kitchen door, admiring Harry’s woodpile-in-progress.
“Are you okay?” Ruth asked her friend.
“Yeah. Eddie just asked me to live with him, only he didn’t mean it that way,” Hannah added. “He just wanted me to be his roommate.”
“That’s odd,” Ruth remarked.
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it!” Hannah told her, kissing Graham again.
Graham felt heavy in Hannah’s arms—she wasn’t used to carrying a four-year-old. Hannah turned toward the house to find her room, to take a shower or a bath, to soak herself in her freshest memory of what love looked like—just in case it might one day happen to her.
It wouldn’t happen, Hannah knew.
A Happy Couple, Their Two Unhappy Friends
Ruth Cole and Harry Hoekstra were married on Thanksgiving morning in the hardly used living room of Ruth’s Long Island house. Ruth could think of no better way to say good-bye to the house than to get married in it. The front and upstairs halls were lined with stacks of cardboard boxes, which were labeled for the movers. Every piece of furniture was tagged with either a red or a green tag; red meant that the movers should leave it, green meant they should take it to Vermont.
In the event that the Sagaponack house was still not sold by the summer, Ruth would rent it. She’d tagged most of the furniture to stay; she didn’t even like most of it. The house in the Hamptons had never been a happy one for Ruth, except when she’d lived there with Allan. (She rarely associated Allan with the Vermont house, which was just as well.)