"Some of the time kids are just born with something," Doree said, unwisely. "You can't say it's the mother every time."
"Oh. Why can't I?"
"I didn't mean you. I didn't mean you can't. I meant couldn't they be born—"
"Since when are you such a medical authority?"
"I didn't say I was."
"No. And you're not."
Bad to worse. He wanted to know what they talked about, she and Maggie.
"I don't know. Nothing, really."
"That's funny. Two women riding in a car. First I heard of it. Two women talking about nothing. She is out to break us up."
"Who is? Maggie?"
"I've got experience of her kind of woman."
"What kind?"
"Her kind."
"Don't be silly."
"Careful. Don't call me silly."
"What would she want to do that for?"
"How am I supposed to know? She just wants to do it. You wait. You'll see. She'll get you over there bawling and whining about what a bastard I am."
And in fact it turned out as he had said. At least it would certainly have looked that way, to Lloyd. She did find herself at around ten o'clock one night in Maggie's kitchen, sniffling back her tears and drinking herbal tea. Maggie's husband had said, "What the hell?" when she knocked—she heard him through the door. He hadn't known who she was. She'd said, "I'm really sorry to bother you—" while he stared at her with lifted eyebrows and a tight mouth. And then Maggie had come.
Doree had walked all the way there in the dark, first along the gravel road that she and Lloyd lived on, then on the highway. She headed for the ditch every time a car came, and that slowed her down considerably. She did take a look at the cars that passed, thinking that one of them might be Lloyd. She didn't want him to find her, not yet, not till he was scared out of his craziness. Other times she had been able to scare him out of it herself, by weeping and howling and even banging her head on the floor, chanting, "It's not true, it's not true, it's not true," over and over. Finally he would back down. He would say, "O.K., O.K. I'll believe you. Honey, be quiet. Think of the kids. I'll believe you, honest. Just stop."
But tonight she had pulled herself together just as she was about to start that performance. She had put on her coat and walked out the door, with him calling after her, "Don't do this. I warn you!"
Maggie's husband had gone to bed, not looking any better pleased about things, while Doree kept saying, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, barging in on you at this time of the night."
"Oh, shut up," Maggie said, kind and businesslike. "Do you want a glass of wine?"
"I don't drink."
"Then you'd better not start now. I'll get you some tea. It's very soothing. Raspberry-camomile. It's not the kids, is it?"
"No."
Maggie took her coat and handed her a wad of Kleenex for her eyes and nose. "Don't try to tell me yet. We'll soon get you settled down."
Even when she was partway settled down Doree didn't want to blurt out the whole truth, and let Maggie know that she herself was at the heart of the problem. More than that, she didn't want to have to explain Lloyd. No matter how worn out she got with him, he was still the closest person in the world to her, and she felt that everything would collapse if she were to bring herself to tell someone exactly how he was, if she were to be entirely disloyal.
