There was silence as they thought about that.
“Makes sense to me,” said Myrna, at last. “When a woman commits to something she does it with both her heart and her head. Very powerful.”
“That was the point of the interview,” said The Wife. “Women rarely join terrorist cells, but Mossad agents are told if they raid a cell and there’s a female terrorist, kill her first because she’ll never surrender. She’ll be the most vicious one there. Merciless.”
“I really hate that thought,” said Dominique.
“So do I,” admitted The Wife. “But I think it might be true. Almost nothing could get me to hurt anyone, physically or emotionally, but I can see if I had to, I could. And it’d be awful.”
The last sentence was said with sadness, and Clara knew it to be the truth.
Had one of these women killed the Hermit after all? But why? What could have driven them to it? And what did she really know about them?
“Did you know Charlie’s speaking now?” said The Wife, changing the subject. “Thanks to Dr. Gilbert. He comes by once a week and works with him.”
“How kind.” A man’s voice spoke from the doorway. They looked over.
Marc Gilbert stood there, tall, lanky, his blond hair was cut to his scalp and his blue eyes were intense.
“Charlie can now say ‘boo’ and ‘shoo,’ ” said The Wife with enthusiasm.
“Congratulations,” Marc smiled. There was sarcasm there, and amusement.
Clara felt her back go up. How easy it was to dislike this smiling man.
She’d tried to like him, for Dominique’s sake, but it was a losing battle.
“I remember, my first word was ‘poo,’ ” she said to The Wife, who was looking at Marc, perplexed.
“Poo?” asked Myrna, jumping into the awkward silence. “Should I ask?”
Clara laughed. “I was trying to say ‘puppy.’ Came out as ‘poo.’ Then it became my nickname, everyone called me that for years. My father still does, sometimes. Did your father have a nickname for you, growing up?” Clara asked Marc, trying to break some of the tension.
“He was never around. Then he took off and that was that. So, no.”
The tension in the room rose.
“And now, it seems he’s found another family.” Marc stared at The Wife.
So that was it, thought Clara. Jealousy.
The Wife stared at Marc and Clara could see a flush spreading up her neck. Marc smiled, turned on his heels, and left.
“I’m sorry—” Dominique started to say to The Wife.
“It’s all right, he has a point actually. Old worships your father-in-law. I think he sees him as a sort of surrogate grandfather for Charles.”
“His own father doesn’t visit?”
“No. He died when Old was a teenager.”
“Must have been a fairly young man when he died,” said Myrna. “An accident?”
“He walked out onto the river one spring. The ice wasn’t as solid as he thought.”
She left it at that and it was far enough. Everyone in the room knew what must have happened. The cracking underfoot, the web of lines, the man looking down. Stopping. Standing still.
How far away the shore must seem when you’re on thin ice.
“Did they ever find him?” Myrna asked.
The Wife shook her head. “I think that’s the worst. Old’s mother’s still waiting for him.”
“Oh, God,” moaned Clara.
“Does Old?” Myrna asked.
“Think he’s still alive? No, thank God, but he doesn’t think it was an accident.”
Neither did Clara. It sounded deliberate to her. Everyone knew that walking on ice in spring was courting death.
And sure enough, the ice had broken under the father, as he knew it would, but his son had also lost his footing that day. And Vincent Gilbert had righted him. The Asshole Saint had stepped in and was helping Charlie, and helping Old. But at what cost?
Was that what she’d heard a few minutes ago in Marc Gilbert’s voice? Not sarcasm, but a small crack?
“What about you Clara?” Dominique asked, pouring more tea. “Are your parents still alive?”
“My father is. My mother died a few years ago.”
“Do you miss her?”
There was a question, thought Clara. Do I miss her?
“At times. She had Alzheimer’s at the end.” Seeing their faces she hurried to reassure them. “No, no. Strangely enough the last few years were some of our best.”
