The Stories of Richard Bausch by Richard Bausch

Author:Richard Bausch [Bausch, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-062-03638-4
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2003-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

CONSOLATION

Late one summer afternoon, Milly Harmon and her older sister, Meg, spend a blessed, uncomplicated hour at a motel pool in Philadelphia, sitting in the shade of one of the big umbrella tables. They drink tropical punch from cans, and Milly nurses the baby, staring out at the impossibly silver agitation of water around the body of a young, dark swimmer, a boy with Spanish black hair and eyes. He’s the only one in the pool. Across the way, an enormous woman in a red terry-cloth bikini lies on her stomach in the sun, her head resting on her folded arms. Milly’s sister puts her own head down for a moment, then looks at Milly. “I feel fat,” she says, low. “I look like that woman over there.”

“Be quiet,” Milly says. “Your voice carries.”

“Nobody can hear us,” Meg says. She’s always worried about weight, though she’s nothing like the woman across the way. Her thighs are heavy, her hips wide, but she’s big-boned, as their mother always says; she’s not built to be skinny. Milly’s the one who’s skinny. When they were growing up, Meg often called her “stick.” Sometimes it was an endearment and sometimes it was a jibe, depending on the circumstances. These days, Meg calls her “honey” and speaks to her with something like the careful tones of sympathy. Milly’s husband was killed last September, when Milly was almost six months pregnant, and the two women have traveled here to see Milly’s in-laws, to show them their grandchild, whom they have never seen.

The visit hasn’t gone well. Things have been strained and awkward. Milly is exhausted and discouraged, so her sister has worked everything out, making arrangements for the evening, preserving these few hours in the day for the two of them and the baby. In a way, the baby’s the problem: Milly would never have suspected that her husband’s parents would react so peevishly, with such annoyance, to their only grandson—the only grandchild they will ever have.

Last night, when the baby started crying at dinner, both the Harmons seemed to sulk, and finally Wally’s father excused himself and went to bed—went into his bedroom and turned a radio on. His dinner was still steaming on his plate; they hadn’t even quite finished passing the food around. The music sounded through the walls of the small house, while Milly, Wally’s mother and Meg sat through the meal trying to be cordial to each other, the baby fussing between them.

Finally Wally’s mother said, “Perhaps if you nurse him.”

“I just did,” Milly told her.

“Well, he wants something.”

“Babies cry,” Meg put in, and the older woman looked at her as though she had said something off-color.

“Hush,” Milly said to the baby. “Be quiet.” Then there seemed nothing left to say.

Mrs. Harmon’s hands trembled over the lace edges of the tablecloth. “Can I get you anything?” she said.

At the end of the evening she took Milly by the elbow and murmured, “I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive us, we’re just not used to the commotion.

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