Crossroads

“It was … I’m not explaining it right. Santa was … Santa wasn’t … I could see that it was only an illusion. It was just some cowboy in a Santa suit, not … And somehow that, plus the girls—I was sharing in someone else’s joy and wonder. I knew it was only an illusion, but because it was only an illusion I could be an innocent little girl again myself. And that mattered so much to me, and Russ didn’t get it. I was screaming at him, just out of control. I hated him, and I could see I was scaring the daylights out of him, and I said to myself, nope, never going to do that again, ever. And you know what? I never did. Tomorrow will be exactly twenty-five years that I’ve been keeping my mouth shut.”

The dumpling seemed preoccupied. She glanced over her shoulder at the falling snow. “I’m sorry if this is a difficult question,” she said. “But I feel I have to ask again. Is there something important you’re not telling me?”

A coldness surged in Marion. “What kind of thing.”

“I’m not quite sure. There was just—something in your tone of voice. I’ve thought I might have heard it once or twice before, and just now I heard it again, very clearly. I’m not saying I’m a world-class practitioner. And, by the way, in case you didn’t know, I don’t believe in Just So stories. I don’t believe there’s a single key that unlocks everything. But when I’ve heard that particular tone of voice in the past, it often turns out that the patient has experienced a particular kind of trauma.”

The dumpling was relentless.

“My father killed himself,” Marion said. “My mother didn’t love me. I lost my mind. Is that not enough?”

“No, that’s a lot,” Sophie said. “And I definitely hear that in your voice, too. But that’s the funny you. That’s the you who survived a rotten childhood and the aftermath of that and made adjustments, made a good life for yourself, found a way to cope with the turmoil in your head. That’s the survivor in you. What I was hearing was something else, and I’m not saying I’m right. I’m just asking.”

Marion looked at her watch. She was two minutes past the end of their second “hour.” As if the little office were the living room of a certain red bungalow, she stood up hastily and took her coat off the hook. She jammed one arm and then the other into its sleeves. She still had time to run home, raid her hosiery drawer, and buy something nicer for Perry. For twenty-five years, she’d believed that her life with Russ was the blessing she’d received from a forgiving God, a blessing she’d earned by her years of Catholic prayer and penance, a life she continued to earn daily by suppressing the badness in her and keeping her mouth shut. It was true that she’d lately hated Russ at least as much as she still loved him; there was little reason to keep pretending for his sake. But she loved Perry more than ever. His suffering, for which her side of the family was responsible, was the punishment that God had waited three decades to inflict on her.

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” the dumpling said from behind her. “Costa and I are here until five.”

Marion faced the door, her hand on the knob. The office was godless, and she knew what God expected of her. She needed to devote herself to Perry and begin atoning for her sins. And yet to leave the office was to relinquish all hope of getting better.

“Maybe you should tell me about Santa,” Sophie said.

“Oh, there’s Perry,” Frances Cottrell said, waving. “Speak of the devil.”

Seeing the pale yellow locks of his son at the corner of Maple Avenue, not twenty seconds after he and Frances had made a clean getaway from First Reformed, Russ was tempted to drive through the stop sign, but the township police station was right across the street. He braked and made himself turn and look where Frances was waving, so as not to seem guilty. Perry was standing on the sidewalk, all-seeing, a plastic bag in his hand. Russ held his gaze for a moment and stepped hard on the gas.

Speak of the devil?

“He’s an impressive kid,” Frances said. “I think Larry’s got a little crush on him.”

Beyond Maple, the speed limit on Pirsig Avenue could safely be broken. Luckier snowflakes were blindly evading the Fury while others met their end on the windshield. If Perry had been standing anywhere but at the stop sign, he might not have seen that Russ’s only passenger was Frances. Now Russ could only hope that Perry would forget; and there was little chance of that.