47.

Grandma Pencil was banished. No dramatics. No tears. No protestations.

After fully processing the thrust of her argument—that Misty had offed herself with her prescription pills—Murray simply said, “You aren’t welcome here.”

Very politely, he escorted Grandma out the front door. She didn’t resist. As she hobbled onto the screened-in porch, Murray added, “And not just to night, Annabelle. I mean never. You’re not welcome again.”

She didn’t say a word.

Toby and Audrey applauded from the top of the stairs. They sang, “Ding-dong, the witch is dead! Which old witch? The wicked witch!” And so on.

Murray didn’t celebrate. There was no happiness in exiling his mother-in-law. He didn’t hate her. He pitied her. In his mind, there was scant difference between her and the poor suckers who’d sipped from the Guyana punch bowl. It must have gnawed at him that he’d allowed his own children to be brought into that fold.

However, Toby wasn’t a problem. He was a “dim bulb,” in Murray’s words. Toby never memorized the prayers, never understood what he was singing. “That’s a lot of lyrics!” he exclaimed. On Sunday mornings he could always think of something better to do than cramming into a pew and chanting along with a pipe organ: work the bag at Tony’s; wrestle a homeless guy; do one-handed pushups in front of the new cheerleader. Besides, that whole kneel-stand-kneel-stand routine? Such a tease! So close to exercise without actually being exercise.

Toby’s post-high-school plan was to abandon college in favor of a full-time job where he could “act like a man and lift some things.”

Yes, as far as religion was concerned, Murray didn’t have to fret about his first-born. Toby was a Mapes, through and through.

But then there was McKenna. McKenna the boyish. “Kenny” the virgin, the recluse. McKenna who’d kissed only two boys and had only “made out” with one of them. McKenna who’d never worn makeup, never gone to a prom, never understood why dresses and high heels were “womanly” but reading philosophy was not.

McKenna who’d graduated from St. Monica’s in eighth grade and then accepted, against Murray and Misty’s wishes, Grandma’s offer to pay for her Catholic Central High tuition. (Toby had said “Thanks, but no thanks” and gone to Creston Public.)

McKenna who in her senior year had begun a formal conversion to Catholicism. Catechism classes. Bible study. McKenna who was now enrolled for the fall semester at Aquinas College.

Grandma Pencil vanished from the Mapeses’ lives. Truth told, Grandma Pencil was happy to leave. Her possessions—four pairs of shoes, two purses, a set of dentures, her house keys, credit cards, lipstick, pocket mirror—had begun disappearing again. Grandma knew perfectly well where these items had gone, but she could never prove it. Good riddance to evil was Grandma’s attitude. More time to spend with my geezers.

Audrey was ecstatic. She’d slain the dragon. She’d avenged her mother’s death. That pruny bitch couldn’t piss on Mom’s memories so easily. Suicide, indeed! The very thought!

Audrey refused to believe it. So did Toby. But still, the idea had been spoken. And from Misty’s own mother, no less. The utterance alone made it a possibility. So the notion remained, nestled in the corners of the children’s thoughts. While showering, while dressing for work, while pumping triceps, while playing Atari 5200, while sitting quietly at the front window to watch the storm thrash the trees—at any given moment the idea was whispered by the wretched little goblin in their heads: Your mommy killed herself. Your mommy killed herself.

Questions crept in: If she had done it . . . then what? What would this mean? Pondering the implications, even hypotheti-cally, was unbearable. Still, the voice whispered:

She wanted to leave. She was miserable. She didn’t love you. You made her die.

Individually, McKenna, Toby, and Audrey all revisited moments with their mother. The smallest memory was scrutinized.

A day at the dentist. She pats your hand in the waiting room, says, “You’ll be fine.” You pull your hand away and pretend to read Cosmopolitan.

A Saturday, helping her fold socks on her bed. You get called away by the telephone. It’s Ronald Urbane, the boy who will, days later, sweet talk you into kissing him behind the school. When you return, Mom is gone and the laundry basket is empty.

A Christmas morning, her somnolent smile as she unwraps the cheesy fake gold necklace you bought at the mall for $8.95. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she says. She brushes a strand of hair from her mouth. Takes a sip of her hot cocoa. No hug? She gave Toby a hug when she opened his present.

Where was it? Where was the clue, the moment she crossed from happiness to other ?

Shouldn’t we have seen it? What did we do to make our mom hate life so much? Can’t we take it back?

I take it back.