Page 108 of Old Money

“Well, as long as you didn’tmeanit.” She recenters herself on the sofa, anger burning bright in every gesture. “Go on then, Alice, out with it. Fire away.”

I knit my hands together in my lap, and give them a tight squeeze.

“First, I’d like to know why he called you.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What do you mean? What did he say?”

“He said a number of things, none of which is your business.”

She turns toward the wall again and exhales a fiery breath through her nose.

“I’m not asking for every detail,” I say. “But I do need to know.”

“You don’t, actually. You’ll survive.”

I can feel myself shrinking and squeeze my hands tight again.

“If you tell me, I’ll go. I won’t bother you again.”

I wait for her to cross her arms and tell me not to be maudlin. But she doesn’t even look at me.

“I think he—” Barbara sighs at herself, annoyed. “Alice, I really do not appreciate this.”

I hold my ground and fight the instinct to apologize. Again.

“I’ll tell you what I recall, but only because I’d like this conversation finished sooner rather than later. Are we clear?”

I nod.

“Honestly, I think he called so he could say he called. So he could tell himself he’d made the effort. He’s getting married and racked with guilt, naturally. So he called to ‘acknowledge’ how hard it must be for me.”

Barbara looks up, rolling her eyes.

“God,” I say, repulsed as well. “That is—gross.”

“Agreed.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘That’s very big of you, Patrick. Kindly fuck off, and congratulations.’ ”

A bubble of pride swells in my chest. I hope she did actually say some of that.

“Oh, you know, I told him it was fine,” Barbara says, waving a hand. “It makes no difference if he’s married or not. It won’t change anything that matters.”

I see the tears now, slipping down her cheeks and under her chin. She clutches a hand to her throat.

“It’s not right though,” I say, sadness clouding my own anger. “You being so fair to him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, good Lord, Alice, no one gets what they deserve. None of us did.”

She gestures at the air between us.

“Your generationastonishesme,” she blusters, her eyes still tearing. “This righteous obsession with justice—as if you invented the concept! As if you were the first people on earth to look around and realize things aren’t as they should be.”

“Okay?” I say, my shoulders slowly rising. “I don’t know. Kids these days.”