The Cove

at her grandmother. "Uncle Geoffrey was born with Down's syndrome. It has nothing to do with mental illness."

    "Yes, but it perhaps shows that instability can be somewhat genetic, passed down from a mother or a father to the daughter. But that's not important. What's important is getting you back to that nice sanitarium so Doctor Beadermeyer can treat you. Before your father died, he called us every week to tell us how much better you were getting. Well, there were weeks with setbacks, but he said that in the main, you were improving with the new drug therapies."

    What could she say to that? Tell them all the truth as she remembered it and watch their faces go from disbelief to fury on her account? Not likely.

    She saw the years upon years of inflexibility, the utter rigidity, in her grandmother. She remembered what Aunt Amabel had told her about when Noelle had come home, beaten by her husband, when Sally was just a baby. How they hadn't believed Noelle.

    It had always been there, of course, this rigidity, but since Sally had seen her grandmother so infrequently, she'd never had it turned on her. More clearly than ever, Sally could see now how her grandmother had treated her daughter Noelle when she'd come here begging for help. She shuddered.

    "Well," her grandfather said, all hale and hearty, so good-natured, so weak, "it's good to see you, dear. I know you don't have time to stay, do you? Why not let us send you back to Washington? Like your grandmother said, this Beadermeyer fellow seemed to be doing you a great deal of good."

    She looked from one to the other. Her grandfather, as tall as James, or at least he used to be, a man who had lived his life by a set of rules of his wife's making-or perhaps his father's-a man who didn't mind if someone strayed from the proper course but who wouldn't defend that person if his wife was anywhere near.

    She'd always believed him so dear, so kind, but he wasn't coming anywhere near her, either-God, she wondered what he really thought of her. She wondered why he had that tight, mean mouth. She said, "I was in The Cove. I stayed for a while with Aunt Amabel."

    "We don't speak of her," her grandmother said, taller now because her back had gotten stiffer. "She made her bed and now she must-"

    "She's very happy."

    "She can't be. She disgraced herself and her family, marrying that absurd man who painted for a living, painted pictures!

    "Aunt Amabel is an excellent artist."

    "Your aunt dabbled at many things, nothing more. If she were a good painter, then why haven't we heard of her? You see, no one has. She lives in this backwater town and exists on a shoestring. Forget about Amabel. Your grandfather and I are sorry you saw her. We can't give you money, Susan. I'm sure your grandfather would agree. Surely you understand why."

    She looked her grandmother right in the eye. "No, I don't understand. Tell me why you won't give me money."

    "Susan, dear," her grandmother said, her voice all low and soothing, "you're not well. We're sorry for it and a bit stunned, since this sort of thing has never before been in the family except, of course, for your uncle Geoffrey.

    "We can't give you money because you could use it to hurt yourself even more. If you would just sit down here, even stay the night, we will call Doctor Beader-meyer and he can come and get you. Trust us, dear."

    "Yes, Susan, trust us. We've always loved you, always wanted the best for you."

"You mean the way you sent your daughter, my mother, back to a man who beat her?"

    "Susan!"

    "It's true, and both of you know it. He beat the living shit out of her whenever he felt like it."

    "Don't use that kind of word in front of your grandmother, Susan," her grandfather said, and she saw that mouth of his go stern and tight.

    She just looked at him, wondering why she'd even come here, but still, she had to try. She had to have money.

    "I tried to protect Noelle for years, but I couldn't save her because she let him do it-do you hear me?-Noelle let him beat her. She was just like all those pathetic women you hear about."

    "Don't be stupid, Susan," her grandmother said in a voice that could have crushed gravel. "Your grandfather and I have discussed this, and we know that battered wives are weak and stupid women. They're dependent. They have no motivation. They have no desire to better themselves. They aren't able to leave their situations because they've bred like rabbits and the men they're married to drink and