The Love of a Good Woman

little time alone with Ian. It’ll be hell with them in the airport.”
    Sophie said, “I’m tempted.”
    So in the end that was what she did.
    Now Eve had to wonder if she herself had engineered that little change just so she could get to talk to Philip.
    (Wasn’t it a big surprise when your dad phoned from California?
    He didn’t phone. My mom phoned him
.
    Did she? Oh I didn’t know. What did she say?
    She said, “I can’t stand it here, I’m sick of it, let’s figure out some plan to get me away.”)
    E VE dropped her voice to a matter-of-fact level, to indicate an interruption of the game. She said, “Philip. Philip, listen. I think we’ve got to stop this. That truck just belongs to some farmer and it’s going to turn in someplace and we can’t go on following.”
    “Yes we can,” Philip said.
    “No we can’t. They’d want to know what we were doing. They might be very mad.”
    “We’ll call up our helicopters to come and shoot them.”
    “Don’t be silly. You know this is just a game.”
    “They’ll shoot them.”
    “I don’t think they have any weapons,” said Eve, trying another tack. “They haven’t developed any weapons to destroy aliens.”
    Philip said, “You’re wrong,” and began a description of some kind of rockets, which she did not listen to.
    W HEN she was a child staying in the village with her brother and her parents, Eve had sometimes gone for drives in the country with her mother. They didn’t have a car—it was wartime, they had come here on the train. The woman who ran the hotel was friends with Eve’s mother, and they would be invited along when she drove to the country to buy corn or raspberries or tomatoes. Sometimes they would stop to have tea and look at the old dishes and bits of furniture for sale in some enterprising farm woman’s front parlor. Eve’s father preferred to stay behind and play checkers with some other men on the beach. There was a big cement square with a checkerboard painted on it, a roof protecting it but no walls, and there, even in the rain, the men moved oversized checkers around in a deliberate way, with long poles. Eve’s brother watched them or went swimming unsupervised—he was older. That was all gone now—the cement, even, was gone, or something had been built right on top of it. The hotel with its verandas extending over the sand was gone, and the railway station with its flower beds spelling out the name of the village. The railway tracks too. Instead there was a fake-old-fashioned mall with the satisfactory new supermarket and wineshop and boutiques for leisure wear and country crafts.
    When she was quite small and wore a great hair bow on top of her head, Eve was fond of these country expeditions. She ate tiny jam tarts and cakes whose frosting was stiff on top and soft underneath, topped with a bleeding maraschino cherry. She was notallowed to touch the dishes or the lace-and-satin pincushions or the sallow-looking old dolls, and the women’s conversations passed over her head with a temporary and mildly depressing effect, like the inevitable clouds. But she enjoyed riding in the backseat imagining herself on horseback or in a royal coach. Later on she refused to go. She began to hate trailing along with her mother and being identified as her mother’s daughter. My daughter, Eve. How richly condescending, how mistakenly possessive, that voice sounded in her ears. (She was to use it, or some version of it, for years as a staple in some of her broadest, least accomplished acting.) She detested also her mother’s habit of dressing up, wearing large hats and gloves in the country, and sheer dresses on which there were raised flowers, like warts. The oxford shoes, on the other hand—they were worn to favor her mother’s corns—appeared embarrassingly stout and shabby.
    “What did you hate most about your mother?” was a game that Eve would play with her friends in her first years free of home.
    “Corsets,” one girl would say, and another would say, “Wet aprons.”
    Hair nets. Fat arms. Bible quotations. “Danny Boy.”
    Eve always said. “Her corns.”
    She had forgotten all about this game until recently. The thought of it now was like touching a bad tooth.
    Ahead of them the truck slowed and without signalling turned into a long tree-lined lane. Eve said, “I can’t follow them any farther, Philip,” and drove on. But as she passed the lane she noticed the gateposts. They were unusual, being shaped