Mark Dunn - We Five

“I could see him doing just that. But I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want another mocha?”

“Maybe. Tell me your favor first.”

Cain leaned over and lowered his voice. “I want you to hold off telling Mags and the rest of them what’s going on — for just a little while longer. Jerry and Will and Tommy — even though they wouldn’t have proof it came from me, they’d still pin it on me and then I’d be royally screwed. But that’s just part of the favor.”

Ruth sat up in her seat. “I’m not gonna sleep with you, Cain, to help you win your game.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. I just need you to pretend like we did.”

“Now that sounds like something straight out of the Archie comic books— Millennium edition.”

“I’m not looking to win the game. Screw the game. I just want to come out of this whole thing in one piece.”

“Well, I’m not so sure you could have won if you’d tried. Even with Mags and now Carrie off the field, you’ve still got Jane and Molly. Jane’s bat-shit crazy about Tommy — go figure — and Molly seems to be very fond of your friend Pat. And neither of those two, I predict, will be losing their virginity in a quiet way. I see champagne, fireworks, and a real circus atmosphere to the proceedings.”

“How do you know they’re virgins?”

Ruth smiled. “We Five have lived disturbingly sheltered lives. Your four friends showed up just as my four friends decided it was time to pack up and sneak out of the convent.”

Cain took a deep breath. “All right, then, we’re gonna have to really put our heads together to come up with something comparably convincing.”

Ruth nodded. Cain and Ruth looked at one another for a moment without speaking. Then Cain burst into laughter. He shook his head and said, “This is such bullshit.”

Ruth grinned. “Do you think ?”

“But I appreciate that you were willing to help me out.”

“You’re welcome.” Ruth finished off the rest of her caffé mocha. “So what are you gonna do?”

Cain shook his head. “I don’t know yet. But this shouldn’t be your problem. It was wrong for me to even think of lassoing you into it.”

Ruth was still smiling. “I wouldn’t have done it for free, Mr. Pardlow. You would have been required to buy me a generous number of mocaccinos and cranberry scones. Don’t those scones look good?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, and get something for yourself. I hate to eat alone.”

That night, Carrie and Molly sat in the I.C.U. waiting room watching television in the company of a large family whose father had just undergone triple bypass surgery. Even though most of the country was tuned to Suddenly Susan , which had the good fortune to come on after the very popular Friends , Carrie and Molly and the Coombes family of Coldwater, Mississippi, were tuned into a different network — and specifically to a program called Living Single , largely because the character played by Queen Latifah reminded the younger members of the family of their ambitious and outspoken Aunt Vertice.

It was Carrie who saw him first: standing in the doorway, peering into the room and looking like somebody who wasn’t sure if he was in the right place. She touched Molly on the arm and pointed.

Molly and Pat made eye contact. He smiled and walked over to where Molly and Carrie were sitting. “Real sorry to hear about your mother,” he said to Carrie, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the rest of the group parked in front of the television.

Carrie managed a small, appreciative smile.

“Is the cafeteria downstairs still open? I wanna buy you both a cup of coffee.”

“You two go on,” said Carrie, making a gentle shooing gesture toward the door. “I should probably stay here.” With a nod to the television: “I think Régine’s mother is about to give her baby the business for being such a terrible snitch.”

“You got that right, girl!” confirmed Mama Coombes, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Tulleford, England, August 1859

Lucile Mobry smiled, and in doing so presented seven very bright white teeth and one that was brown and wanted looking after. “Your timing, my dear Maggie, is most impeccable, for only yesterday my brother opened the doors of this house to all the members of our church — did your mother not tell you? — in a long delayed fete of welcome for the new minister. These rooms were filled with such resounding joy and unity of the spirit, and very nearly everything I could seize from the shelves of both our town baker and confectioner to offer as refreshing collation were put to plate. So please, my dear, take another sponge biscuit. We’ve plenty left over, and happily, Ruth is not here to contend with you, for she loves everything that is spongy and clotted and savoury and sweet. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Maggie nodded, whilst effecting a look that was the living portrait of “The Girl Who Tried Very Hard to Look as if She Were Smiling.”

“By the way,” said Mobry, “where is our inveterately famished niece? Was she detained by Mrs. Colthurst when all the rest of you were released at noon?”

“Do you not know?” asked Maggie, and then with a tease, “Should I be the one to tell?”

“I can very well guess it, Maggie,” said Miss Mobry. “She’s seeing that young gentleman, isn’t she? The one with whom she had such a lovely visit at the South Haven Tea Room only two days ago.”

Maggie nodded.

Lucile Mobry continued, “He seems like a most agreeable young man — some name which begins with ‘P,’ and we are eager to meet him, especially if Ruth is considering the possibility of a lasting attachment.”

“As for lasting attachment, Miss Mobry, I cannot answer. But you have nonetheless guessed his identity. It is Mr. Pardlow, who works in the mill.” Maggie subsided into her chair and took a nibble upon the proffered sponge biscuit of earlier mention.

Mr. Mobry cleared his throat and said, “I’m certain our friend Maggie here has numerous things to which she must attend on this Saturday half-holiday, so we shouldn’t long detain her, though your visits to this house, Maggie — with or without Ruth — are always welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Maggie, nodding and colouring slightly from the generous compliment.

“You’ve nearly finished your biscuit,” observed Lucile Mobry. “Have a damson tart.”

Maggie took a damson tart.

Mobry clasped his hands together, and, in the composed manner of a solicitor with intelligence of some import to convey to his client, he said, “ Now. I’ve looked into the matter you brought before me and wish to report that I’ve succeeded in learning a bit of what it is you wish to know.”

Maggie’s eyelids uplifted in eager anticipation.

Mobry went on: “I consulted my diary for that period during which the baby — your sister’s twin brother — was put out. Is there any other way to say it? For I do not wish to cast aspersions on your mother. It is no business of mine the reason she and your father could not keep the child.”

“Mr. Mobry, you may cast all the aspersions you wish, for you would not be alone in questioning why my parents did such a thing. I know the reason, and I forgive my mother for it to the extent to which I’m able, but I would certainly understand if the liberality of my feelings for her, which comes from my having lived with her for so long and observed her in all her moods and dispositions, wasn’t shared by others.”