Book of Mercy (14 page)

“The point is,” Annaliese continued, “pregnancy does something to your perspective, darling. It makes you think you can take on more than you can chew.”

“Ah,” Antigone said, understanding. “And you think this book situation might be too much for my plate?”

“Not necessarily,” Annaliese said. She had that protective look she gave students who were carrying an impossible course load and just discovering it in mid-semester. “I just don’t want it to upset you—at this time in your life.”

“Don’t worry, Mother, it’s just given me a little indigestion, or maybe that was the Greek warship I ate at the Dairy Queen.”

“The thing is,” Annaliese frowned, “people in these situations—heated situations—seldom take the long view.”

Henry nodded. “The historical perspective.”

Annaliese said, “They’re afraid of ideas. They don’t want to let them out of the bag because then how will they control them?”

“Control is the main diet of the Mercy Study Club,” Antigone said.

“Well, I don’t blame you for not wanting to eat at their table,” Henry said. “The whole thing gives me the heebie-jeebies. People having to watch what they read, what they say, what they think.”

“You were right to challenge them,” Annaliese said. “Although I imagine the Thornes don’t agree.”

“I’ve been avoiding any deep intellectual discussions with Marian.”

“That’s my wise daughter.” Absently pulling her sleek coat away from Fancy’s nibbling lips, Annaliese caressed Antigone’s cheek. She tugged the coat closer and shivered. “Temperature’s dropping. I’m going in. There’s a chapter I want to finish before diving into William’s gastronomical explorations. Don’t stay out here too long, you two. You’ll catch your death.”

Antigone nodded. She watched her mother gingerly cross the yard, her high heels wobbling on the uneven ground, her long legs as beautiful as ever. Out of courtesy, as a guest in her daughter’s home, Annaliese would be on time for dinner. This was not always the case when Antigone was growing up. Sometimes her parents forgot about dinner completely, unable to tear themselves away from their books, from the words and ideas of strangers long dead. When she was young, Antigone fantasized about snatching the books that held her parents’ attention when she could not, those books full of words that would always defeat her. She would grab them out of her parents’ hands and fling them into the fireplace. But every time the same thing happened in her daydream: The books put out the fire.

Now, anxiously awaiting being with her own child, Antigone realized that while she had often been jealous of books, she also had prized them. They pictured so prominently in the wonderful moments in her life—the times her mother or father had stretched out on the bed beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and read to her. She could almost hear them. Her mother whispering of a little girl all alone in an orphanage in Paris. Her father chuckling at the antics of a curious monkey.

“You know,” Henry said, as the deer searched the ground for remnants of apple. “I kind of like William’s cooking.” William with his kick-ass cobra tattoo—“the result of one helluva bender in Calcutta”—claimed to put the spirit of India into every dish at the O. Henry Café.

“He’s good all right,” Antigone smiled. “He’s my self-appointed nutritionist.”

“I’m glad he takes care of you.”

“All the men in my life take care of me.”

For as long as she could remember, Henry had liked to tell his daughter jokes. He skewed toward the math jokes, of course, like “What did the zero say to the eight? Nice belt.” When he didn’t have a joke, he always had a quote. Today was no different.

Henry tucked his hands in his coat pockets and offered an elbow and another quip to his daughter. “Since we have books on the brain, I think Groucho Marx is in order.”

“Yeah? What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Outside a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside a dog, it’s too dark to read.’”

Antigone’s lips curved, as she took her father’s arm. They leaned against each other, slowly making their way across the yard. Softly, she heard Henry say, “Your mother and I are proud of you, you know. What you’ve done here, in this town, the new life you are bringing.”

Antigone swung toward her quiet father in surprise. She would have stopped, but he kept pulling her along. “I always considered myself something of a disappointment as an academics’ daughter,” she said.

Her father ignored the remark. “Remember how I used to measure you when you were small?”

“Notches on the door frame in the library.”

“The marks are still there. I thought if I could get the statistics down I could figure you out.”

“And did it help?” she asked.

Henry held the gate open for his daughter and then shook his head sheepishly. “You’re still a mystery to me, but then I’m a man who likes mysteries.”

Antigone squeezed his arm.

Together they made sure the gate was secure before going into the house.