“Okay. I can’t talk right now.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Mill Creek Falls, Thanksgiving Day, 1970—What stranger event could there have been? The Wapinskis, together, seven strong with Doug, at High Meadow, in the small, high-ceilinged dining room—Miriam attempting to be nonconfrontational, pleasant, matriarchal, seated at the far end of the table from Pewel as if she’d assumed the role of Brigita Clewlow Wapinski years ago, as if Pewel had accepted her in that role. Between them were Cheryl, two months along, looking plump and busty and oddly mysterious, and Brian, treating his wife like crystal. On the other side Joanne and Doug were politely disagreeing about women in the job force. “Really, Joanne, maybe you don’t see it, but women do run most of the companies around here.” “They do not.” “No? Ev
