My eyes bulged. ‘See me? About what?’
‘Your mother?’ asked Erika.‘Yeah, that’s what I said. My muvver, Pearl.’
‘Don’t fucking ask me who I am at my own fucking muvver’s wake! Who the fuck are you?’‘So this is your mother Pearl’s wake, is it?’ asked Erika.‘Yeah, and what you gonna fucking do about it?’
Erika looked around the room; people were starting to take notice.‘Cool it, Michael,’ said the landlord.
‘I don’t like her attitude, stuck up lanky bitch,’ said Michael, looking her up and down.
‘You need to calm down, sir,’ said Erika.I am so terrified of you, she whispered.
Because she wanted to believe what he was saying with the desperation of an addict.Don’t be, he said when she didn’t reply. I never meant for any of this to happen. And I’ve wanted to make it right for so long.
It seemed appropriate that they were surrounded by all the flower bowls that she had been filling. The evidence of her work, of her sole purpose in being on the estate, was a reminder of the divide that would always put distance between them.And then she took pains to recall that photograph and article in the Charlemont Herald about the marriage, two grand Southern legacies joining in a feudal arrangement. And she remembered the days and nights right after she’d found out about Chantal, all those hours of suffering until she’d felt like she were dying.