Actually, I thought he might. I glanced back, too, half expecting to see him breaking through the trees. But I said, "No." I said it firmly. "You don't want him anyway, Imogene. You want to come with me." In my ear my voice sounded just like Aunt Mandy's.

Amanda I was so tired when Mattie lifted that squirming, flailing, froglike little being for me to see. Mattie wiped the baby clean and wrapped her in a blanket, then laid her on my chest where she clamped her mouth around my nipple and pulled so that it hurt, as if to remind me that she was real.

"Our baby," Mathilda breathed, stroking her tender head. "Here, let me hold her."

How right they looked together, just like the Madonna and Child. To this day, I can see them, standing over me. "I'm going to be your mama, darling," she whispered. "I love you, my lamb." And she looked at me and smiled.

I closed my eyes. I should have been grateful, indescribably relieved. Instead, I felt bereft. Who was I, if Mathilda was her mama? No, I could not be Aunt Mandy to this one I had fed with my own blood. I could not do it. And, although I can never forgive myself, I hated Mattie then for suggesting it, hated her for being right when I was wrong, for being generous when I was selfish, and most of all for thinking that I would be pleased to see her take my baby from me.

"No," I said, "She's mine. You can't have her." But she couldn't hear me, because I was already asleep.

It was still the middle of the night when I awoke. The wind pushed at the windowpanes, but my baby lay sleeping snugly in the drawer we'd prepared for her. I felt drugged. My muscles and my brain longed for rest, but slowly, quietly, I dragged myself from the bed. "Shh, shh, my baby," I whispered, although she hadn't made a sound. I collected my dress from the door, my shoes from under the bed. Pulling my stockings on was difficult, but I needed to be warm. We were running away, my baby and I.

We would go somewhere warm. California, perhaps. And I would change my name. I would say my husband had died in the war. Who would know the difference? Who would care? I didn't need the farm to support mea"thanks to my father, I was a nurse.

Mathilda would forgive me. In the end, she would be happier, she and Carl and Ruth, too, without my secret to keep. And someday, maybe not even too long from now, we would come back to visit, maybe even to stay, so Ruth could love her little cousin, just as I loved Mattie. Why hadn't I thought of this from the start?

I wrapped the tiny thing tightly in more blankets, until she looked less like a baby than a bundle. She did not wake, only nestled close, her mouth opening and closing, reaching for my breast in her dreams. I put on my coat, my mittens and my hat, and I put half the money in the house into my pocket. And that was all. What else did we need? I could feed her, after all. I could keep her warm.

The wind, when I opened the door, hit me with a wallop. In the house I'd forgotten how cold it was outside, and my skin shrank from the blast. Still, it was only November, I reminded myself, not the dead of winter. I opened my coat and tucked my bundle against my chest. We would be all right. Besides, it had to be cold for the sake of the ice.

Yes, the ice. I stood at the edge of the lake thinking. All the holes had certainly closed, I had no doubts there. It was the greenness I remembered from the afternoon that worried me. But not too much. No, not very much at all, I have to admit, since I fancied myself so skilled at testing, so good at working my way slowly along, listening for every creak, never shifting my weight too suddenly. I was more worried about slipping with my precious load than about falling through.

I stepped cautiously onto the lake and slid my feet forward, inches at a time. My legs were so sore, I couldn't have gone faster even if it'd been safe, and I nearly turned back, quailing at the distance I had to go to make the train. But I was sure the ice was good. Yes, it would certainly hold us. Gradually but steadily, we moved on, farther and farther out into the lake.

"Wait!"

I could barely hear the tiny voice over the wind.

"Wait for me, Aunt Mandy!"

I turned to see Ruth climbing backward off a rock onto the ice.

"Ruth, stop!" I called.

She turned her face to look at me, but she did not stop.

Ruth didn't bother to close the door to her room while she packed. A door had never stopped Amanda from coming in whenever she pleased to straighten the books on their shelves or the items on the top of Ruth's dresser, as she delved for whatever sc.r.a.ps of the day had been left unexamined. A few times, Ruth had tried to compel her aunt to sit still, by leaving nothing out of place, but on those occasions Amanda had rearranged the contents of the dresser drawers.

There was plenty to put to rights now. The room was in complete disarraya"blouses slithered from the bed to the floor; hairpins crackled underfoot; books and underwear sprawled together on the chair. But Amanda stood still in the doorway.

"I don't understand. If the letter worked, why does anyone have to go anywhere? Why can't things be the way they were?"

"We're going because the letter worked," Ruth said, tossing clothes into Amanda's old carpetbag. "You made me do it, and now Imogene is heartbroken. We made her miserable, you understand?" She held the slip she was packing toward Amanda and shook it for emphasis.

Amanda cringed. "Ruth, that's vulgar. Put your underthings away."

"Miserable, just like I said she'd be." Ruth threw the slip into the carpetbag. "She thinks Arthur doesn't love her, never loved her. She thinks she was a fool to believe he did."

"But she'll get over it. After a little while, she'll be glad. We saved her, Ruth." Amanda was rubbing her fingers over the base of her thumb. It made Ruth want to scream.

"Well, she doesn't know that, does she?" she sneered instead.

"But you know it, Ruth. You know it had to be done."

Did she? Why had she written that letter? Because Amanda had insisted? Or because she'd seen a chance for herself? But Ruth was sure that if Amanda hadn't dragged her into her scheme she'd never have been so selfish. "It doesn't matter," she said. "She wants to go away now, and I'm going with her."

"Ruthie, I know what." Amanda stepped into the room and began to fold a blouse as she talked, laying it out on the rumpled bed, squaring the shoulders precisely, smoothing the fabric with her fingers. "Why don't we all three go out to the island for a few weeks? It's not very cold yet, and it'll be so pretty with the leaves turning. You don't remember living there, Ruth, but it's very relaxing. Very refreshing. And when we come back, the Owenses will be gone." She gave the perfectly folded blouse a little pat.

Ruth stopped packing. "They won't be gone until they find Mr. Owens."

Amanda stood silent for a moment, her hands still at her sides. "Clement was a good swimmer," she said finally. "I don't think he could have drowned."

"I hear my mother was a good swimmer too."

"Ruth, what do you mean?"

Ruth had hit her mark; she could tell by Amanda's face and the fear, real fear, in her aunt's voice, and it scared her, so that she closed the carpetbag, not caring whether she had everything, only wanting to run. "Nothing, nothing. Just let me go."

Amanda stepped into the doorway. "You can't, Ruth. I can't let you go."

"Why not? You let my mother go, didn't you? You rescued me, but you let her go. Well, now you can let me go too. What's one more?" She s.n.a.t.c.hed her arm from Amanda's grip and clattered down the stairs.

"Ruth, stop! Come back!" Amanda stood at the top of the stairs. She pushed one foot over the edge. It wouldn't be so hard to let herself go, to step for an instant on air and then crash down and down. Not so hard at all.

Amanda lifted her hand from the railing. I'll fall, Ruth. I'll fall if you don't come back, she thought. And, as the door slammed, she lost her balance.

The walk to the train was harder than I'd thought. The carpetbag flopped and banged awkwardly against my legs, and I'd packed so many books that I had to stop every ten steps or so to shift the load from one hand to the other. At the end of the drive and then again at the first turn in the road, I thought I heard Aunt Mandy's voice sifting through the trees, and I looked back toward the house and held my breath, so I could listen. It was nothing, though, but a voice in my head. I pushed it out with my own voice. Keep going, I told myself, just keep going. You'll miss the train.

Stumbling a little, my heavy bag pulling me forward, I struggled down the hill, past the Jungbluths' pasture, where three Guernseys raised their heads to watch as I went by. Then I trudged up the slope of Glacier Road, sweating under the winter coat I'd had to wear for lack of a better way of carrying it. At the top, I pa.s.sed the icehouse, which would be nearly empty now, ready for its winter crop. I'd expected on this march to sense my bond with Aunt Mandy stretching until it snapped, but I could feel nothing but exhaustion and frantic haste as I hurried along the final mile into Nagawaukee.

I thought the Lindgrens might overtake me now in their car, Mrs. Lindgren making a nervous inventory of the contents of Imo-gene's luggage, Mr. Lindgren tooting the horn before he pulled over to pick me up. But the road was empty, the houses I pa.s.sed quiet. Inside them, I knew, people were settling down to their familiar suppers.

Finally, with aching arms and sweating back, I lugged my bag up the worn wooden steps of the platform. I looked up and down to find the little human knot that would be Imogene and her parents, but the platform was empty. My jaw hurt from clenching it all those miles. I thought, I've missed the train, and I was at once desperate and relieved.

"Ruth!"

I turned from the tracks to see Imogene hurrying toward me.

"Where's your suitcase?" I asked.

"In the car." Slightly out of breath, Imogene bent and lifted my bag.

"Your parents are letting us take the car?"

"Not my parents' car. Maynard Owens is driving us down. You know, Arthur's brother. I told you about him." Imogene straightened, setting my bag back on the platform. "Arthur told him what happened," she explained, "and he came over. To see if I was all right. If he could do anything for me. He says they all miss me and even if Arthur's a fool, he isn't."

"What do you mean? Are you in love with him now?"

"Oh, Ruth." Imogene clicked her tongue. "Nothing like that. I mean, he's very sweet, but I couldn't a not now, not after what happened. Not so soon, anyway. I mean, I feel awful, Ruth. He broke my heart. It's going to take a long time to heal."

But it would heal, I saw that. In fact, it had healed already. Maybe Aunt Mandy was right about these things not meaning very much. I didn't blame Imogene. It wasn't as if Arthur had been in her heart her whole life, the way Aunt Mandy had been in mine.

Aunt Mandy, whom I'd left behind. I felt around inside myself for the gaping hole, the way I'd once poked my tongue into the s.p.a.ce my tooth had left. But there was no s.p.a.ce, no agonizing well of despair. All was solid.

Imogene put her hand on mine. "Stop that, Ruth."

"Stop what?"

"You're doing what your aunt does, rubbing that ugly scar."

I dropped my hands to my sides, but I knew why I couldn't find a rip, although I thought I'd torn free. The simple truth was, she'd wormed her way in so deep, I'd never get her out. If I changed my name and went to the ends of the earth and never came back, still she wouldn't let go. She was stuck like a burr in my hair. No, it was deeper than thata"she was inside me like a bone or an organ. She'd seeped into my blood with the air I sucked into my lungs.

"I'm so glad we're going, Ruth. You were so right. It's exactly the thing to do." Imogene took my arm, partly to start me walking, for I seemed to be rooted where I stood, and partly so that she could lean close to confide, "I wish we'd done it months ago!"

"So do I," I said, but still I couldn't move.

"Ruth? Maynard's waiting." She hoisted my bag now and didn't complain of the weight. "He's got to drive both ways tonight."

"Yes," I said. She started down the platform ahead of me, a little nervous, eager to be off. It may have been the way she swung her arms or the impatient look she gave me when she turned and saw that I still wasn't following, I'm not sure, but I suddenly felt as if I'd been staring for years at the silhouettes of two faces and finally saw the vase in the white s.p.a.ce between them. She'd been Aunt Mandy's baby. I couldn't believe I hadn't guessed it on my own long before. And then, as quickly as I'd caught the glimpse of Aunt Mandy in her, I lost it.

Aunt Mandy was selfish, but what she wanted for herself was me. Imogene, too, maybe, but mostly me. She'd given Imogene up, but she wouldn't let go of me. How could I leave someone who loved me that much?

"Imogene," I said, and she turned back. "I can't go. I'm sorry."

I thought she might be angry. After all, I'd talked her into this, but she only sighed and studied my face for a long moment. She must have decided this was different from my refusal to swim at the island or to go to the dance or to play secretary for her at the Owenses', because she didn't try to persuade me. "Are you sure?"

I nodded.

She came back and stood before me. "Do you think a" she began and stopped. "Don't be angry, but would you mind if I went without you?"

"You want to go without me?"

"No," she said, "I don't want to go without you, but if you won't go a well, you're the one who made me see it was a good idea. It is a good idea."

Numbly, I reached into my pocket and held out to her the sc.r.a.p of paper on which I'd written Eliza Fox's address.

"You don't think Miss Fox would mind?"

I shook my head.

"I would wait, in case you change your mind, but the people Mrs. Owens called expect me on Monday. You said to hurry."

"It's my fault," I said. "You go ahead."

"I'll look out for a place for both of us, just in case."

"Yes, just in case."

At the end of the platform she stopped, opened her purse, and began feeling around inside it.

"Did you forget something?" I called, and I felt a little flutter inside me that must have been hope that she, too, had decided to stay.

"Here," she said, running back. "Keep this for me." And she pressed into my hand the blue marble.

I went to the end of the platform and watched her get into the car. She waved until I couldn't see her anymore, and I kept waving even after that, squeezing the marble in my other hand. She's only going to Chicago, I told myself. You could be there in two hours. But I knew it didn't work that way. When people left, in my experience, they stayed gone. Except for Aunt Mandy. She'd come back to me, just as I was going back to her now.

Chapter Twenty.

Ruth Imogene is coming this summer. She's bringing her husbanda"Jack, she says his name isa"and her baby daughter, Louisa. Named for her grandmother, Aunt Mandy said, and winked at me, yes, winked. Often now, I see how she must have been, before my mother's drowning made her hold herself tightly for fear of losing herself in guilt and grief.

She was lying in a faint at the bottom of the stairs, her arm and collarbone and three ribs broken, the night Imogene went to Chicago.

"I knew you'd come back," she whispered when the doctor and I lifted her onto the davenport. "I knew someday you'd come back to me."

"I've only been gone three hours," I said, but she didn't seem to hear.

I nursed her. She had to tell me what to do, but she said I did it well. I have very gentle hands, she said. I read to her, and I prepared her favorite dishes. I even tried something newa"chicken cacciatorea"which we agreed turned out very well. "Your mother used to make something like this," she said.

I knew she meant it as an invitation, but I was afraid to begin. "When I was running on the ice," I ventured, and stopped.

"Yes?" she said, encouraging me.

"When I was running on the ice," I said again, "what was I running from?"

"Running from?" She smiled, flexing her fingers the way the doctor had prescribed. "You weren't running from anything, Ruth. You were running to me."

As soon as I could leave her alone in the house, I motored to the middle of the lake and dropped the silver box in. The next morning, a man on the double-decker excursion boat spotted Mr. Owens's body washing against the concrete base of the Stoltzes' boathouse. It was supposed to be the last tour of the season, but the sensation kept the boat running for three weeks into October.

I gave up typing. It turns out I'm a farmer after all. I've always been good with the animals, and I've discovered that I can drive a tractor a lot better than I can work office machines. With Mr. Tully's help, we broke even last year, and now that I've talked my father into quitting the Rebecca Rae, we can build the herd, and I'll bet we turn a good profit. It's a sad fact that the war over in Europe has been a big help to us financially.

I like the farm. It's a world unto itself, a steady universe where the animals go in, go out, eat, sleep, and eat again. I like knowing that the black fields will blush green, and then the corn leaves will saw against one another and the tomatoes swell until they split their skins, and that then the ground will sleep under its cold, white sheets. On a farm, the earth has secrets, and the weather has pa.s.sions, but people don't matter so much.

Arthur Owens has asked me twice to marry him, but although each time my heart begged me to agree, I've said no. I couldn't move away, you see, and I'm not sure that he'd like to stay, what with the bridges that'll need building all over the countrya"all over the world, he saysa"once he finishes school. Still, on Sundays he comes out from town. He helps with the work, and then we walk in the woods or go for a drive. In the winter, if there isn't too much snow, he takes me out on his iceboat. Snug against each other, we rattle along, our legs turning to stone in the wooden sh.e.l.l, while the stinging wind brings tears to our eyes, and chips of ice pepper our faces. "Faster," I cry, "faster," and he flattens the sail, until one blade hikes into the air, so that, were the ice to open beneath us, we would simply fly over the crack.

Imogene wants to stay on the island when she comes. She thinks her husband will like it. I didn't like it, the idea of Jack on our island, but Aunt Mandy said, "You'll have to get used to that," and I knew she was right.

We waited through the early spring, while the ice, whining and sighing, gave up its bed, until the bright morning when the lake was alive and dancing again, as if it had never been still. April 13, 1941. That's a good place to finish. In our coats and gloves and galoshes, we dragged the boat to the water and headed toward the island, to see what had to be done to ready it for Imogene.

Released from their ice prison, the waves tossed themselves against the hull with ecstatic abandon, pitching up a fine spray that shimmered in the fledgling spring sunlight. I dipped my fingers in, and instantly my hand ached with cold. That must have been what it felt like, the night I drowned.