But Patricia was already accepting Hillary's offer. "Are you sure you wouldn't mind-"

"Patricia," John cut in, "I don't think skiing is the best idea."

"It can't harm her. She'll be busy and happy for the weekend. Hillary, wait there. I'll get the charge card." And she was gone.

"Thanks a lot, Hillary," John said. His eyes were cold.

Pa.s.sing Pam, she approached him. Her palm went flat against the bare flesh of his middle, fingers splaying wide. In a low, even tone, she said, "Pam shouldn't have to suffer because you have escort duty. Neither should I. I like your sister. She has the s.p.u.n.k in the family. We'll have a good time together, maybe even catch an early dinner before she leaves."

"And after that? Where are you going?"

Before she could answer, Patricia was back, leaning over the top railing. Hillary trotted up the few steps and took the charge card from her hand. "I'll get her something nice."

"Not too expensive. And not risque. Pamela, darling, be good for Hillary, and be good for the Claflins. It was sweet of them to invite you. Have Hettie pack up a box of cookies. Better still, stop at S.S. Pierce and pick up some jams. They make a nice gift."

"We'll be back before you leave," Pam started to say, but Patricia was already disappearing back down the hall toward her bedroom. John was once again an immobile force on the staircase, and this time it didn't seem worth the effort to fight him. She'd won on the issue of skiing. She wouldn't push her luck. "I have to call Laurie and tell her I can come," she told Hillary. "I'll be right back."

She took her time with the call, then stopped in the kitchen for another cookie. But when she returned to the hall, there was no sign of John.

"Where did he go?"

Hillary shot a despairing glance toward the second floor.

"I thought he'd stay and talk with you."

"Yeah. So did I."

"He's a rat."

Hillary slipped an arm around Pam's shoulder. "What else is new?"

"You should tell him to go to h.e.l.l."

"Oh, my, such language from one so young."

"I mean it. Doesn't it bother you when he ignores you that way?"

She smiled. "Nah. That's just John."

Not for a minute, though, did Pam believe that Hillary wasn't bothered. She could see it in the sadness in her smile. Wanting to cheer her up, she said, "But you have plans for later, so John's the loser. Who are you seeing?"

Hillary collared her with a playful elbow and ushered her out the door before she handled that one. "A guy from school. Tom Rush is playing at a coffeehouse in the Square." Side by side, they trotted down the stairs.

"Who's Tom Rush?"

"A folksinger."

"Who's the guy?"

"No one special."

"Why not? You should be meeting someone special. You're at that age."

Hillary laughed as they started up Mt. Vernon Street. "Who told you that?"

"Marcy. You're a senior. You're supposed to get married soon."

"Not me. I'm not getting married."

"Never?"

"I wouldn't say that. Just not real soon."

"Because John won't get married? What's wrong with him, Hillary? Everyone he knows is getting married. He goes to weddings all the time, and if it isn't weddings, it's christenings. So what's wrong with him?"

Hillary shrugged.

"Can't he at least find his own place to live?"

"Is he still giving you a hard time?"

"Yes. Why don't you propose to him? Maybe he needs a little push. Tell him that you're graduating and that it's time for you two to get married. Tell him that you're madly in love-"

"I will not. I don't want to get married. I have other plans."

"What are they?"

"I'm going to New York." She half-turned as they walked so that she faced Pam. "And don't breathe a word of this to John, because it isn't definite. I still have to find a job, but whether it's this year or the next or the next, I'm going to New York." Facing front again, she linked arms with Pam. "John doesn't know. I'll tell him when I'm sure."

"Why do you want to go to New York?"

"Because that's where big things happen."

"But you're a writer. You can write anywhere."

"I want to do it in New York."

"Then I won't see you. Then John won't see you. Then you won't see him." When Hillary didn't answer, she said, "That's a lousy idea, Hillary."

"That's what John will say. He'll say that I'll never make it in New York and that I'm silly to try. But he's not offering me anything better, is he?"

Turning down Joy Street, they walked on. When a chill wind whipped up from the Common, they leaned closer together.

"I'll miss you if you move to New York."

"I'm not moving yet."

"But you will, and what will I do then? Who'll stick up for me when John does his rat thing?"

"You'll stick up for yourself. You already do, Pam. I admire you for that."

"He wouldn't let me up those stairs today, and there wasn't anything I could do about it."

"Just wait. Before long, you'll be bigger and more grown-up. He won't be able to block stairways then. He's just taking advantage of your age. You'll see. Just wait."

It was going to be a long, painful wait, though. Pam knew that the instant Hillary dropped her at home and she ran inside to find a note for her from Patricia. She and John had already left.

"Darling, John is right," the note read. "You really shouldn't go skiing for the first time on such short notice. If you want to go that badly, John says he'll take you himself another time. I've called the Claflins and explained. They understand. Laurie says she'll call you when she gets home Sunday night. Don't worry about the things you bought. I'll have Marcy run down and return them next week. I hope you had fun with Hillary. Don't wait up. I'll be late. See you tomorrow."

Pam crushed the paper in her hand. "No. No! No!" She yelled it a few more times before storming through the house. Hettie had long since left, and Raymond, the butler, was nowhere in sight, which was just as well. She didn't want either of them. She wanted Marcy.

Following the smell of starch, she found her in the bas.e.m.e.nt laundry room ironing shirts. "Do you know what he's done?" she cried without preamble. "He canceled my trip! He convinced Mom that I shouldn't go! Why did he do that, Marcy? What harm was it to him if I went? I don't tell him what to do with his life. Why does he have to tell me? He won't ever take me skiing. I don't care what he told Mom, or what she said in the letter. He won't ever take me skiing. He's never taken me anywhere, and anyway, I wouldn't want to go with him." She stood for several seconds with her feet braced wide, breathing hard as she struggled to find a reason for the change in her plans. "Know why he didn't want me to go today? Because he said no. That's all. He said no when I first mentioned it, and he wants his word to be law. There was no one here to argue when Hillary and I went shopping. He's a snake, Marcy! It isn't fair!"

Marcy moved the iron slowly over the white collar that lay flat on the padded board. "Life isn't, sometimes," she said at last.

"Well, it should be," Pam argued and turned back toward the stairs. "I'm calling my father. If he says I can go, I'm going."

"Pammy?"

Pam paused with her hand on the wood rail. "What?"

Marcy just looked at her in a sad, sage way.

Dropping her hand from the rail, Pam slowly came down again. "I should. It would serve John right."

"It would rile him."

"That's his problem."

"No, it's yours. If he gets angry, your mama will, too. Even if you go skiing, you got to be back here with them come Monday morning. You'll pay for the fun then."

But they both knew that was only one of the reasons Pam wouldn't call Eugene. The other had to do with a twelve-year-old's instincts about what would and would not help her parents' foundering marriage. As always, thoughts of that set Pam's stomach to churning, which in turn made her snappish.

"I don't care. I want to go skiing."

"Now you're being stubborn."

"So? If John can be, so can I!"

"But you're better than him."

"If that's so, why is my mother with him much more than she's with me?"

"B'cause he knows about the business. He's your daddy's a.s.sistant, kind of."

"But I'm her daughter. I need her sometimes, too." Her anger began to fade. In its place was worry. Slipping onto the stool by the ironing board, she said, "It's awful, Marcy. Sometimes I say things to her, and she smiles and nods but she doesn't hear me. I can be talking about school, and ten minutes later she'll ask me how school is."

"She loves you."

"Maybe, but something's happening." She looked bleakly at the shirtsleeves Marcy was straightening. "Maybe they'll get divorced."

"They won't."

"How do you know?"

"B'cause your mama likes being married to your daddy."

"You wouldn't know that to hear her talk. It used to be that she was upset when Daddy was angry. She isn't anymore."

"She got used to it."

But Pam had another reason. "She has John now. He probably convinces her that it's better for Daddy to be in Maine, just like he convinced her that I shouldn't go skiing. Why does she listen to him, Marcy?"

"B'cause he's got the answers for the things she's asking."

"But why doesn't she ask my father those things?"

"B'cause he's in Timiny Cove."

"She could call him. If she wanted to, she could. I think it's gotten so that she likes being with John more."

"But she loves your daddy. There's a difference."

"They're never together."

"But when they are, it's not so bad." Marcy paused, pulled a cuff straight, pressed the iron down hard. "I've seen bad. I know."

Pam remembered the screaming she'd heard. "At home?"

Marcy moved the iron back and forth over the cuff. Then she set it on its end and turned the cuff over.

"Marcy?" After another moment's pause, she said, "Is it really bad in your house?"

The iron began moving on the reverse side of the cuff. "It's bad."

"How? What happens?"

After a pause, Marcy said, "They fight. Mama goes back and forth to the factory-"

"Why doesn't she work at the mine?"

"B'cause that's men's work."

"I could do it. Daddy's shown me how. I could do it."

"But you won't, b'cause it's men's work."

"I don't believe that. If women can do what men do, they should be able to get the job. I'm going to be president of St. George Mining someday."