Let Him Go: A Novel Read Free

tooth is missing, and her lip snags on that open space. Even so, it’s a nice smile, wide and unsullied. She puts her hands in the pockets of her apron and says, Eddie’s got me on a pretty tight allowance so I’m always on the lookout for a bargain.
    Sorry, replies Margaret. Can’t help you.
    Taking a trip, then?
    Could be.
    No boundary markers separate the yards. The sun at its midday height sheds light and heat equally on each side. Nothing distinguishes one property from another, unless it’s grass a fraction of an inch higher on one side or a sweeter green on the other. Yet something keeps a distance between these two women as surely as a fence so tall it would have to be shouted over.
    You want us to keep an eye on things? the young woman asks. Bring in your mail or your paper?
    Won’t be necessary, Margaret says. If you’ll excuse me now . . .
    The plump young woman remains in place, her hands kneading the interiors of her apron pockets. Can I ask you something?
    Margaret stops but she’s one of those people whose body can convey impatience even in repose.
    When my husband comes home, the young woman says, he’ll ask me what I did today. And I’ll tell him I talked to the lady next door. After all these years, Eddie will say, And she’s still the lady next door? What’s her name, Mary?
    Margaret has to know what the woman wants but instead she says, Three years. Not all that many. And Margaret continues on her way. Before she reaches her back door, however, she turns back to her neighbor. Margaret Blackledge. Perhaps because she has pronounced that name so many times over the years, she can say it without her voice’s usual warble.
    Mary Bremmer, the young woman says, then adds, Pleased to meet you, but Margaret’s door has already closed behind her.
    Mary Bremmer has barely had time to shut her own door—to shut her door and bite off a few squares of a Hershey bar—when the front doorbell chimes. Mary hurries to answer it.
    Standing on the porch is the woman who now has a name. Margaret Blackledge thrusts out her tanned, rough hand. In case some chocolate might be on her fingers, Mary Bremmer wipes her hand quickly on her apron before taking Margaret’s hand.
    I want to do this proper, says Margaret. And that means walking right up to your front door and apologizing for my bad manners. For my years of bad manners.
    That’s all right, Mary says, chocolate melting between her tongue and the roof of her mouth.
    No. No, it’s not all right. I’ve been a poor excuse for aneighbor. And I don’t have a single good reason for my behavior. I just thought . . . I’m not sure what I thought. That we wouldn’t be here in Dalton all that long so it would be best not to form attachments.
    But now, Mary says, you’re going, and she pulls her hand free from Margaret’s.
    That I am, says Margaret. So this is the day I finally say pleased to meet you and good-bye.
    Good-bye.
    And as Margaret Blackledge backs away, Mary Bremmer gives her neighbor a tiny wave before closing her door. Her hand hovers in the air as if she’s about to throw the bolt, but then she stops. The middle of the day—why would anyone need to lock a door?
    .     .     .
    The bourbon’s fumes scald his nostrils but its burn is a comfort in his chest and belly. He could have used that heat as he walked to work this morning. He shudders and screws the cap back on. He says softly, Enough, a man more comfortable making promises to himself than to others. When he reaches under the front seat of the Hudson to hide the bottle, his hand lands on another package, something wrapped in one of the terry cloth towels that hung in the bathroom this morning. The shape and heft of this parcel, its location—what else could it be? But George brings it out and unwraps it anyway. Yes. What else could it be. The .45 automatic that the United States Army issued to George Blackledge during the First World War. He ejects the clip. Empty. He works the