Eleanor’s chin lifted. “Then open it.”
“Stop,” Michael said.
June had already opened the purse halfway. The zipper teeth glinted in the sun. “You want to see it right here?” she asked.
For a split second, no one moved.
The bagpipes carried through the bright air. A little boy several rows over laughed before being hushed by his father. Eleanor’s eyes held on the half-open purse as if a document inside it could invalidate or seal every year of her life in one stroke. Michael felt something shift in himself then, not anger exactly, though anger lived close by. It was exhaustion sharpened into refusal.
He put a hand over the purse and another lightly on his mother’s forearm.
“No,” he said. “Not here. Not like this.”
Neither woman obeyed him immediately.