She began, that winter, to write things down. Not a diary. Notes on index cards she kept in a recipe box that no longer held recipes. On one card: He left the porch light on for Diane. On another: He lied with his whole body and told the truth with his hands when he held me in 2003. On another: Margaret's dog has a gray muzzle. On another: I tipped her at New Year's. She shuffled the cards sometimes after dinner, looking for an order that would make a story she could live inside. There was no such order. There was only the box, and the cards, and the woman who kept writing them.
In March, Helen invited Margaret to Maple Avenue.
She did it on a Tuesday, because Tuesdays had always been Robert's least dramatic day — no church, no social obligations, just the middle of the week holding its ordinary breath. She made coffee. She set out the two cups that had sat cold on the afternoon of the will reading, washed now, ready again. She left the manila folder on the desk. She unlocked the front door and waited.
Margaret arrived at three. She parked on the street, not in the driveway. She wore the same green sweater. She did not bring the dog. Helen met her on the porch.
"This is strange," Margaret said.
"Yes," Helen agreed. "Come in anyway."
They walked the house the way people walk museums of their own lives. Helen showed her the kitchen without commentary. Margaret paused at the mantel photographs and did not touch them. In the hallway, Helen pointed to the pencil marks on the doorframe where Diane's height had been recorded every September until Diane refused at sixteen.
"He was proud of her," Margaret said quietly. "He used to describe her as if he were describing a country he loved but couldn't visit often enough."