Wedding Bell Blues - [27]

the words or the pictures. She rested her chin in her hands and stared into space. She rubbed Mordecai,who was resting under the table, with her bare feet.

Today, neither the words nor the pictures were coming.

But it wasn’t just that she was having an off day. Since the accident, since the Maycombs’ attack,Lily hadn’t made a single sketch or written anything more creative than a grocery list. Her hands, whichin happier days had itched with the urge to create, were now numb and impotent.

The problem with being an artist, Lily thought, is that my work reflects my life. During her dayswith Charlotte, Lily’s happiness had spilled forth onto the pages of her books. Her playful spirit hadperfectly matched the spirits of her young readers.

Now, though, her spirit was far from happy and playful, and she refused to write a children’s bookthat reflected her current state of mind. Lily couldn’t write a children’s book about the all-too-humancapacity for inhumanity, oppression, and injustice. Children would learn about these things soon enoughwithout reading a book about them.

And Mimi, who was now napping so innocently in her crib, might learn about these things all toosoon. She might be taken away from the person who loved her most in the world by the people whothought that person wasn’t fit to live. Lily rested her head in her hands. She tried to take comfort in theMcGillys’ confidence in the hearing’s outcome, but it was confidence she couldn’t share. The McGillys’

lack of concern concerned her.

Mordecai hefted his bulk up and ambled toward the kitchen door.

“Need to go out, tiny boy?” Lily called Mordecai by diminutive names, like “teensy lapdog” and

“my little Chihuahua.” The one-hundred-eighty-pound beast seemed to enjoy thinking of himself as adaintier creature.

Once Mordecai was in the backyard, she closed her notebook and her sketch pad. If the inspirationisn’t there, she had learned, there’s no forcing it. Still, she was going to have to get some inspiration fromsomewhere. Regardless of how the trial went, there would be a day in the not-so-distant future when shewould be kicked off the McGilly family gravy train.

She used her once-creative hands to make tea and wash dishes. What a fine little housewife I’mturning out to be, she thought.

Ben, of course, was out with his new/old obsession. The golfing date had gone well; Ben hadcome home so excited about spending the day with Ken that Lily had suggested that he change his nameto Barbie. “Besides,” she had said, “you don’t really want to go through life as a couple named Ben andKen.”

“Is it any more ridiculous than going through life as Lily McGilly?”

Lily had conceded his point. She also had to concede something else: Her sarcasm toward Ben’sgiddiness was due to nothing more than good, old-fashioned jealousy. It didn’t bother her that her ersatzhusband was stepping out on her; she didn’t give a shit about that.

It was Ben’s happiness that drove her crazy, that made her think of her first days with Charlotte,when their love was green and about to blossom. That kind of joy was the complete opposite of what shewas feeling these days. Tennyson may have believed that “ ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never tohave loved at all,” but Lily wasn’t sure.

Of course, there wasn’t anything for Lily to be jealous of yet. Neither Ben nor Ken had admittedto the other that he was gay. Ben said they had each “dropped a few hairpins” during their game of golf,but being in a public place, neither of them had let his hair down entirely. Today, though, they weremeeting in a more private setting. Ken had invited Ben to spend the afternoon at his house, listening toBrit pop and then eating sushi for dinner, which Ken had prepared from ingredients he had bought at theinternational farmer’s market in Atlanta. Lily had opined to Ben that he was home free: straight whitemen don’t make sushi.

Lily dried the last dish and sipped her tea. Just then, her eardrums were pierced by a high-pitchedcry of pain. She dropped her cup into the sink and ran to Mimi’s room, only to find the little girl restingcomfortably. She heard the cry again, and this time, with her maternal instinct laid to rest, she could tellthe sound was animal, not human. It was coming from the backyard.

She ran down the hall and out the kitchen door. Mordecai was lying on his stomach, his facepressed against the chain-link fence, whimpering and howling in pain.

“It’s okay, Mordecai,” she said as she approached him. “It’s me, Mordecai.” Animals in pain, sheknew, could strike out without thinking. She softly repeated his name to remind him that she was hisfriend.

When she got closer, she saw what had happened. Mordecai, famous for digging his way out of hisdog pen at the big McGilly house, had attempted to do the same thing with the chain-link fence here. Buthe had, hit a painful snag.

The section of fencing he had exposed was torn, as though someone had clipped a jagged hole in it

— a hole just the right size to trap one of his mammoth front paws.