“What did he tell you about me?” she said now. “About putting me into that place?”

There it was, then, right out on the table. This was the crossroads: either Laura had been mad, or Richard had been lying. I couldn’t believe both. “He told me a story,” I said evasively.

“What sort of a story? Don’t worry, I won’t get upset. I just want to know.”

“He said you were—well, mentally disturbed.”

“Naturally. He would say that. What else did he say?”

“He said you thought you were pregnant, but it was just a delusion.”

“I was pregnant,” said Laura. “That was the whole point—that was why they whisked me out of sight in such a hurry. Him and Winifred—they were scared stiff. The disgrace, the scandal—you can imagine what they’d think it would do to his big fat chances.”

“Yes. I can see that.” I could see it, too—the hush-hush call from the doctor, the panic, the hasty conference between the two of them, the spur-of-the-moment plan. Then the other version of events, the false one, concocted just for me. I was docile enough as a rule, but they must have known there was a line somewhere. They must have been afraid of what I might do, once they’d crossed it.

“Anyway, I didn’t have the baby. That’s one of the things they do, at Bella Vista.”

“One of the things?” I was feeling quite stupid.

“Besides the mumbo-jumbo, I mean, and the pills and machines. They do extractions,” she said. “They conk you out with ether, like the dentist. Then they take out the babies. Then they tell you you’ve made the whole thing up. Then when you accuse them of it, they say you’re a danger to yourself and others.”

She was so calm, so plausible. “Laura,” I said, “are you sure? About the baby, I mean. Are you sure there really was one?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said. “Why would I make such a thing up?”

There was still room for doubt, but this time I believed Laura. “How did it happen?” I whispered. “Who was the father?” Such a thing called for whispering.

“If you don’t already know, I don’t think I can tell you,” said Laura.

I supposed it must have been Alex Thomas. Alex was the only man Laura had ever shown any interest in—besides Father, that is, and God. I hated to acknowledge such a possibility, but really there was no other choice. They must have met during those days when she’d been playing hookey, from her first school in Toronto, and then later, when she was no longer going to school at all; when she was supposed to be cheering up decrepit old paupers in the hospital, dressed in her prissy, sanctimonious little pinafore, and lying her head off the whole time. No doubt he’d got a cheap thrill out of the pinafore, it was the sort of outré touch that would have appealed to him. Perhaps that was why she’d dropped out—to meet Alex. She’d been how old—fifteen, sixteen? How could he have done such a thing?

“Were you in love with him?” I said.

“In love?” said Laura. “Who with?”

“With—you know,” I couldn’t say it.

“Oh no,” said Laura, “not at all. It was horrible, but I had to do it. I had to make the sacrifice. I had to take the pain and suffering onto myself. That’s what I promised God. I knew if I did that, it would save Alex.”

“What on earth do you mean?” My newfound reliance on Laura’s sanity was crumbling: we were back in the realm of her loony metaphysics. “Save Alex from what?”

“From being caught. They would have shot him. Callie Fitzsimmons knew where he was, and she told. She told Richard.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Callie was a snitch,” said Laura. “That’s what Richard said—he said Callie kept him informed. Remember when she was in jail, and Richard got her out? That’s why he did it. He owed it to her.”

I found this construction of events quite breathtaking. Also monstrous, though there was a slight, a very slight possibility, that it might be true. But if so, Callie must have been lying. How would she have known where Alex was? He’d moved so often.

He might have kept in touch with Callie, though. He might have done. She was one of the people he might have trusted.

“I kept my end of the bargain,” said Laura, “and it worked. God doesn’t cheat. But then Alex went off to the war. After he got back from Spain, I mean. That’s what Callie said—she told me.”

I couldn’t make sense of this. I was feeling quite dizzy. “Laura,” I said, “why did you come here?”

“Because the war’s over,” said Laura patiently, “and Alex will be back soon. If I wasn’t here, he wouldn’t know where to find me. He wouldn’t know about Bella Vista, he wouldn’t know I went to Halifax. The only address he’ll have for me is yours. He’ll get a message through to me somehow.” She had the infuriating iron-clad confidence of the true believer.

I wanted to shake her. I closed my eyes for a moment. I saw the pool at Avilion, the stone nymph dipping her toes; I saw the too-hot sun glinting on the rubbery green leaves, that day after Mother’s funeral. I felt sick to my stomach, from too much cake and sugar. Laura was sitting on the ledge beside me, humming to herself complacently, secure in the conviction that everything was all right really and the angels were on her side, because she’d made some secret, dotty pact with God.

My fingers itched with spite. I knew what had happened next. I’d pushed her off.

Now I’m coming to the part that still haunts me. Now I should have bitten my tongue, now I should have kept my mouth shut. Out of love, I should have lied, or said anything else: anything but the truth. Never interrupt a sleepwalker, Reenie used to say. The shock can kill them.

“Laura, I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but whatever it was you did, it didn’t save Alex. Alex is dead. He was killed in the war, six months ago. In Holland.”

The light around her faded. She went very white. It was like watching wax cool.

“How do you know?”

“I got the telegram,” I said. “They sent it to me. He listed me as next of kin.” Even then I could have changed course; I could have said, There must have been a mistake, it must have been meant for you. But I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “It was very indiscreet of him. He shouldn’t have done that, considering Richard. But he didn’t have any family, and we’d been lovers, you see—in secret, for quite a long time—and who else did he have?”

Laura said nothing. She only looked at me. She looked right through me. Lord knows what she saw. A sinking ship, a city in flames, a knife in the back. I recognized the look, however: it was the look she’d had that day she’d almost drowned in the Louveteau River, just as she was going under—terrified, cold, rapturous. Gleaming like steel.

After a moment she stood up, reached across the table, and picked up my purse, quickly and almost delicately, as if it contained something fragile. Then she turned and walked out of the restaurant. I didn’t move to stop her. I was taken by surprise, and by the time I myself was out of my chair, Laura was gone.

There was some confusion about paying the bill—I had no money other than what had been in the purse, which my sister—I explained—had taken by mistake. I promised reimbursement the next day. After I’d got that settled, I almost ran to where I’d parked the car. It was gone. The car keys too had been in my purse. I hadn’t been aware that Laura had learned how to drive.

I walked for several blocks, concocting stories. I couldn’t tell Richard and Winifred what had really happened to my car: it would be used as one more piece of evidence against Laura. I’d say instead that I’d had a breakdown and the car had been towed to a garage, and they’d called a taxi for me, and I’d got into it and been driven all the way home before I’d realized I’d left my purse in the car by mistake. Nothing to worry about, I’d say. It would all be set straight in the morning.