Simpson’s jaws were clenched. He was filled with the anger of a man who, always sure of himself, wanted desperately to drive home the lesson again. Probably? Are you kidding? I was just stiff and cold to the girl. Okay, even rude, I suppose. But you were the one, the first time Tom brought her up to Pittsburgh to meet us, who reduced her to tears at the dinner table by ridiculing her tastes in music. You were the one who wouldn’t let her slide out easily when you pressed her on her knowledge of the world’s ‘great lit’rat’chure.’ You were the one, you snotty—
Barely, thankfully, he managed to hold it in check. Even through the anger, Simpson retained enough clarity of thought to realize that his marriage was at the breaking point. And realized also, in something of a crashing wave of recognition, how desperately he did not want that to happen. On a personal level, his wife was all he had left in the world. They’d gotten married the day after he graduated from Annapolis. He couldn’t imagine his life without her.
“Mary, please—”
“John, be quiet. For once—just once—listen instead of talking.” She turned around to face him. The anger was still there on her face. But he was relieved to see, lurking somewhere behind the tears, the affection of a lifetime shared.
“You are not good—to put it mildly—at ever admitting you were wrong about anything.” She swallowed. “I suppose I’m not much good at it either, for that matter. I know I can be even pettier than you are, lots of times. But I’m not in your league when it comes to unyielding self-righteousness. Not even close. I don’t think I know anybody who is.”
Hilde came into the room then, carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. There was neither milk nor sugar on the tray. Milk was too much of a headache for casual use, needing to be boiled first; and sugar was far too expensive. Willy-nilly, Mary Simpson had learned to take her tea plain. She’d even stopped complaining about it, months before.
The servant froze, after taking two steps in the room, as servants will when they suddenly realize they’ve walked into the middle of a quarrel between the master and lady of the house.
When she wanted to be, Mary Simpson could be graciousness personified. For a moment, the anger and hurt and sorrow on her face vanished, replaced by the serene dame. “Thank you so much, Hilde. That will be all for the night.”
The servant nodded nervously, set the tray down on a sidetable, and hurried from the room.
The break in the tension came as a relief for Simpson. All the more so, when he saw that Mary’s “dame persona” had settled her down. The expression on her face was now stern, but no longer had any trace of hysteria.
“Tonight, John Chandler Simpson, I am going to tell you the truth. Two years ago, when the Ring of Fire turned our universe inside out, Mike Stearns was right and you—we—were wrong. Just as he was right—not us—during the political campaign.”
She waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, stop looking like a boy being forced to swallow a pill. I didn’t say he was right about everything, for God’s sake. He’s still a crude and uncouth man, as vicious in a brawl as anyone you’ll ever meet, and I think he’s reckless and short-sighted about a lot of things. But—”
The word was spoken almost like a gunshot. “He understood something, right from the beginning, that we didn’t. Although, looking back on it now, it’s clear as day to me. Those few thousand Americans who came through the Ring of Fire were almost petrified with terror. You saw that also, and—I know you, John, you’re not a bad man, never have been—reacted to it by trying to organize the fear in order to save them. And what he saw, and understood, was that fear—organized—would just turn into savagery. No matter how well it was administered. So, he used you—and me—like a punching bag. Hammered on us to dispel the fear by offering them . . .”