“Well,” Shirley sighed, “No doubt about it, times have changed. Used to be the wages of sin was death, not an extra half pint of cream.”

Bridget tried not to let her irritation show. Their Tuesday lunch had gotten off to a bad start with Shirl walking in and saying “Did you see those women who were at the town hall meeting last night? Did you smell them?”

Bridge had spent the entire lunch working patiently to bring Shirley around. She had assumed that leg of the conversation was over at last when, after the plates had been taken away, Shirl had smiled and shrugged. “Of course, you’re right,” Shirl had said, and ordered the Island Sours that always meant the end of the Tuesday lunch.

And then Shirley went and said something like this.

“Death for the sinners, maybe,” said Bridget. “But I know you don’t feel that way about infants. You’re so adorable with children, Shirley.”

“And it’s not like we’d be handing over cash to the mothers. It would be milk. Just milk. For the babies.”

“Hmmm.” Shirl glanced past Bridget across the dining room. As usual for Tuesday, they’d stayed well past the afternoon rush, and the dining room was empty except for Mimi Macana sitting at a table with a coke, her head bent over the restaurant accounts. When Shirl spoke again, her eyes flickered past Bridget to where Mimi was sitting and she lowered her voice a notch.

“Did you see who snuck into the meeting?”

“Who?”

“There in the back, slinking in after it had started like she thought nobody would notice. Darleena Reckoner.” She said the name “Reckoner” as she always had, with a moue of delicate distate.

“There she was, the disgusting cat, holding one of her litter in her lap, her hand out with the rest of them, bold as you please.”

Bridget resisted the urge to do what her brother called “the Island blick,” that quick, furtive, over-the-shoulder glance to see what relative or ally of the person being discussed was sitting nearby. Darleena would be Mimi’s niece, the daughter of her brother, Jacko Reckoner. Jacko was a coke-head who’d run through his inheritance within five years and abandoned his family, hopping a ship to the Mainland back in ’38. He, like the rest of his family, had stopped talking to Mimi when she married Artie Macana, so Mimi was hardly likely to care much. But still…

“You know people aren’t kind to her, Shirl. She probably didn’t want to attract attention to herself.”

“Oh please, Bridge, don’t tell me a Reckoner wouldn’t figure out a way to turn a profit from free milk,” said Shirley, her voice still low but, Bridget thought, not quite low enough. “Even if it meant taking it from the mouths of their own babies,” said Shirley. “Illegitimate babies.”

That last came out in a furious hiss.

Oh for pity’s sake, thought Bridget.

A phone was ringing somewhere in the back. Bridget heard Mimi push back her chair, heard her brisk footsteps as she walked to the back to answer the phone.

At the sound of the door behind her closing, Bridget spoke.

“Heavens, Shirl. You talk like the Reckoners are still running the island. How many people named Reckoner are left here since Jacko ran off and the Pete Reckoners moved to Tampa?”

“That pathetic Darleena and her children, that’s who. Oh and poor dotty old Kate in the pensioner’s home. Your family’s on top now. You’re on top now. Why can’t you enjoy it?”

Perhaps her annoyance showed more than she’d intended, because Shirl changed course, as she often did when she thought Bridget might be angry with her. “Well, Bridge, all I can say is that husband and aunt of yours are just too good for words.”

If it weren’t for people like them, we Islanders would probably still be going after each other with cutlasses.” She raised her glass. “To progress!” she said.

“To progress,” Bridget raised her own glass and drank.

“Enough about other people’s children,” said Shirley. “Did I tell you about Irma’s trip? She’s got an English boyfriend now, of all things. Very well-off, too, from a lovely family…”

In fact, Shirley had told her, but it made her so happy to talk about the Pettifers, Bridge didn’t mind hearing about it again. At least they were no longer talking about milk and orphans, which she was having for breakfast lunch and dinner at home.

Not that she was complaining, she thought, as she listened to Shirl describe, again, the Pettifer’s beautiful “manor.” (“Extensive gardens, why, they just go on forever, and his parents are so welcoming…”) It was good to see Bill so energetic and cheerful again. And why shoudn’t he be? Mayor Abbot had so far made two speeches about the need for the Milk Program, and that had put most of the island businessmen on their side. And Senator Henry Ambriz was a friend. He and Mary Ellen lived just down the road from them, which always made things easier. Henry and the Abbot woman worked hand in glove with each other so having them both…

Suddenly, Bridget felt a stab of anxiety. Oh dear God, she’d forgotten… Bill had said he’d be meeting with Artiste this afternoon. It wasn’t going to be at the house, was it? Because Henry had said he might drop off some literature about the Mainland requirements for milk safety that afternoon, and if he saw Artiste there it could cause trouble. Naturally she adored having Uncle Artiste at the house, he was such a sweet old darling, and it was sad to see how fragile he’d become, but, really, some of his associations…

She didn’t think Henry would understand if he walked into the house and found the well, slightly pink if not outright red pastor of Chuch of Christ the Sailor sitting in their living room, even if Artiste was her uncle by marriage.

Behind her, Bridget heard the door open, and expected to hear Mimi’s quick step back to her table and her accounts.

But the footsteps were slow, and they were coming towards Shirley and Bridget. And Shirley had fallen silent and was looking past Bridge with a peculiar expression. And the anxiety Bridget had been feeling about Henry Ambriz meeting Artist became else, still and terrible, deep in her gut, her chest. Bridget knew what Mimi’s face would be like even before she turned to look.

Later, Bridget always said she knew what Mimi was going to say as soon as she heard her walking towards the table.

In reality, Bridget was only sure it was very, very bad news.

***

Judy had finished the typing in the church office and had come downstairs to the kitchen for a beer and a chat. Mr. Pasco, unregenerate atheist that he was, spent a lot of time working at Christ the Sailor, though he always objected to being called a “volunteer.” “I’m just working gratis,” was the way he preferred to put it. Today he was fixing the sink, and Judy had looked forward to talking with him. He was always interesting when he was in a good mood.

He was, alas, not in a good mood.

“I tell you what, kiddo,” he said, his voice muffled as he screwed something back into place under the sink, “we are in for a shit-storm such as this island has never seen. All that HUAC Hollywood garbage, the Rosenbergs, it’s all just the beginning. Good comrades need to be smart and hunker down.”

Judy laughed. “I don’t see why,” she said.

“How many film stars and atomic spies do we have on the Island?”

“Doesn’t matter. Listen, we aren’t exactly… Wait.” The steady squeak of metal against metal stopped for a moment. “Is Sergei out there?”

“No. Just me.”

“I sent him to the storeroom five minutes ago to get us some cold drinks. How long could it take?” He sighed. The squeaking resumed for a moment, then stopped again.

“There,” he said as he sat up. “It should be fine for next week’s barbecue.”

He stood up and ran the taps, watching as the water swirled down the drain.

When he turned towards Judy he was holding something. “Show this to your Tante Laurette and tell that silly old darlin’ not to pour lye down the drain after clogging it with fat. See this?” He was holding out a small grayish mass, curved into the shape of a pipe gooseneck.

“A solid chunk of soap. I have half a mind to take it home, clean it up and shower with it.”

“Tante didn’t do that,” said Judy. “She’d know fat and lye make soap. She told me it was one of the volunteers.”

“Hmmm. Are the volunteers messing with the drains at Pond House, too? Because I’ve been called in twice to fix leaks that weren’t there. And deal with a table lamp that somehow got soaked.” He shook his head.

“Your great aunt is getting forgetful, Jude. She’s leaving the taps on.”

“Have you mentioned this to Uncle Artiste?”

“Well, you know, he’s not doing so good either since he had that bad bout of flu a few years back. Been running steadily downhill, if you ask…”

“I found it!” exclaimed Sergei, walking in from the storeroom.

He carried a six pack. “It was in the second cooler near the back.”

“At last. Thanks, son.” Mr. Pasco took a beer and opened it with his hand.

They settled around the kitchen table, Mr. Pasco and Judy with their beers, Sergei with a cream soda. Judy looked at the clock. She didn’t need to be at The Rose for another hour.

“Took you longer than you thought it would, didn’t it?” asked Mr. Pasco. She looked at him puzzled. “That list of tykes who’ll be eligible for free milk. I heard that typewriter upstairs going for a long time.”

Judy nodded. “There are so many of them,” she said. “It looks to me… It’s like the depression never left some parts of the island.”

“More like all that coin jangling and high living from the twenties never happened there,” he said.

“The depression is all there ever was in some places.”

“The poor are with us always,” she said.

“Ain’t it the truth?” said Sergei.

Mr. Pasco just flapped his hand the way he always did when someone quoted scripture. “Yeah,” he said drily. “That’s what they say.”

He took a pull on his beer, set it down, and looked at her for a moment, as if he were trying to choose the right words. “Your dad’s a good man,” he said.

“But I meant what I was saying earlier. He needs to hunker down.”

“Dad?” Judy smiled.

“He’s not a comrade. He’s a Democrat.”

“He’s a good man and hard times are coming to the Island for good people who stick their necks out. Like your father is doing.”

“Oh Pop,” Sergei sighed.

“Lay off, just once. Judy doesn’t want to watch you wave your red flag.”

“Serge, please, don’t talk to your father like that.”

“I’ll think about what you’re saying, Mr. Pasco,” she said. “And I’ll be sure to warn Dad.”

“A word to the wise, that’s all,” said Mr. Pasco, glancing at his son. “I’ll say no more about it.”

She couldn’t completely blame Sergei. Mr. Pasco was always looking for causes and fights, constantly reliving the battles he’d fought in Spain. Ridiculous to talk about founding a milk committee for poor kids as if it were some radical proposal. Who in the world would object? Sure, there was some quibbling about illegitimate children qualifying, but that was so silly and Victorian it couldn’t be a serious impediment. Not today, smack in the middle of the twentieth century. Even Mayor Abbot was on their side.

“Did you you see that movie at the Trianon?” Mr. Pasco asked. “The one with Gloria Swanson? She’s playing an old woman! An insane old woman!” He shook his head. “Gloria Swanson. My first love. God. It made me feel ancient.”

***

She was supposed to pick up Mother at The Rose a little after 4:30. It wouldn’t matter much if she were a bit late because once Mother and Shirl started talking there was no telling when they’d stop. But she had promised to help Lish with his schoolwork, and if she waited too long he’d get distracted and petulant. Lish in a pet was hard to live with. If Mother wasn’t outside, she was going to park the car and go in.

As soon as she came in sight of The Rose, she knew something was wrong.

Shirley and Mother were out front, but they weren’t standing side by side chatting, as Judy would have expected. Her first thought was they were having a violent quarrel. Mother was gesturing wildly, and Shirl seemed to be trying to calm her down. As Judy pulled the car to the curb and got out, she saw Shirley try to put her arms around Mother, and Mother jerk away.

“Bridge, please, talk to me!” she heard Shirley plead. Mother stood, her back to her friend, her shoulders slumped and shaking.

“Judy, thank goodness you’re here.” Shirl said, her own voice thick with tears. “Your mother… It’s bad, bad news, Jude, and she’s so upset…”

“Mama?”

Mother turned toward Judy, her face wet, her eyes wide and slightly wild.

“Papa…” was all she could say.