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The Diary
- University of North Texas Press
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Part 5: 1980 • A Jury of Her Friends 213 The Diary Isabel listens to the striking of the clock. The quarter hour. The half hour. The quarter hour again. Finally, the clock strikes seven. Good! It’s not too early to call. Well, yes, it is, she tells herself. It is too early. But they haven’t read the diary. If they had read the diary, they would want her to call! She is certain of it. She picks up the small red book and cradles it in her arms. She will dress and then call, she decides. Hurriedly she showers , pulls on a pink T-shirt, with “Paris Rocks” emblazoned with sequins on the front, and steps into faded jeans. She calls Sarah first. “Isabel, you woke me up!” “I know I did. Please. Just throw on something and come over here. I’ll put on a pot of coffee and call Gaynor.” “I can’t get out of bed.” “Yes you can, Sarah. Last night I read Mary Martha’s diary . Please come. I want you and Gaynor to read it. We only thought we knew her.” When Sarah doesn’t respond, she holds the phone away from her ear, looks at it, then, “Sarah, are you there? Sarah?” “Isabel, that diary is evidence. You’re obstructing justice. Burn it!” “How can I be obstructing justice? I hadn’t any idea her diary would help the investigation. I hadn’t a clue. ” “Does it say who the murderer is?” “I’m not sure. Rock may think it does.” “Oh, shit! I’ll come.” Thirty minutes after the phone calls, Isabel sits at the kitchen table. She is pale, her face drawn, her mouth stern. In the morning light, circles like faint bruises are clearly visible under her eyes. 214 Out the Summerhill Road Gaynor has arrived before Sarah, although Sarah lives only minutes away. She also arrives before Isabel, reading the diary again, has put the coffee on. Gaynor has dressed; that is, she is not wearing her usual pants and boots, but rather her yellow cotton dress and sandals. Standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, she studies her friend who sits, head bowed, a hand covering her eyes. “You’re wearing a great T-shirt, love, but you don’t exactly look like you’re rocking. You look awful.” Isabel sits with her chin propped up by her fist. “I feel worse. I can’t believe that Mary Martha is gone. Gone. The way she died. Oh, Lord. Her diary just about broke my heart.” Her voice trembles. She clears her throat, swallows. “I couldn’t sleep, and I drank too much wine. And Jackson came,” she adds heavily. “Ah, Jackson. Talk of Jackson will wait until Sarah comes. For now, we’ll be having a bite of breakfast. Shall we?” Gaynor’s voice is the conciliatory voice of a parent to an ailing child. And without waiting for an answer, which is sensible since none is forthcoming, Gaynor butters bread for toast and pours a glass of orange juice for herself and Isabel. Then she finds a skillet and begins to fry bacon. “Is Sarah on her way?” “She should be. I called her before I called you.” Turning away from the stove, one hand holding a fork, the other on her hip, Gaynor says, “I thought you might have thrown it in the river by now.” “I was waiting for the right time.” “To drown it?” “To read it. And, oh Gaynor, I have the most god-awful headache.” “Where are your aspirin?” “In the medicine cabinet in my bathroom.” “Here’s Sarah. I’ll let her in. Watch the bacon.” [44.222.242.27] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 05:56 GMT) Part 5: 1980 • A Jury of Her Friends 215 But Sarah has let herself in. “Isabel,” she calls from the entrance , and coming into the kitchen, “you need to lock your doors at night. We’re not safe in this town. Something’s burning ! The bacon!” she says, turning off the burner. “Isabel, you look terrible!” Isabel groans. “Gaynor’s already told me how I look. Sarah, Mary Martha’s diary sounds as if someone else wrote it. Certainly , not the Mary Martha we knew. Gaynor, remember when you said we didn’t really know Mary Martha? You were right.” Handing Isabel a glass of orange juice and a couple of aspirins , Gaynor says, “I’m making a small breakfast. The diary...