CHAPTER 8

EMMA.” I said, “what is Mrs. Boyd like?”

It was only five in the afternoon, but Emma’s room was almost dark. I had called her from school, asking her if I could come, the following Monday when I was supposed to be at the dentist’s. She said yes immediately, almost as though she had been expecting me. When I came she was pouring tea into a white pot and cutting pieces of orange cake. She settled me by the hissing radiator and gave me some tea, then sat back as though waiting for me to begin.

“What did you think she is like?” Emma asked. “You had lunch with her, did you not?”

“I didn’t like her very much,” I said, looking into the cup. “I suppose nobody else agrees with me.”

Emma smiled. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“I just thought Val was so funny with her. Talking about clothes and shopping and stuff. Val doesn’t care about all that.”

“Perhaps she is growing up. It is high time you two stopped being such scamps, you know. Running all over the city the way you do.” She looked over at me. “You feel lonely now, huh?”

“Well, yes! And not just because Val talks about clothes to her mother. I talk about them to Wimpole too sometimes. But Mrs. Boyd seemed to want Val all to herself, and she didn’t want me around. And sometimes Val seemed to be lapping it all up, and sometimes she looked as if she wanted to get away.”

“But you must remember that it is her mother, Marian. The only one she has. And she sees her so rarely, of course she wants to please her.”

“Yes, but there was something wrong. It wasn’t natural.”

Emma reached into the box beside her and took out one of her rare cigarettes. She lit it and blew the pale smoke up at the ceiling. The room was dark, and I felt as though I was consulting the Oracle of Delphi, waiting for the answer to the riddle. I wondered again where and when Emma had gotten her wisdom; from Charles, or in spite of him? I had the conviction that Emma always knew the truth about something, no matter what it was.

“That is what I wanted to know,” Emma said finally. “You have sensed trouble.”

I waited. “So?” I asked finally. “Then what is wrong?” She looked at me for a moment, clearly wondering whether to tell me or not. Then she sighed.

“It is not as though I am telling you anything you would not guess or find out for yourself,” she said. “It is quite simple; Mrs. Boyd is a neurotic woman. She comes from a poor family. She had to work hard instead of going to school, to support her mother. She grew up bitter and unhappy, and determined to be rich. She met Arthur Boyd somewhere—I do not know—perhaps she was selling magazines or cigarettes or something. He was attracted by her beauty and cynicism and set her up in a beautiful apartment. But his business took him away often, and she trusts no one. So she...” She looked over at me kindly. “First I will tell you something about Arthur Boyd. He was a child genius.”

“Like Val,” I said.

“But more so. His I.Q. is better. He went to business school and was an immediate success. His parents had money, and now he has made more.” She paused.

“So,” I said, “what did Mrs. Boyd do when she was in the apartment?”

“She was not Mrs. Boyd yet,” Emma said. “She wanted very much to be, but Arthur Boyd did not. So she...” Her hand dropped onto the arm of the chair. “So she started a child.”

I stared at her.

“Do you understand these things, Marian?” Her voice was rueful, as though she hated to talk to me of such things. “People can start children or not, as they desire. Sometimes it does not work, but in Isabel Boyd’s case it did. Then she told Arthur Boyd she was with child and he must marry her. She knew him well enough to take such a chance; he would not leave her in such a situation, and so they were married.”

Her brown hair glimmered in a faint light from the window, and she watched me closely. I said nothing for a moment, then asked softly:

“Was the child Val?”

“Yes, it was Val. And of course there was nothing she wanted less than a child. When her time came, she suffered terribly, and was in great pain for a long time. For some women it is a hell, nothing else. At last they said that she must choose between her own life and that of the baby. She chose her own. I do not blame her for that; probably most women would. But the baby struggled and lived. She always resented it for that, I think. Then she said to herself, now that this is over, I am going to do all the things I’ve wanted to do. So the child was put in the hands of nurses and kindergartens right from the beginning, and the Boyds bought beautiful clothes and flew about the world.” She got up and poured some more tea. “But the marriage has been a failure. Arthur Boyd thinks of nothing but his business and his money; I do not think he has strong feelings about anything else. He knows nothing of people. Isabel grew bored and lonely, in spite of the money and the travel—a woman needs more than that—and soon there were other men. She deceived her husband for a long time, but then he began to threaten divorce. Whenever he did that, she would reform for a while, and then she would be bored, and it would start all over.”

“Then why didn’t he divorce her?” I asked, fascinated by this first glimpse into the world and its functions.

Emma shrugged. “I do not think he wanted to bother,” she said. “Marriage becomes a habit, and after a certain number of years one cannot bear the thought of starting anew. She is an asset to him in his business; she is a charming hostess and dresses well. She has cultivated herself. She gives a good impression with her charity work. In a way, he needs her. You are too young to understand the bonds that can grow between two people who have lived together for many years.” She was smiling softly into the air, and I had an oblique glimpse of understanding into her life with Charles. She said nothing for a few moments, and I pursued:

“Then why is Isabel being so nice to Val now, if she doesn’t want her?”

“Why? Why indeed does a neurotic do things? I do not know, but I can guess. It is Isabel’s desperate bid for her husband’s approval. I suspect he has threatened divorce again, and she is trying to make a family in a hurry. She is trying to win Val with money, the only way she knows.”

I sat pulling the nap off the rug. “She’ll never win Val. She’ll never make Val what she wants her.”

Emma looked at me. “Are you sure? If you are so sure, then why did you come here today?”

Her words brought a cold bleak pain. I said nothing.

“Has Val been neglecting you and Henry, to go and buy the expensive dresses with her mother?” she asked gently. “I have not seen her this week.”

I sighed. “I’ve hardly seen her either, Emma. But I know Val! I know she wouldn’t have anything to do with falseness, and her mother is a false woman.” As I spoke, I wondered if it were true, then promptly brushed the feeling away, like a fly. “She’s just being nice to her while she’s here, that’s all. She still loves Henry, and she still loves me.”

“You don’t think she can love you and Henry and Isabel all at the same time?”

I looked up at her thoughtfully. “No, I don’t.”

“I don’t think so either.” She got up and snapped on the light, and we both blinked at each other in astonishment, as though we had waked from a dream. “It is almost six, Marian, and though I am happy to have you, your mother must be worrying.”

I got up and pulled on my coat, from where I had dropped it on the floor.

“Emma,” I said, “everybody at Norton knows that Val goes to a psychiatrist.”

The smile left her face. “Oh,” she said softly. “Does she know this?”

“Yes. She said she told a few people herself, and a lot of stuff. She acted as though she didn’t care.”

“Oh, good heavens.” She put her hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, my child. If you want to prove yourself an adult, here is your time. You must stick with her, no matter what she does. I know she is infuriating; but she needs you, and you must be her friend, no matter what Isabel does.”

“Oh, I will,” I said. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Don’t think it will be easy.”

“When the Boyds go, everything will be back where it was.” Emma said nothing, and I hated to go, so I asked another question. “Emma, how did you find all this out about Isabel?”

“She told me herself, last summer, when I first met her to discuss Val’s living here. I did not ask her. She seemed to want to tell me.”

“Oh.” I buttoned my coat. “Well, I have to go. Thanks a lot, Emma. Really thanks.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “Come again, any time you like.”

Just as she was about to close the door, I thought of one more thing.

“Emma, is it always a hell?”

“Is what, my dear?”

“Having babies,” I said.

She smiled. “I wish I could tell you. I have never been able to have any, and that is the saddest thing in my life.”

I went out the door and walked slowly and thoughtfully down the street.

 

Days at Norton had again taken on the cast they had when I had hidden in the nook each morning. No one met me at prison, no one had lunch with me, except occasionally Lilian, and there was no one to impress with my growing literacy. However, there was a change. I first felt it at the annual Christmas pageant, the last day before vacation. I stood backstage, looking at the previously omniscient Eights in their white dresses lined up to march across the stage, and I began to feel that they weren’t so omniscient after all. I might be the only one in this whole group without a skeleton in the closet, I thought. What’s a divorce? Nothing, when you think of some things that people don’t tell you about. Wimpole’s normal, and my father is too, except that he hates restaurants. My father was such a dim figure, I could hardly say whether he was normal or not; but he seemed to be. For the first time I could remember, I had a slight feeling of superiority.

The Eights lined up and marched across the stage in twos, down the steps, and up the aisles. The assembly hall was decked with pine and holly, and there was an enormous wreath on the back wall of the stage, and each of us carried a lighted taper. Sang the Eights:

“Masters in this hall, hear ye news today

Brought from oversea, and ever I you pray.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel sing we clear!

Holpen are all folk on earth.

Born is God’s son so dear!”

The tramp of feet shook the stage, and I found myself with Sylvia Van Dyke, the most impressive girl in the class. She was beautiful, she was Class President, she got high marks, and her mother had thousands of phone numbers. Sylvia’s every week end was filled with tulle, flowers, tuxedos and laughter. But, I reminded myself, her father might be a dope addict. Or Sylvia herself might have screaming fits in the night. Who knows? I was sure of myself, but not of Sylvia, and this unwarranted state of affairs made me want to laugh.

“Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel sing we loud!

God today hath poor folk raised,

And cast a-down the proud.”

Isn’t it wonderful what Christmas can do? I thought. I’m alone, but I don’t really mind so much. I looked up; the hall was breathtaking, with candles flickering over the rows of faces, and the smell of pine. Just at this moment, I love Norton, and everybody in it. Maybe in a minute I won’t, but just now I do. Sylvia and I marched across the stage, carefully in step, our white dresses swishing. Here go Sylvia and I, just two girls, dressed the same, walking in step, both of us with the same chance at life.

“God today hath poor folk raised,

And cast a-down the proud.”

We sat in our assigned section, and I spotted Wimpole across the room, with the rest of the parents. She was all furry, with a small green hat on, and she raised a hand in solemn greeting. The assembly was nice; it was the only one of the year that I liked. We sang carols, and Miss Clipper, the dean, read the Nativity. Then we prayed for a long time, our heads bent. During the prayer, Sylvia whispered:

“Say, do you have a minute afterwards, Gilbert? I’ve been meaning and meaning to talk to you, but I’ve been so busy, and I’m sure you have, and...” She smiled helplessly. “You know how it is. Just for a minute.”

“Sure,” I said, full of curiosity. The secret of Sylvia’s popularity was that she always acted as though everyone else was as mad and gay and busy as she was, and it was flattering. When the prayer was over, we marched out of the hall, leaving the flickering lights and the breath of pine.

“This is Christ the Lord, Masters be ye glad!

Christmas is come in, and no folk should be sad!”

Outside, mothers were kissing their daughters and saying how beautiful it was, and shaking hands with teachers, while the strains of music still came through the door. Sylvia waved at several people and then drew me into a corner. Hillary Green appeared like magic beside us. Hillary was Sylvia’s ugly friend. She was said to be cute; she had stick-like yellow hair, about two inches long, and buck teeth and freckles, and Sylvia passed on her cast-off dates to her. Unlike Sylvia, she was fawning, conceited and unpleasant, so proud of being chosen by Sylvia she could hardly stand it.

“This will just take a minute,” Sylvia said, smiling winningly. “I...uh...I’m giving a small party on Saturday night, and I was wondering if Val would like to come, and you too, of course. I thought I’d ask you first, because...well, you know Val so well, and I wasn’t sure if she liked to go to parties and things.”

I was astounded. None of the Eights had ever asked me to a party, or Val, or consulted me as to whether Val...and suddenly, I understood. It was a charitable act; Val was now acknowledged to be strange, and no one was quite sure whether she performed human functions, eating or sleeping or going to parties. I stood looking at her in astonishment, wondering what to say. Hillary was pulling at Sylvia’s arm and saying:

“Come on, Syl, Mother’s dying for some tea,” and looking at me as though I were some sort of vermin. Clearly she was as surprised by this as I was, but, recollecting herself, she began to smile affectionately at Sylvia, as though she was too amusing for words.

“Well,” I finally stuttered out, “it’s awfully nice of you, but I don’t really know about Val. I mean you’d have to ask her yourself. Her parents are in town and...”

“Oh, I see,” Sylvia said, and I realized with horror that I had said the wrong thing; even I, her best friend, had acknowledged doubt of her social capabilities. I was wondering what I could say to remedy this, but Hillary was pulling Sylvia away, and all she said was, “Well, maybe I’ll ask her myself. How about you?”

The air froze around me, and I said, “Thanks so much, Sylvia, but I don’t think I can,” and the moment I said it, I hated myself. Then they were gone, and it was too late. My chance had come, and as usual I had muffed it.

I felt tears in my eyes. I looked blurrily around and saw Wimpole standing by the door, looking for me. I managed to smile, and she came over and told me how lovely we had all looked in our white dresses, marching across the stage and singing. She waited wonderingly to see if I would introduce her to any friends or teachers. But as always before, I silently got my coat and we went upstairs and out in the snow, huddled together against the cold, waving for a taxi.

 

A couple of days later, Val called and said that Isabel was giving a tree-trimming party on Christmas Eve, and would like us all to come. Wimpole said she thought it would be delightful, and we accepted. I was pleased by the prospect. Not because I particularly wanted to see Isabel, but because Christmas Eve was, in our house, the hardest time of year to bear. Wimpole usually asked several strays to Christmas dinner the next day, with much turkey and eggnog, and it was a cheerful time. But few people gave parties Christmas Eve; it was the time for families to be together at home. In previous years, when Wimpole, Boothy and I sat around our tree, I don’t think there was one of us who didn’t feel the pain of loneliness, the lack of a father or husband sitting around in a smoking jacket with a pipe. My picture of fathers came mostly from novels and the movies, but it was the best I had.

The first week or so of vacation I spent doing my bit of Christmas shopping, talking to Wimpole’s and Boothy’s friends, and wandering futilely about the city to Henry’s old haunts. I could not believe Val had given Henry up; I felt she was just forced to be away from him for a while, and depended on me to keep up the faith. It was lonely, by myself, as it had been when I stood in front of Henry’s apartment in the snow. But I periodically traced Henry’s route, as well as I could by memory, for Val had the Bible with her at the hotel. I wanted very much to give Val something of Henry’s for Christmas. She had all his records and must have found everything there was to be found about him in magazines.

One day, I had an idea. I went to Carnegie Hall and asked Harmon if there was any way I could get Henry’s autograph. Harmon shook his head; Mr. Orient was in New Jersey for Christmas (with his widowed sister and her two children, one of whom resembled Henry, and his father, who was senile, I supplemented). I told Harmon that it was for Val, and couldn’t he do anything? He liked Val and said he hadn’t seen her for a while; scratched his head, and said he would see what he could do. I returned the next day, and Harmon had found buried away a score actually used by Henry, with “Mr. Orient” written on the top. It was better than I expected; surely the music had magic powers, and Val would play from it as she had never played before. I burbled out my gratitude to Harmon, and scudded home through the snow with the music buttoned inside my coat.

By Christmas Eve, the city, the neighborhood and the house were full of enchantment. Park Avenue had sprouted magically, the streets were silver with snow, the Lexington bakeshop had a four-foot-long chocolate log in the window, which I gazed at in awe. Even on Third there were signs. Every bar, no matter how desolate, had a bit of tinsel or a red cellophane wreath; O’Hara, the grocer, had Imported Mincemeat; Feinbaum, the cleaner, had silver bells in his window; and Schwartz, the hardwareman, went mad with strings of colored lights, balls, tinsel, candles, Angel Hair, and fake snow. Every woman, no matter how dowdy, had a bit of holly or a silver bell on her lapel. The El rattled by, shimmering the air with snowflakes, and the cobblestones, bare in spots from heat underneath, shone dully in the flickering light. Our street took on the air of a private lane, the main street of our own country town. Everyone from Third to Second nodded in passing, wreaths appeared in the windows, and carols chimed softly from the small Italian church up the street. It was all ours. We were interested in and concerned about the Block Carol Singers’ Group, why the senator up the street had not put up a wreath, whether the midnight service would be well attended, and who had drawn O’Hara’s special turkeys this year. Admittedly, Christmas was the only time I was interested in such things, or the only time Boothy was. Boothy, being what the New Yorker was supposed to be, laughed at community spirit; Wimpole, being what the New Yorker really was, was quite provincial about her neighborhood.

It seemed a shame to leave all this for the Melton Arms, but the alternative of our empty house loomed, and so we went. After the usual debate about whether or not I should wear stockings, I decided that the time had come to take the great step. After a good deal of searching for the necessary equipment, I stood in the hall with my legs feeling as though they were encased in sausage skins.

“How do you stand it?” I wailed. “Do you ever get too old for stockings? Can I at least look forward to that?”

Boothy replied, “Well, in about forty or fifty years you can start wearing elastic ones for your varicose veins,” which was such a sobering thought I said no more about it.

The lobby of the hotel had a single gold wreath hanging in solitary magnificence in the center of the wall, and canned carols came faintly from the dining room; Christmas spirit, like everything else, was expensive and restrained at the Melton Arms. We went up in the elevator to the nineteenth floor, and walked soundlessly along the hall to the Boyds’ door.

Val flung open the door the minute we rang, as though she had posted herself there to inspect us for germs before she let us into the living room. She wore another new and impressive dress and was hopping around nervously.

“Merry Christmas, all,” she said. “This isn’t formal or anything like that. Just a few friends, you know.”

When we got into the living room I saw why she had apologized. Clearly, this was Isabel’s night for taking in the lunatic fringe. Freddie was there, stretched out on a sofa with a high-ball in her hand. She was wearing a blue turban, with a large fake jewel in the middle of it, like an evil eye. She greeted us blankly, having completely forgotten who I was. A bar was set up in one corner and Arthur Boyd stood by it, mixing drinks. He seemed pleasant enough, and had Val’s twinkle in his eye. His shoes came to neat and polished points and the crease in his trousers cracked just above the instep. At the far end of the room, an ethereal, wraith-like youth was engaged in decorating the Christmas tree. He would wander over to it, carefully hang a ball on a branch, and step back in deep and fervent concentration to the sofa, where he would sit and contemplate the ball for several minutes; then he would repeat the process. Val introduced him as Giles Gothic, an interior decorator. Helping him contemplate was an emaciated, tense girl with black hair, who never said a word the whole time we were there. She was Stella, a friend. Besides these, there was a hearty columnist in a red-and-green shirt with a fat friend who laughed at what he said, and Isabel, in green satin pants and a black turtle-neck sweater. She was being hostessy, rushing from one person to another, trying to make her party congeal into a whole. It looked like an impossible job, but her enthusiasm didn’t flag. She greeted us with brisk authority, as though the demands of her guests only allotted us a moment of her time.

“So glad to meet you at last, Mrs. Gilbert, and you, Mrs. Booth. You’ve been so sweet to Val, having her over all the time. With us away so much it’s wonderful for her to know a family or two here. You can put your coats in here...” She dispensed us to the bedroom and whisked off busily. We left our coats and went back into the living room.

The setting looked wonderful. The tree reached to the ceiling, which was at least ten feet high. It was pure white, and the balls were only green and gold. The white marble mantelpiece had gold and green candles, and a magnificent gold wreath hung above it. Val was with her father, and we went over to them.

“Well, what will you ladies have?” Arthur asked. “I have Scotch, gin, bourbon, anything. I have some eggnog here, but most of the others didn’t seem to want any preliminaries to the serious drinking.” He laughed heavily, and Wimpole said:

“I’ll have some eggnog, please.” Boothy, amused, said she would too. There was some scuffling around as Arthur looked for nutmeg. Val and I were given eggnogs too, with about a teaspoon of whiskey in each cup, since it was Christmas. I watched Arthur interestedly. Val resembled him a little, as she resembled Isabel, but most of her looks were completely her own, inherited perhaps from some long-forgotten ancestor. Arthur was given to guffawing and tedious stories. I saw no signs of genius; but perhaps he transformed, as he walked through his office door, into a bristling dynamo of industrial know-how. As it was, he tried to amuse Wimpole by telling her of the comparative advantages of the Martinis of TWA and Pan American on the New York-London run. She nodded politely, having only been to Europe once, on a bicycle tour at the age of eighteen.

Boothy, who seemed highly amused at the whole gathering, whispered to me, “I’m going to pick up some local color.” She wandered over to Gothic and began criticizing the position of one of his green balls, which threw him into another coma of concentration. Val and I were left under the gold wreath, and she filled me in on how much the tree had cost, what her parents had given her for Christmas (clothes, money, records and a metronome), how Isabel had shopped for satin pants that matched the decor, and a party at 21 the night before, at which she had been allowed a glass of beer. She said Jack and Charlie knew her and maybe the two of us could have lunch there sometime.

“And on Saturday, I was at Van Dyke’s party,” she said. “It was swell. You should have gone.”

So she had gone! Any joy or pleasure promised by the evening began to wither, and the familiar ache began to return; but for the first time I tried to stop the feeling, and said to myself, Stop being miserable! It doesn’t do any good! You have enough to be proud of! And a peculiarly calm light-heartedness, perhaps brought on by my lightly-spiked eggnog, appeared and took over. Val was watching me, in the flickering candlelight; her big dark eyes were half guilty and half challenging.

“Maybe I should have gone,” I said. “Was it fun?” And the words, when they came out, sounded only a little forced. There was a pause.

“Oh, it was all right, as those things go,” Val said finally, in a light voice, as though it had been one of a succession of Van Dyke parties. “Lots of boys from Trinity, and some from Groton and St. Mark’s. We danced, and had punch and sandwiches and stuff. No beer. Prickle-top Green was all over the place. What a creep. But Sylvia’s a good egg. She manages to be nice to everybody at the same time. It’s the secret of her success.”

I tried not to show it, but I was fascinated by every detail of what went on at the party of a Van Dyke, with Trinity boys in their tuxedos, smiling and being amiable.

“Is it a nice house?” I asked casually, picking an invisible speck out of my eggnog.

“Apartment,” Val said. “Like this. You know. Mama Van Dyke was around during the first part of the evening, and she seemed like a good egg too.” She paused significantly, and I glanced up, wondering what she meant. Perhaps Mrs. Van Dyke was strange in some way...a psychiatrist too? But I was on the wrong track. “During the second part of the evening...Gilbert, don’t you dare tell a soul. Promise?”

“I swear!” I breathed, no longer trying to hide my curiosity.

“During the second part of the evening, somebody turned the lights out, and people necked.”

If she had dashed a bucket of cold water over me, I couldn’t have been more astonished. I had heard of such sinful goings-on among the Norton girls, but it seemed incredible that Val or I could be a party to them. I felt as though Val were dropping into a boiling vat of vice, and I wanted to rescue her. I stood staring at her as she leaned against the mantel with a curious expression on her face.

“Well?” she said finally. “Why don’t you ask me what you’re dying to know?”

“What?” I fairly shouted, not having any idea what she was talking about.

“Shhh!” Val said. “Stop yelling!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re dying to know if I necked too, Gilbert. Don’t be so innocent.”

“If you...” No, it was impossible! “I...you...well, did you?”

She grinned at me, then began to laugh. “I can’t help it,” she gasped, “the expression on your face! No, I didn’t really...I mean, I did in a way...oh, it was fantastic! I’ll have to explain another time. I can’t go into all the gory details here. But I will tell you one thing...I saw Green in the john just before we left, when she was putting on her coat, and the whole top of her dress had been pulled off!” By this time, I was speechless. “It was so dark, you know, in the living room, and everybody was kind of sneaking out. You could just hear grunts and see people writhing around on sofas. It was like a zoo, Gilbert. Then at about midnight Mrs. Van Dyke rang the bell three times from her room. That’s her signal for when the party’s supposed to end—clink, clink, clink. And I went into the john to comb my hair, and there was Green, with her dress down around her waist. She almost had a fit when she saw me and made up a lot of stuff about fixing her zipper, and I just grinned and said...”

“Hark, the herald angels sing!” came a soft, familiar voice from behind me. “Whatever you say, you’d better lower your voice! Glory to the new-born King!” Boothy, on the other side of the sofa, was carefully straightening a piece of tinsel. She turned around and grinned at the two of us, standing there looking horrified. “Don’t worry, our friend Gothic here is in a trance, and La Stella is drunk,” she whispered. “But there are others...”

“Boothy, you didn’t hear!” I said.

“Every golden word. Fascinating! Marian, I question your schooling. Maybe you’d better go into a convent.”

“Oh, Boothy, don’t tell,” Val pleaded. “Isabel would...”

“Don’t worry, my little delinquent. It’s safe with me, on the condition that you’ll tell me about future necking parties, in lavish detail. Honestly, when I think how I began...one lousy kiss on the cheek on the front porch by somebody named Jeremiah Rappaport, age sixteen, with my father looking out the window! At the time, I thought it was great, but it pales beside the modern generation.”

Isabel interrupted this interesting conversation with a request for Val to get her a handkerchief.

“Marian, I have so wanted a moment to speak to you,” she said in a hurried tone when Val was gone. She was holding an enormous glass of whiskey, and she was smiling her rigid smile. She led me to the sofa and sat me down, ignoring Boothy. Now what? I wondered. Another blow to my constitution? But I felt I could absorb it. I felt a little sleepy, a little unhappy, filled with an unfamiliar restlessness.

Isabel looked at me and said, “Really, you and your mother are so sweet to Val. I know what a problem she is, and you take her in all the time.”

“We like her, Mrs. Boyd,” I said. “Val’s my best friend.”

She watched me for a moment, still smiling. She crossed her shining green knees and rested the bucket-like glass on one of them.

“You’re so sweet to say it, Marian, but I know what a trial she is. Of course you know about her problems and all that.”

“Well, you mean Dr. Braintree?”

“Yes. What a godsend that woman is! We couldn’t do a thing with her, and neither could any of the schools. Val has always been bull-headed and stubborn, and treated Arthur and me like a couple of monsters. I suppose she’s told you how awful we are.” The smile was still there, and I felt a faint and unexpected pity for her. “Of course,” she said, becoming brisk, “we can’t go into all that now. It’s unfortunate we have to travel so much. I’m trying to get Arthur to stay here for a while, till the spring anyway. We could try and give Val some home life. That’s what she lacks, of course. Braintree says that’s the source of all her troubles. She compensates in the most ungodly ways. And that mad Hambler ménage...all those horrible pieces of wire...” She sighed, as though she could hardly bear to think of them. “Emma is sweet, but her husband is rather overcreative. I definitely want to keep her with us for a while, if I can possibly arrange it.” She sat up and took a sip. “You’re so sweet,” she said for the third time, “and I know what a trial she’s been. I just want to thank you for having been so nice to her.”

I listened to her wonderingly. It sounded as though I had been doing her a great favor and was now being dismissed. What was happening? Was she going to try and separate Val and me? She was perfectly nice to me, but nice as though I was a poor relation she wanted to get rid of. She had been that way in the restaurant; she was being that way now. I was trying to think of something to say, but she was staring across the room. “Oh, God,” she said, “Freddie’s passed out. Excuse me, dear. You’ve been so...” She was gone. Freddie had indeed passed out, and was lolling on the sofa, her blue turban on the side of her head. Isabel chafed her hands and spoke to her, then finally enlisted Arthur’s help to get Freddie into the bedroom. The columnist was trying to talk to Wimpole, who was yawning. When she caught my eye she made a let’s-go gesture. Val was showing Boothy some records on the other side of the room, and I wandered to the window and looked out. The magic city was below, and I remembered how I had stood on Fifth Avenue (I found Saks by its façade of lights) and looked up, wishing myself inside. Well, here I was. I turned away, and on the sofa facing the tree I saw an astonishing sight. Giles Gothic and Stella were clasped together in an enormous, serpentine embrace; arms and legs jutted and swirled in angles and curves; bits of her chiffon dress fell out of odd corners; his smooth gold hair shone in the flickering light. Their mouths were pressed together in a silent and awesome kiss. They were transfixed, like statues. They were so still that the sight had no reality for me, and I watched them detachedly for a few moments, as though I were looking at a photograph. Then suddenly my heart began to hammer unpleasantly, and I looked around wildly for Wimpole. The Boyds came back in the room, and the couple silently drew apart, and went back to their tree-trimming. It seemed as though the evening had completely disintegrated; everyone was floating aimlessly about the room, each preoccupied with his own problems. I felt miserably uncomfortable, and was relieved when Wimpole, Boothy and I finally stood in the hallway, having briefly thanked Isabel.

“I’ll get the coats,” Boothy said, and she sounded rather irritated. “What a jolly gathering.” She went into the bedroom and came out with the coats. “Freddie looks enchanting against the pink satin of the bedspread.” Val stood there, trying to be cheerful.

“I’m sorry it was so aimless,” she said. “Sometimes it...well. I mean...” There wasn’t anything for her to say, and she stopped. Wimpole put her arms around her and kissed her.

“Good night, dear,” she said. “We all love you very much. If you feel like dropping over tomorrow, we’ll be there all day.”

We left her standing by the door, silent and forlorn. We rode downstairs in the elevator, and none of us said anything.