CHAPTER 17
At breakfast, when everyone was served, Blake came into the dining room and stood at the end of the table. “Miss Allison, would you care to accompany me to the train to meet your parents?”
She felt every eye upon her and didn’t dare refuse. She said, “Yes, thank you, Blake,” in a voice so small she was surprised he could hear her.
He nodded. “Very good, miss.” He refilled several empty coffee cups and carried the pot out of the dining room.
Ramona said, “We were going to go Christmas shopping, weren’t we, Allison?” in a bright tone. “Perhaps we’ll postpone, so your mother can go as well. What do you think, Mother Benedict?”
Aunt Edith was staring at the empty chair on her right hand. Uncle Dickson prompted, “Edith?”
She started and said, “What? I’m sorry, did someone speak to me?”
Ramona repeated her suggestion. Aunt Edith turned her pale blue eyes to Allison. “Adelaide,” she said.
Allison felt a rush of shame for her, that she should be so confused. She was about to correct her, but Aunt Edith went on. “Adelaide is such a strange woman. She came from a bad family, didn’t she, dear?” Her gaze shifted to her husband at the far end of the table. “Do you remember? Her father was horrid, all those mistresses, and—”
“Now, Edith,” Dickson said hastily.
Ramona said, “We shouldn’t speak so about Allison’s grandfather.”
Allison, who had been staring miserably at the stack of griddle cakes on her plate—one of the things Hattie did well—glanced up at Ramona. “It’s all right, Cousin Ramona. My mother told me about it.”
Before anyone could alter the course of the conversation, Edith said, “Oh, yes, and he used to take these women out in public, to the theater and to restaurants. It made his wife furious, and her parents threatened to sue. It was a dreadful scandal. Everyone talked about it.”
An embarrassed silence followed this elaboration of the tale, filled only by the scraping of knives and forks, the rustle of napkins, and the sounds of coffee being drunk. Allison took up her own knife and fork and began the process of slicing her griddle cakes into slivers. The slivers fell from the stack, one by one, to dissolve into nothingness in a pool of warm maple syrup.
She had used the spoon the night before, though there wasn’t much in her stomach to eject. She had done her best just the same, then spent a quarter of an hour examining herself in the mirror. She saw, with a stab of panic, that her hips had swelled to twice their usual size. Her bosom stretched the lace border of her chemise, and her thighs had taken on enormous and humiliating proportions. She took the plaid frock out of the wardrobe and tried to put it on. It was so tight she couldn’t fasten it.
She wished she could get rid of it. She even took scissors from the dressing table drawer, thinking she would cut the dress into ribbons, slip it out of the house and into the burn barrel. The trouble was that Ruby would know if the dress disappeared. Ruby knew more about her wardrobe, about the stacks of sweaters and lingerie and stockings that had come with her from San Francisco, than she did herself.
And so, before accompanying Blake to the station, she tried on four dresses to find the largest. The one she settled on had a dropped waistline and a gathered skirt, with a narrow belt that fit just at the top of her hips. She cinched this firmly, and fastened her brassiere in its tightest hooks. Over everything she wore a long black sweater. She hardly ever wore the thing, a baggy creation with painted wooden buttons, but it covered her from shoulders to thighs.
She didn’t feel grand and grown-up, riding in the back of the Essex, as she had done the day before. She felt like a dog about to be whipped. When Blake spoke to her, she gave monosyllabic responses, and he was soon as silent as she was. The Christmas decorations seemed to have proliferated from the day before, every front door festooned with greenery, every window boasting red and green and blue lights, but the pleasure they had given her turned to dread. There were just two weeks left until Christmas, and she feared her parents meant to stay the whole time.
Or perhaps they meant to drag her back to San Francisco. As much as she hadn’t wanted to come to Seattle, now she wanted, with all her heart, to stay in Benedict Hall. But when her mother saw how fat she had gotten, how much she had let herself go, she supposed she would want her home in a trice, where she could once again bend her critical eye over every detail of her daughter’s appearance and behavior.
She followed Blake into the station, shrinking into the baggy black sweater. The train was a bit late, and Blake said, “Can I fetch you something while we wait, Miss Allison? I believe they sell Coca-Cola at that kiosk in the corner.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Are you feeling all right, miss?”
She looked up, seeing the concern in his dark eyes and in the drawing together of his thick white eyebrows. A servant, she reminded herself. Not a friend. Indeed, she had no friends. “I’m fine,” she said. She feared she had sounded curt, or imperious, but Blake’s face showed only sympathy and kindness. She felt a betraying tremble in her lips and a stinging in her eyes. She folded her arms tightly around herself and glared out into the cold, bright day.
It gave her an odd feeling to watch her parents come into the station. They could have been strangers, a couple she had never seen before. Her father was stocky and rather worn-looking, his hair more gray than she remembered, the pouches under his eyes more pronounced. Her mother looked small and faded, lost in the thick folds of her mink coat. Her neck was corded and hollow beneath her sharp chin. Her face powder accentuated the wrinkles bracketing her eyes and mouth. The hand she extended so languidly felt like bird bones inside its kid leather glove.
They touched their cheeks to hers. Her father said, “How are you, Allison?”
Her mother, pulling back from the brief embrace, eyed her narrowly. “That awful sweater, Allison. Surely you have something better to wear.”
Allison said in resigned fashion, “Hello, Papa. Mother.” And then, awkwardly, “This is Blake. Uncle Dickson’s butler.”
“You’re the driver?” her father asked.
“Yes, sir,” Blake answered and tipped his cap to them. “If you will give me your luggage tags, sir, I’ll fetch the bags.”
Adelaide dug in her handbag for the tags. As Blake took them from her gloved fingers, she said, sharply, “Be careful with the bandbox. The lid is loose.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Blake touched his cap again before he crossed the marble floor toward the luggage carts, where the Pullman porters were unloading bags and trunks.
Adelaide clicked her tongue. “I don’t know why Dickson has to employ coloreds,” she said. “There are so many people looking for work these days.”
Allison said, “They’re very good, Mother,” though she dreaded her mother’s thoughts on Hattie’s cooking.
“That’s not the point, is it, Allison? It’s the way it looks. And this one walks with a cane.”
Allison was about to reply, to defend him, but Blake was already limping back toward them, somehow managing his cane and two valises, the bandbox tucked securely under his arm.
Papa stepped forward and took one of the valises, and Blake nodded his thanks. “This way, please, Mr. Benedict,” he said and led them all out of the station to the car.
The car, at least, met with Adelaide’s approval. She settled onto the plush seat, her mink spilling around her, and said, “We should have one of these, Henry. A closed sedan. So much warmer, and no wind.”
Her husband made a noncommittal sound and gazed out the windows at the streets of Seattle. “I expected rain,” he said.
No one had a response to this. Blake drove at his usual deliberate pace, turning left on Broadway, rolling slowly up Aloha. Adelaide tapped her foot with impatience. “Can’t we go any faster? Surely everyone’s waiting for us,” she said.
Allison took pleasure in saying, “Oh, no, Mother. Everyone is busy. Cousin Margot is at the hospital, and Uncle Dickson and Dick are at the office. Cousin Ramona is working on menus with the cook, and Aunt Edith is resting.” The sideways twist of her mother’s lips, her short, exasperated snort, gave Allison a little rush of satisfaction.
In the mirror she caught a glimpse of Blake’s face. Though his features were impassive, his eyes, ever so briefly, met hers before they flicked away. Feeling exposed, she turned her head to gaze out at the mansions of Fourteenth Avenue.
Dinner at Benedict Hall, that night in December, felt to Allison like one of the minefields she had read about, where the doughboys hardly knew where they dared put their feet, and if they made a mistake they got blown to bits. Her mother, stiff and wary in one of the dark embroidered gowns she had bought in Paris, and with her hair pinned up in elaborate loops, tried to engage Aunt Edith over their glasses of sherry. Cousin Ramona did her best to smooth the conversational path, but there were long silences between the women, in which Adelaide looked offended, Aunt Edith looked vague, and poor Ramona looked desperate.
Papa had accepted a single glass of whisky, to be sociable, he said. Speaking slightly too loudly, he talked business with Uncle Dickson and Cousin Dick, and asked blunt questions about what Dickson saw in the future. Allison could see Uncle Dickson choosing his words carefully, trying to avoid criticizing while still offering insights into what he expected from the decade. “Prices are rising too fast, Henry,” he said. “I don’t trust it.”
Her father objected. “Hell, no, Dickson. We’re coming out of a depression, the aftermath of the war. Now is the time to take our profits, put them in the stock market so they can grow without our having to work so hard.”
“Hmm. You could be right, but I have some concerns about the viability of the market.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” Henry exclaimed, waving his glass.
Throughout, Allison perched on one of the straight chairs, a glass of lemonade held carefully in both hands. Her mother had frowned when she saw it and snapped, “What’s that, Allison? What are you drinking?”
Blake, who had served it to Allison on a small tray, said with dignity, “If you’ll permit me, Mrs. Benedict. Our cook makes lemonade especially for Miss Allison.”
Allison said, “Thank you, Blake.” Blake inclined his head and limped out of the room with the empty tray.
Adelaide said in an undertone, “I hope you haven’t gotten used to special treatment, Allison.” Allison felt Ramona’s eyes on her and didn’t answer. She did, however, drink the entire glass of lemonade before they all went in to dinner.
Cousin Margot reached home barely in time to change. Major Parrish was already there, looking handsome in a black dinner jacket. Margot hurried down the staircase and into the dining room just as they were all taking their seats. Uncle Dickson held Adelaide’s chair for her, and Papa, taking the cue, held Aunt Edith’s, though he looked awkward doing it. Blake stood inside the door, watching as the newly hired maid, a plump middle-aged woman in a black dress and a professional-looking white apron, filled water tumblers. Cousin Margot slipped into her chair, saying, “Hello, Aunt Adelaide, Uncle Henry. I’m sure Ramona has made you feel welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here when you arrived.”
Everyone murmured vague courtesies, and Leona came in with the soup tureen. She, too, wore a frilly white apron, though she had no black dress. Allison kept her head down, but she watched her mother from beneath her brows. Adelaide was assessing everything, she could see. She would take note of Leona’s lack of uniform. She would probably count the silver place settings and make guesses at how much the candelabra cost. Allison saw her eyes sweep over the arrangement of Christmas greenery on the side table, and prayed she wouldn’t say anything. Cousin Ramona had lamented the lack of flowers at this cold season, but had nevertheless done a pretty job with sprays of cedar and tiny scarlet berries cut from the shrubs in the garden.
The new maid, called Thelma, ladled soup from the tureen as Leona held it for her. She filled every bowl except the one at Aunt Edith’s right. She paused behind the empty chair, the ladle in her hand. Leona had already placed the tureen on the sideboard. Blake cleared his throat, beckoned to Thelma, then led both maids back out into the corridor. Allison saw her mother look at the vacant place, the soup bowl resting, empty, on the charger. Adelaide said, “Are we waiting for someone?”
Allison had to avert her face to hide the laugh threatening to burst from her lips. She saw that Margot was watching her, and her cheeks flamed with sudden shame, but it was too late to save the moment. Ramona, trying as always to put a brave face on every situation, said, “Mother Benedict likes to keep Preston’s place there, Aunt Adelaide. It comforts her.”
Allison kept her eyes down, but she was sure her mother was embarrassed. She should have warned her about the empty place, of course. It didn’t seem to matter much. It was only another skirmish in their prolonged conflict.
It wasn’t even the first one of the day. She had gone into the bedroom prepared for her parents and found her mother gazing disconsolately into the mirror and stroking her abdomen. Allison had said, in imitation of Adelaide’s frequent plaint, “You’ve gained weight, Mother.” She added, in her sweetest tone, “It looks good on you.”
Adelaide had shot her a look of the purest fury and resentment, but Allison pretended not to notice. “I came to let you know the family is gathering for drinks. You can come down anytime, and Blake will show you where.” She escaped from the bedroom without waiting for a response.
In truth, she thought, as she dipped her spoon into the soup and sipped, Adelaide deserved it. Though she hadn’t accused Allison of letting herself go, she had eyed every part of her with the steely glint that meant Allison was going to hear every detail later. It had felt good to fire the first shot in this particular sortie.
By the end of the evening, Adelaide had regained the advantage.
The dinner had gone smoothly enough, because Major Parrish and Uncle Dickson found a great deal to talk about. Uncle Dickson had all sorts of questions about flying and Jennys and the Boeing Airplane Company. Allison thought it was interesting, though none of the other women seemed to agree. Except Margot, naturally, but then Major Parrish was—or was supposed to be—her fiancé. Margot had questions, too, questions that sounded smart, about the effect of altitude on pilots’ breathing and the limitations of their body weight. Allison listened to all this with admiration. She liked watching the way Cousin Margot and Major Parrish looked together. They leaned toward each other when they were speaking, and their eyes met directly. They laughed at the same things, and Margot’s eyes were bright with happiness.
It all made Allison wonder if such affection could survive the disappointments of actual marriage. Of course, Uncle Dickson was unfailingly kind to his wife, no matter how strangely she behaved, but her own parents lived in a state of constant tension. They spent their lives waiting to catch each other in any infraction of the rigid contract that was their marital relationship. Was it possible they had once been in love with each other, the way Cousin Margot and Frank Parrish so clearly were? Or had her mother simply seen Henry Benedict as a chance to achieve the role in society she craved?
They all trooped back into the big parlor after dinner for coffee. It was a room Allison had barely glimpsed before this evening, but there were so many of them—nine in all—that Blake had decided the big parlor would be more comfortable. Allison saw the room through her mother’s eyes, estimating the price of the long velvet divan, the massive cherry sideboard, the brocaded chairs, the cost of maintaining the large chandelier. The fireplace in this room was twice the size of the one in the small parlor, and when Blake and Thelma came in with coffee, they set their trays on an oval table inlaid with polished pink marble.
The room would have taken up an entire floor of their tall, skinny house in San Francisco, and Allison could guess that her mother would have a great deal to say about it when she was alone with her husband.
It was while they were drinking their coffee, Ramona trying to draw out her mother-in-law, Margot and Frank standing by the crackling fire, speaking quietly to each other, that Adelaide lifted her spear to mount a fresh assault.
“I do thank you, Dickson,” she said in her brittle voice, “for taking Allison in this winter. I hope she hasn’t been any trouble.”
“Not at all,” Uncle Dickson said. He was snipping the end of his cigar with little silver scissors, dropping the discarded end into the biggest cut-glass ashtray Allison had ever seen. He smiled at Allison. “It’s been nice having a young person in the house.”
Allison was surprised. It seemed to her that her uncle had barely noticed her presence.
“Well,” Adelaide said. “Perhaps you’re accustomed, having raised three children, but I think it can be a terrible strain.”
“Hardly know she’s there,” Dickson rumbled, and struck a thick match to light his cigar.
“Really? She can be so noisy. Even as a little girl, her voice was so loud, sometimes I wanted to put a pillow over my head.”
“Mother, don’t talk about me like that,” Allison said in a low voice.
Adelaide’s laugh sounded just as if someone had thrown a glass into the fireplace. “Oh, Allison, do have a sense of humor, for pity’s sake! You were always a handful, you know that.”
“Now, Adelaide,” Henry said, and Allison cringed. Whenever her father stood up for her, it was like throwing a gauntlet at his wife’s feet. She saw the stiffening of her mother’s neck and heard the resentment in her voice. She was aware of Cousin Margot’s sudden attention, and she wondered if she could hear it, too.
“Oh, Henry, how would you know? You were always at the office, or off at one of your business dinners!” Adelaide smiled at everyone in an effort to make her complaints seem playful. “You know how it is, don’t you, Edith? The men are off making money, and we women are left to manage the children.”
Aunt Edith looked up, startled at hearing her name. She didn’t respond, and Allison was fairly certain she hadn’t been following. Her mother, though, seemed not to understand this.
“And for you, so many children! You must have been exhausted. But perhaps, with three of them, they entertained each other. That must have been nice.”
Allison felt the sudden tension that gripped the room. Margot’s face had a fixed look on it, as though someone had said something offensive. Even Uncle Dickson, meeting his daughter’s gaze across the room, looked oddly sad. Or was it angry? It was hard to tell, the way his bushy eyebrows drew together, making a straight line across his forehead.
Adelaide, oblivious, pressed on. “I thought it would be easier during Allison’s debutante year, but there were so many invitations, and fittings, and all the dances and parties. I never had a moment to myself, and then there was her Grand Tour—”
Allison interrupted her, muttering, “Mother. I never wanted any of that.”
Her mother’s brittle laugh rang out again. “Oh, Allison, don’t be ridiculous! What girl doesn’t want that?” When Allison didn’t answer, Adelaide went on, “You were a success, too, if I do say so myself. Your picture was always in the papers, even though there were prettier girls.”
Major Parrish spoke up. “Hard to believe there were girls prettier than Miss Benedict.” Margot gave him such a sweet smile that Allison’s heart contracted.
But her mother was in full attack mode. “So gallant of you, Major, but we women have to be objective about these things.”
Uncle Dickson murmured, “Eye of the beholder,” but Adelaide paid no attention.
“Of course, I had to work to keep her slim,” she said. Allison dropped her gaze to her coffee cup, turning it and turning it in her hands, but she could feel Cousin Margot stiffen at this volley. “I can see you’ve been feeding my daughter well, Dickson!” This was uttered gaily, as if in thanks. “I suspect your cook of tempting her with all sorts of treats!”
Even Aunt Edith lifted her head at this remark. She said, “Oh, Hattie,” as if in answer to some unasked question. “Poor Hattie. A dear woman, but a terrible cook.”
It was such an odd, even inappropriate, thing to say that even Adelaide Benedict was silenced. Major Parrish, in his courteous, quiet way, set down his cup and said, “I hope you will all excuse me. I have to be on my way in the morning. Deliver the airplane back to the army. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Benedict.”
Aunt Edith made a vague, trembly gesture with one pale hand. Major Parrish said, “Sir,” with a nod to Uncle Dickson. Dickson hefted himself out of his chair to shake the major’s hand. “Good to see you again, son. Won’t you let me call Blake to drive you?”
“No, sir, thanks. Enough work for Blake to do here. I can catch the streetcar.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Cousin Margot said.
Ramona and Dick both said their farewells, and Papa stood up to shake the major’s hand before he and Margot left the room. When the door of the big parlor had closed behind them, Adelaide said, “Such a handsome man. Is he going to be your son-in-law, Dickson?”
Uncle Dickson settled himself back into his chair with a sigh and picked up his cigar from the ashtray. “I hope so, Adelaide,” he said, reaching for a match to relight the cigar. “I expect that will be up to Margot. That girl has a mind of her own.”
It was said with unmistakable pride. Allison heard it in Uncle Dickson’s voice, and recognized it in his small, satisfied smile.
Her mother missed the point entirely. “We certainly understand that, don’t we, Henry? Allison always has to have everything her own way.”
Allison shrank back into the corner of the divan and wished she could disappear.