expression. “She’s got nerve, I’ll say that.”
“She always did.” I dug my fingernails into my palm in an effort to clear my head, which was swimming in a pleasant if unfamiliar pool of gin, followed by wine. I had chosen the combination with the exact intent of banishing from my brain the crucifying image of Budgie and Nick having dinner tête-à-tête, though logically I knew they had done so before, and did so often. They were married, after all. My drunkenness had taken some effort, because every single member of the club, it seemed, had come to our table in a show of support, and I had had to concentrate very hard to keep my words whole and separate and reasonably sensible. “In any case, good night, Mrs. Hubert. I . . .” Something flickered in my brain, interrupting the timeless rhythm of a social farewell. “I’m sorry. What did you say? Give up on the club?”
“Well, we can’t throw her out, can we? She’s paid the dues herself, God knows how, all these years since her father died. The damned bylaws. But if no one gives her any notice, or invites her anywhere . . .”
“But why?” I asked, foggily. “Budgie’s lived here all her life.”
Mrs. Hubert put her hand on my arm. “She knew what she was doing when she married Nick Greenwald. If she wanted to marry money—and I suppose she had to—she could have had her pick. She chose him .” She nodded toward the weathered gray cedar shingles of the club entrance, lit by two anemic yellow bulbs on either side of the door. “And brought him here tonight, of course, in front of all of us.”
Through the confused tangle of my feelings for Nick and for Budgie, through the anger and resentment and the rawness of my own nerves beneath the gin and wine, I felt, against everything, a surge of outrage.
She’s old, I thought, staring at Mrs. Hubert’s face, at its creases and flaws accentuated by the shadowing effect of the porch lights. Her ideas are too deep-set to be changed. There’s no point in trying.
Besides, why should I defend Nick Greenwald, of all people? I had surrendered all claim to him long ago, in that bitter winter of 1932. He had surrendered all claim to me.
Aunt Julie honked the horn.
“I must go,” I said. “Kiki?”
I looked around for her bobbing dark head, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called out, “Aunt Julie, is Kiki in the car with you?”
Aunt Julie and Mother glanced into the back, nearly bumping heads. “No,” said Aunt Julie. “I thought she was with you.”
My shoulders sagged. “She’s gone off again.”
Aunt Julie threw her hands up in the air. “Again. For goodness’ sake. Can’t you keep track of the child?”
“Go on ahead. I’ll find her.”
Aunt Julie put her hands on the steering wheel. “You’re sure?”
“It’s a short walk along the beach. Plenty of moon.”
Aunt Julie tapped her fingers against the rim, considering. She turned to Mother and asked her something in a low voice, too low for me to hear. Mother’s shoulders shrugged against the cloth-covered seat.
“All right, then,” said Aunt Julie. “Let us know when you’re back.”
My mother said to be careful, over the rush of gravel beneath the tires.
Mrs. Hubert shook her head. The diamonds flashed from the lobes of her ears. “You’re a martyr, my dear. Check the bar. Jim’s been feeding her ginger ales all night, on the sly.”
But Kiki wasn’t near the bar, nor was she chatting with the old ladies in the dining room, nor was she helping them dry the dishes in the kitchen: none of her usual haunts, in fact.
I wasn’t worried yet, not quite. For one thing, there was the gin, still humming in my veins. For another, Kiki had been an absconder from the moment she could crawl. I’d spent the larger part of the last six years chasing her down in our apartment, on the pathways of Central Park, around the dinosaur skeletons in the Museum of Natural History, through the ladies’ underwear department at
“She always did.” I dug my fingernails into my palm in an effort to clear my head, which was swimming in a pleasant if unfamiliar pool of gin, followed by wine. I had chosen the combination with the exact intent of banishing from my brain the crucifying image of Budgie and Nick having dinner tête-à-tête, though logically I knew they had done so before, and did so often. They were married, after all. My drunkenness had taken some effort, because every single member of the club, it seemed, had come to our table in a show of support, and I had had to concentrate very hard to keep my words whole and separate and reasonably sensible. “In any case, good night, Mrs. Hubert. I . . .” Something flickered in my brain, interrupting the timeless rhythm of a social farewell. “I’m sorry. What did you say? Give up on the club?”
“Well, we can’t throw her out, can we? She’s paid the dues herself, God knows how, all these years since her father died. The damned bylaws. But if no one gives her any notice, or invites her anywhere . . .”
“But why?” I asked, foggily. “Budgie’s lived here all her life.”
Mrs. Hubert put her hand on my arm. “She knew what she was doing when she married Nick Greenwald. If she wanted to marry money—and I suppose she had to—she could have had her pick. She chose him .” She nodded toward the weathered gray cedar shingles of the club entrance, lit by two anemic yellow bulbs on either side of the door. “And brought him here tonight, of course, in front of all of us.”
Through the confused tangle of my feelings for Nick and for Budgie, through the anger and resentment and the rawness of my own nerves beneath the gin and wine, I felt, against everything, a surge of outrage.
She’s old, I thought, staring at Mrs. Hubert’s face, at its creases and flaws accentuated by the shadowing effect of the porch lights. Her ideas are too deep-set to be changed. There’s no point in trying.
Besides, why should I defend Nick Greenwald, of all people? I had surrendered all claim to him long ago, in that bitter winter of 1932. He had surrendered all claim to me.
Aunt Julie honked the horn.
“I must go,” I said. “Kiki?”
I looked around for her bobbing dark head, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called out, “Aunt Julie, is Kiki in the car with you?”
Aunt Julie and Mother glanced into the back, nearly bumping heads. “No,” said Aunt Julie. “I thought she was with you.”
My shoulders sagged. “She’s gone off again.”
Aunt Julie threw her hands up in the air. “Again. For goodness’ sake. Can’t you keep track of the child?”
“Go on ahead. I’ll find her.”
Aunt Julie put her hands on the steering wheel. “You’re sure?”
“It’s a short walk along the beach. Plenty of moon.”
Aunt Julie tapped her fingers against the rim, considering. She turned to Mother and asked her something in a low voice, too low for me to hear. Mother’s shoulders shrugged against the cloth-covered seat.
“All right, then,” said Aunt Julie. “Let us know when you’re back.”
My mother said to be careful, over the rush of gravel beneath the tires.
Mrs. Hubert shook her head. The diamonds flashed from the lobes of her ears. “You’re a martyr, my dear. Check the bar. Jim’s been feeding her ginger ales all night, on the sly.”
But Kiki wasn’t near the bar, nor was she chatting with the old ladies in the dining room, nor was she helping them dry the dishes in the kitchen: none of her usual haunts, in fact.
I wasn’t worried yet, not quite. For one thing, there was the gin, still humming in my veins. For another, Kiki had been an absconder from the moment she could crawl. I’d spent the larger part of the last six years chasing her down in our apartment, on the pathways of Central Park, around the dinosaur skeletons in the Museum of Natural History, through the ladies’ underwear department at
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