After You've Gone by Alice Adams Page A

early.
    But “You just try this for size, Miss Liza,” said dapper, blond, green-eyed Dan Jamieson. “All ladies love pink ladies, I guarantee you.” And he handed her something pink and frothy and sweet, on an April night, down by the Jamieson pool. White dogwood bloomed all along the slope of woods leading up to the house, and around the pool a high privet hedge also bloomed, sweet-smelling. The shining, slipping surface of the pool reflected, in its wavering black, stars and a thin white moon.
    No one had ever called Liza “Miss Liza” before, and Liza suddenly (crazily!) wished that she were a child, so that she could rush over to Dan and kiss him, like a very polite, very well brought up little girl. Little Miss Liza.
    She liked the pink lady, and she began to like the party very much. It was such a beautiful, soft night, so warm for April. The sky was so starry, so richly thick with stars, and that sickle moon, and everyone there was so nice, such good, friendly people, everyone liking her, smiling. Carlton whispered that she was the prettiest woman at the party and, looking around her, Liza saw that this was true. She was the prettiest, and everyone knew that she was pretty—especially Dan Jamieson, who later brought out his accordion and sang some songs, mostly looking at Liza. “Oh carry my loved one home safely to me.…”
    â€¦
    A few weeks later, Liza got up her nerve and asked everyone to a party at her house. Carlton bought some gin, and Liza made her special chicken salad and honey rolls, and their party was a big success. Everyone said what a lovely house, a good dinner, and how pretty Liza looked. “She can cook, too,” said Dan Jamieson, laughing at Liza.
    Friends. It was wonderful to have friends like the Jamiesons, at last. Even their little girls seemed to like each other, to like staying over at each other’s house.
    Everyone gave parties, and they all drank a lot—everyone but Sophia Jamieson, who seemed pretty straitlaced. With lots of friends, all drinking, though, it seemed all right to Liza to say almost anything at all, and she even told a couple of stories about when she was a little girl and they were all so poor: she and her two older sisters had just one good dress between them, so one time they decided they would all go to the dance for an hour apiece. After her hour, the one in the dress had to come home and let one of the others change into it. Fortunately, the three of them looked a lot alike, and the lights were turned down low in the Legion Hall, where the dance was, so no one knew.
    Everyone laughed at the story, even Sophia. “You’re a natural storyteller, Miss Liza,” Dan Jamieson said, adding in his funny way, “too.”
    A couple of the other women in town invited Liza to join them at Eubanks, the local drugstore, for Cokes: “Any morning about eleven, after you’re done with your marketing.” Uncertain, Liza got a little too dressed up the first time she went, but it was all right; they all said how pretty she looked. A woman called Popsie said she had never seen such a pretty dress. And Liza had fun, although she did think a pink ladywould have been more fun than just a Coke. The other women, especially that Popsie, all laughed and talked a lot. And when Sophia’s name came up (Popsie: “
She
never comes for Cokes,
she’s
too busy”), Liza was relieved to hear the edge of malice in their voices, a little of the uneasiness regarding Sophia that she herself felt.
    Liza did not understand Sophia at all. Sophia reminded her of a teacher, especially one of the strict ones who might hit your knuckles with her ruler. And with such a handsome, flirty husband, why didn’t Sophia fix herself up, just a little bit? Her face was always so red and shiny; could she be so old-timey that she thought face powder was bad?
    Liza never spent any time with Sophia, and although she surely did not