thinking about what they did to the women. Atrocities. Places like that make me feel as though the things could happen again, or that they’re still happening. As if there’s a secret society in Salem, meeting every Sabbath to talk over the witch list—who’s bad, who’s evil.”
“I could never go to Germany,” I said.
“I know. Germany would be the same. Betrayals and torture.”
“Just like Monhegan. Only there, Jemmie Luddington was the witch
and
the tribunal.”
Susan looked at me, deciding whether to speak, then did. “I saw John, by the way. Louis and I took my mother to Achilles House last weekend.”
“I don’t want to know, but you’d better tell me.” I slipped on my jeans and started buttoning my yellow cotton shirt. I moved slowly, with great deliberation, but hearing John’s name took my breath away. I felt as if I might never get it back.
“He’s the same. Dark suit, Gucci loafers, perfect manicure. He’s moving into Manhattan.”
I snorted. “What a joke. He was always talking about ‘land values,’ and the quality you could get in Brooklyn Heights for half the price.” I thought then about my father and his real estate deals, of how the men in my life always seemed to be unduly concerned with the price of property. “Where in Manhattan?”
“TriBeCa.”
“God,
TriBeCa
. He’s about ten years behind the times. What an asshole! He doesn’t even have any imagination about it. I’ve heard about these
row
houses in
Harlem
with unbelievable original detail that you can buy for a
song
—why doesn’t he buy one of those? Then he could be in the
vanguard
.”
“Una, he was
really
embarrassed to see us. He asked all about you.”
“What did you tell him? That I have Hodgkin’s disease, I hope.”
“No, I told him that you are perfectly wonderful. Doing A-OK. Aren’t you?”
“No.” I tied my shoelaces. I felt like total shit. Three minutes of conversation about John Luddington could reduce me to a shivering, furious, vengeful wraith. I wanted to spread black batwings and fly to Brooklyn Heights before he had a chance to hide in TriBeCa. I wanted to clutch his pate in my teeth, fly him far, far out over the Atlantic, and drop him into the murky deep.
“He’s alone, by the way.”
“What do you mean, ‘he’s alone’?”
“I mean, he’s not seeing anyone else. He made that very clear. He repeated it three times.”
“Of course he’s not seeing anyone. That’s the whole point—Jemmie wanted me to think that within three weeks he’d be cruising the bars on West Street, but I knew what was happening. She’s ruining him for
anyone
. She couldn’t bear to see him with me or anyone else.”
“Well, anyway, he’s the same,” Susan said quickly. “What do you think of Lady Di’s new hairstyle?”
“I like it.” The mention of Lady Di melted my black heart a little. I still remembered how young, how innocent she had been when she married Charles. She had reminded me of Lily and Margaret.
“How’s the show?” she asked me.
I shrugged. Usually it helped to talk to Susan, but I envied her new part in
Hester’s Sister
. I had visions of her taking it to Broadway, where she would become an overnight sensation and wind up playing parts like Lady Macbeth, Mary Tyrone, Hedda Gabler, Amanda Wingfield, Joan of Arc, even Lady Di when the time came. “The show is fine.”
She watched me shrewdly. She had soft features that molded to any character she tried to play. “You’re in a rut. But this should help—Louis and I are having a party—a small party,” she amended, glimpsing my expression, “on Saturday night. You are coming.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
It was settled.
I sat in my dressing room at Soundstage 3 and prepared to go before the cameras. My face was made up with snowy powder covering my cheeks and violet crescents beneath my eyes. Delilah was on the lam. I wore a snorkel coat, one of those bottle-green nylon jackets with orange lining
“I could never go to Germany,” I said.
“I know. Germany would be the same. Betrayals and torture.”
“Just like Monhegan. Only there, Jemmie Luddington was the witch
and
the tribunal.”
Susan looked at me, deciding whether to speak, then did. “I saw John, by the way. Louis and I took my mother to Achilles House last weekend.”
“I don’t want to know, but you’d better tell me.” I slipped on my jeans and started buttoning my yellow cotton shirt. I moved slowly, with great deliberation, but hearing John’s name took my breath away. I felt as if I might never get it back.
“He’s the same. Dark suit, Gucci loafers, perfect manicure. He’s moving into Manhattan.”
I snorted. “What a joke. He was always talking about ‘land values,’ and the quality you could get in Brooklyn Heights for half the price.” I thought then about my father and his real estate deals, of how the men in my life always seemed to be unduly concerned with the price of property. “Where in Manhattan?”
“TriBeCa.”
“God,
TriBeCa
. He’s about ten years behind the times. What an asshole! He doesn’t even have any imagination about it. I’ve heard about these
row
houses in
Harlem
with unbelievable original detail that you can buy for a
song
—why doesn’t he buy one of those? Then he could be in the
vanguard
.”
“Una, he was
really
embarrassed to see us. He asked all about you.”
“What did you tell him? That I have Hodgkin’s disease, I hope.”
“No, I told him that you are perfectly wonderful. Doing A-OK. Aren’t you?”
“No.” I tied my shoelaces. I felt like total shit. Three minutes of conversation about John Luddington could reduce me to a shivering, furious, vengeful wraith. I wanted to spread black batwings and fly to Brooklyn Heights before he had a chance to hide in TriBeCa. I wanted to clutch his pate in my teeth, fly him far, far out over the Atlantic, and drop him into the murky deep.
“He’s alone, by the way.”
“What do you mean, ‘he’s alone’?”
“I mean, he’s not seeing anyone else. He made that very clear. He repeated it three times.”
“Of course he’s not seeing anyone. That’s the whole point—Jemmie wanted me to think that within three weeks he’d be cruising the bars on West Street, but I knew what was happening. She’s ruining him for
anyone
. She couldn’t bear to see him with me or anyone else.”
“Well, anyway, he’s the same,” Susan said quickly. “What do you think of Lady Di’s new hairstyle?”
“I like it.” The mention of Lady Di melted my black heart a little. I still remembered how young, how innocent she had been when she married Charles. She had reminded me of Lily and Margaret.
“How’s the show?” she asked me.
I shrugged. Usually it helped to talk to Susan, but I envied her new part in
Hester’s Sister
. I had visions of her taking it to Broadway, where she would become an overnight sensation and wind up playing parts like Lady Macbeth, Mary Tyrone, Hedda Gabler, Amanda Wingfield, Joan of Arc, even Lady Di when the time came. “The show is fine.”
She watched me shrewdly. She had soft features that molded to any character she tried to play. “You’re in a rut. But this should help—Louis and I are having a party—a small party,” she amended, glimpsing my expression, “on Saturday night. You are coming.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
It was settled.
I sat in my dressing room at Soundstage 3 and prepared to go before the cameras. My face was made up with snowy powder covering my cheeks and violet crescents beneath my eyes. Delilah was on the lam. I wore a snorkel coat, one of those bottle-green nylon jackets with orange lining
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