deposited him in his room, she crossed the hall to the family room. Superman had grown tired of pausing and the screen had reverted to a television commercial—a woman asking why her hardwood floors were so dull. Rebecca switched it off and sat down at the little spinet desk to write checks. The window washers, the gas and electric, the man who had patched the front stoop . . .
Gradually, her pen grew slower. She took longer and longer to reach for each new bill, until finally she came to a halt and just sat staring into space.
* * *
“I see you’re having a wonderful time,” Joe Davitch had said.
His very first remark to her.
Wasn’t it strange how certain moments, now and then—certain turning points in a life—contained the curled and waiting seeds of everything that would follow?
I see you’re having a wonderful time:
Joe’s view of her forever after, his unwavering belief that she was a natural-born celebrator. And look at her answer: “Yes!” she’d said. “Thanks!” Or something of the sort. In a loud and energetic tone so as to be heard above the stereo. And from that day forth she seemed to have confirmed his view, although really she had been the very opposite sort of person, muted and retiring, deeply absorbed in her studies, the only child of a widow in little Church Valley, Virginia, and engaged-to-be-engaged to her high-school sweetheart.
She had swerved onto a whole different fork in the road. (As Min Foo would put it.)
For one brief, wistful moment, Rebecca entertained the notion of turning back, retracing her steps to where the fork had first branched. Church Valley still existed, after all. Her mother was still alive. Although the high-school sweetheart, no doubt, had found somebody else to marry by now. She pictured herself returning in the dress that she had worn to that party—powder blue, scoop-necked, short-sleeved—and the powder-blue pumps still faintly splotched with ham glaze. Carrying the witty (as she’d thought then) patent leather pocketbook shaped to resemble a workman’s lunch box, although it, too, was powder blue.
In those days, everything had matched. There had not been any surprises.
* * *
“Hello-o-o!” Biddy called, and the clatter of catering trays followed the slam of the door. Then Binstock arrived with the flowers, and a woman phoned to arrange an office cocktail party, and the plasterer showed up to mend the hole in the dining-room ceiling.
Life went on, in other words.
Rebecca spread a bright cloth across the dining-room table and set one of Binstock’s arrangements in the center. “Pretty,” the plasterer said, peering down from his ladder. He had promised, cross his heart, not to create any mess, but already Rebecca could see several white flecks on the carpet. “Rick—” she said, and he said, “I know! I know! It’ll all be vacuumed up again; trust me.”
Sad when your plasterer’s such a fixture that he knows what you’re going to say before you say it.
Biddy was trying to fit her trays into the refrigerator. “What
is
all this?” she asked Rebecca. “It looks like you’re planning to feed the Red Army.”
“Those are leftovers from the picnic.”
For cooking, Biddy always wore surgical scrubs—a full tunic and baggy green pants that hid her skinny figure. She had her ponytail balled hygienically into a hairnet. She said, “Could you fetch me the cake stand? The glass one, with the pedestal.”
“Oh, I hope you haven’t put any writing on the cake.”
“Just
Congratulations, Katie
.”
“Well, Katie flunked her chemistry course.”
Biddy shut the fridge door and gave Rebecca a look.
“Could we peel off the
Congratulations
?” Rebecca asked. “Just leave
Katie
?”
“Not without any traces, we couldn’t.”
“At least they didn’t cancel,” Rebecca said, lifting down the cake stand from an overhead shelf. “I had to talk mighty fast, as you can imagine. Where’s the cake?”
“In that tin
Gradually, her pen grew slower. She took longer and longer to reach for each new bill, until finally she came to a halt and just sat staring into space.
* * *
“I see you’re having a wonderful time,” Joe Davitch had said.
His very first remark to her.
Wasn’t it strange how certain moments, now and then—certain turning points in a life—contained the curled and waiting seeds of everything that would follow?
I see you’re having a wonderful time:
Joe’s view of her forever after, his unwavering belief that she was a natural-born celebrator. And look at her answer: “Yes!” she’d said. “Thanks!” Or something of the sort. In a loud and energetic tone so as to be heard above the stereo. And from that day forth she seemed to have confirmed his view, although really she had been the very opposite sort of person, muted and retiring, deeply absorbed in her studies, the only child of a widow in little Church Valley, Virginia, and engaged-to-be-engaged to her high-school sweetheart.
She had swerved onto a whole different fork in the road. (As Min Foo would put it.)
For one brief, wistful moment, Rebecca entertained the notion of turning back, retracing her steps to where the fork had first branched. Church Valley still existed, after all. Her mother was still alive. Although the high-school sweetheart, no doubt, had found somebody else to marry by now. She pictured herself returning in the dress that she had worn to that party—powder blue, scoop-necked, short-sleeved—and the powder-blue pumps still faintly splotched with ham glaze. Carrying the witty (as she’d thought then) patent leather pocketbook shaped to resemble a workman’s lunch box, although it, too, was powder blue.
In those days, everything had matched. There had not been any surprises.
* * *
“Hello-o-o!” Biddy called, and the clatter of catering trays followed the slam of the door. Then Binstock arrived with the flowers, and a woman phoned to arrange an office cocktail party, and the plasterer showed up to mend the hole in the dining-room ceiling.
Life went on, in other words.
Rebecca spread a bright cloth across the dining-room table and set one of Binstock’s arrangements in the center. “Pretty,” the plasterer said, peering down from his ladder. He had promised, cross his heart, not to create any mess, but already Rebecca could see several white flecks on the carpet. “Rick—” she said, and he said, “I know! I know! It’ll all be vacuumed up again; trust me.”
Sad when your plasterer’s such a fixture that he knows what you’re going to say before you say it.
Biddy was trying to fit her trays into the refrigerator. “What
is
all this?” she asked Rebecca. “It looks like you’re planning to feed the Red Army.”
“Those are leftovers from the picnic.”
For cooking, Biddy always wore surgical scrubs—a full tunic and baggy green pants that hid her skinny figure. She had her ponytail balled hygienically into a hairnet. She said, “Could you fetch me the cake stand? The glass one, with the pedestal.”
“Oh, I hope you haven’t put any writing on the cake.”
“Just
Congratulations, Katie
.”
“Well, Katie flunked her chemistry course.”
Biddy shut the fridge door and gave Rebecca a look.
“Could we peel off the
Congratulations
?” Rebecca asked. “Just leave
Katie
?”
“Not without any traces, we couldn’t.”
“At least they didn’t cancel,” Rebecca said, lifting down the cake stand from an overhead shelf. “I had to talk mighty fast, as you can imagine. Where’s the cake?”
“In that tin
Similar Books
