Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner Page A

Now, ordering me into his house, roaring his pleasure at our presence, demanding coats for stowing in the closet, he was a djinn. He walked among the treetops and was taller than the trees.
    Our hands, offered two at a time because that was how they were demanded, passed from Charity’s to Sid’s. “Oh, Sally Morgan, how absolutely
lovely
you are!” cried Charity as she passed Sally on. “You belong on a Ming scroll!” And to Wanda Ehrlich, coming next, “Wanda! How
nice
to see you! Come in, come
in
!”
    I saw Wanda register the difference between Sally’s welcome and her own. I saw Sid seize Sally’s hands with such a passion of greeting that she bounced from the impact. His forearms were massive and dense with blond hair. Golden hair sprouted from the throat of his embroidered shirt. His eyes, with the steel-rimmed spectacles off, were strikingly blue, and the teeth in his square face were as white as Charity’s. He was not only the most robust English teacher I ever saw, but the most charming. With his power turned full on, he could win anybody. In all moods his face fell into pleasant lines, and he had a kind of enthusiastic antique gallantry that blew Sally away. He held her hands high and had her pirouette under them—in effect, they boxed the gnat. “Absolutely lovely is right,” he said. “Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Charity told me, but she didn’t do you justice.”
    She began to undo the loops of her robe, but he stopped her. “Don’t. Keep it on. I want to show you off to Aunt Emily.”
    He left the rest of us to fend for ourselves, he put an arm around her shoulders and propelled her toward the living room. Being hauled like a captive into a cave, Sally threw me a look: amazement, amusement, a Bronx cheer for my powers of description.
    Trailing after them into the living room, we were presented to Aunt Emily, Charity’s mother. Even Charity called her Aunt Emily. She was a lady with gimlety brown eyes and the grim smile of a headmistress who has seen all sorts of naughtiness and still loves children, or swears she does.
    “Ah,” she said when it came my turn. “You’re the man with the literary gifts. And such a beautiful wife. Charity and Sid have told me how much you’ve added to the English Department.”
    “Added?” I said. “We’ve barely arrived.”
    “Obviously you’ve made an impression. I hope we can talk, though the way this costume party is starting out, I may not see you again.”
    I liked her. (She flattered me.) “I’m at your command,” I said. “All it will take is a seductive signal with your fan.”
    “I’ll have to get a fan and lie in wait. They tell me you’re a writer of great promise.”
    Who could resist? There lay the evening before us, more full of promise than even myself. The mere prospect of a square meal could cheer me in those days, and here there was much more— light, glitter, chatter, smiles, dressed-up people, friends, audience. A girl who came across the thick carpets bearing canapés turned out to be a freshman from one of my classes. I liked her seeing me in those surroundings. Books everywhere. Paintings on the walls that were not Van Gogh or Gauguin prints but original oils by Grant Wood and John Steuart Curry. I read them as evidence of how enthusiastically these New England Langs had adapted to midwestern life, giving up (I supposed) Winslow Homer for the Hayloft School.
    And more. Remember, this was 1937, only four years out of Prohibition and deep in that Depression that is like the Age of Fable to today’s young. Only last month our grandson in La Jolla, twiddling the dials of his five-hundred-dollar stereo in search of the Eagles or James Taylor, interrupted some reminiscence of mine by saying, “Yeah, Grandpa, tell about the time you and Grandma saved up for a week for a couple of nickel ice-cream cones.” His 1972 irony is close to our 1937 reality, but to him it will never be anything but a wisecrack. Nickel ice-cream cones