said, ‘Dress appropriately,’ but you never specified for what occasion.”
Lena joined Martha on her manhunt. Thirty minutes later, when the entire Fury house and grounds had been inspected, the obvious conclusion was drawn.
“She’s not here,” Martha said.
Not even a flash of panic interrupted Lena’s determined poise. She was disappointed, but mostly in herself. She should have known that Anna wouldn’t go quietly to lunch.
Anna had attended her first ladies’ lunch when she was ten. Her powder-blue dress was overstarched, puff sleeved, and trimmed with lace. Her dainty, pristine white anklets were in sharp relief to the spatter of scabs and bruises on her shins and knees. Everything itched, Anna remembered, and there was nothing to draw her attention away from her stiff, ridiculous outfit. Lunch was a poached fish that was so bland it was hard to imagine it was ever a living creature. The conversations were muted and meaningless. How could clothing be the topic of three hours of discussion when the goal of the gathering was to raise money for impoverished inner-city schools? Anna’s mind wandered into adventures that didn’t require good posture. She imagined being a hobo. In her closet was a bindle made from an old blanket and her field hockey stick. She even had train schedules hidden on the underside of her desk. She stashed extra cash in a smelly sneaker—a place she knew her mother would never look. Anna had always lived like a convict, even as a child, perpetually preparing for her next breakout.
She had escaped a few times before but was invariably caught, wearing rags, carrying her bindle, strolling down her quiet Beacon Hill street, where a child in hobo gear could not go unnoticed. A neighbor would call. A BMW or Mercedes would pull up next to her, and some adult would tell her to get into the car. When she refused, a litany of threats would follow. Eventually, one of them would induce cooperation.
At fifteen, Anna had planned a more sophisticated escape. She stuffed her school bag with a change of clothes, a toothbrush (no toothpaste, since she assumed that where she was going, she’d find it in abundance), and a few pairs of underwear. She had enough cash on hand for a proper vacation, which was how she saw the whole thing. She’d climbed out of her window at 8:00 a.m. after calling a cab from the phone line in her father’s office. The cab took her to the train station. She bought a ticket, boarded the train, and read Salinger’s
Nine Stories
, a gift from her brother last Christmas. She transferred trains and read “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.” She laughed convulsively when Seymour had his outburst on the elevator, accusing a woman of staring at his feet. Other passengers stared at Anna. At the end of the story, she thought she might cry, could feel that half second in which she could lose control. She turned it off like a spigot. She was prouder of that talent than she should have been.
Nine hours and two buses later, she was in Princeton, New Jersey. Anna had visited before, with her parents, so she knew where to find her brother. But she needed to wait and then find him later at night, when no one would be willing or able to drive her home.
She found a café where she could sit and read until she finished the book and could see her own reflection in the glass. Then she used the battered map her brother had given her on a family tour of the university and tracked down his dormitory. Outside the dorm, Anna applied lipstick and pulled her hair into a knotty college-girl bun. She looked remotely like an underdeveloped coed. She circled the dormitory, looking for those telling Saturday-night lights that signified a party. Her best guess was that it was simmering somewhere on the third floor. Anna climbed the stairs and heard the distinctive hum of humans congregating. From the end of the hall, it was simply a collage of sounds, the common cackles and squeals in an inebriated
Lena joined Martha on her manhunt. Thirty minutes later, when the entire Fury house and grounds had been inspected, the obvious conclusion was drawn.
“She’s not here,” Martha said.
Not even a flash of panic interrupted Lena’s determined poise. She was disappointed, but mostly in herself. She should have known that Anna wouldn’t go quietly to lunch.
Anna had attended her first ladies’ lunch when she was ten. Her powder-blue dress was overstarched, puff sleeved, and trimmed with lace. Her dainty, pristine white anklets were in sharp relief to the spatter of scabs and bruises on her shins and knees. Everything itched, Anna remembered, and there was nothing to draw her attention away from her stiff, ridiculous outfit. Lunch was a poached fish that was so bland it was hard to imagine it was ever a living creature. The conversations were muted and meaningless. How could clothing be the topic of three hours of discussion when the goal of the gathering was to raise money for impoverished inner-city schools? Anna’s mind wandered into adventures that didn’t require good posture. She imagined being a hobo. In her closet was a bindle made from an old blanket and her field hockey stick. She even had train schedules hidden on the underside of her desk. She stashed extra cash in a smelly sneaker—a place she knew her mother would never look. Anna had always lived like a convict, even as a child, perpetually preparing for her next breakout.
She had escaped a few times before but was invariably caught, wearing rags, carrying her bindle, strolling down her quiet Beacon Hill street, where a child in hobo gear could not go unnoticed. A neighbor would call. A BMW or Mercedes would pull up next to her, and some adult would tell her to get into the car. When she refused, a litany of threats would follow. Eventually, one of them would induce cooperation.
At fifteen, Anna had planned a more sophisticated escape. She stuffed her school bag with a change of clothes, a toothbrush (no toothpaste, since she assumed that where she was going, she’d find it in abundance), and a few pairs of underwear. She had enough cash on hand for a proper vacation, which was how she saw the whole thing. She’d climbed out of her window at 8:00 a.m. after calling a cab from the phone line in her father’s office. The cab took her to the train station. She bought a ticket, boarded the train, and read Salinger’s
Nine Stories
, a gift from her brother last Christmas. She transferred trains and read “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.” She laughed convulsively when Seymour had his outburst on the elevator, accusing a woman of staring at his feet. Other passengers stared at Anna. At the end of the story, she thought she might cry, could feel that half second in which she could lose control. She turned it off like a spigot. She was prouder of that talent than she should have been.
Nine hours and two buses later, she was in Princeton, New Jersey. Anna had visited before, with her parents, so she knew where to find her brother. But she needed to wait and then find him later at night, when no one would be willing or able to drive her home.
She found a café where she could sit and read until she finished the book and could see her own reflection in the glass. Then she used the battered map her brother had given her on a family tour of the university and tracked down his dormitory. Outside the dorm, Anna applied lipstick and pulled her hair into a knotty college-girl bun. She looked remotely like an underdeveloped coed. She circled the dormitory, looking for those telling Saturday-night lights that signified a party. Her best guess was that it was simmering somewhere on the third floor. Anna climbed the stairs and heard the distinctive hum of humans congregating. From the end of the hall, it was simply a collage of sounds, the common cackles and squeals in an inebriated
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