Superior Women by Alice Adams Page B

the very first time. “I’ve missed you so much!” she cries out, uncontrollably.
    “I’ve missed you, kid.”
    But something is wrong, Lavinia can hear it in his voice. Is he embarrassed to be giving in to his mother, a man of nineteen? Or could there be something else? Gordon has sometimes mentioned an old girl friend, Marge, whom Lavinia has understood to be his parents’ choice for him. Is Marge around, is she, too, home for the holidays? Is Gordon more interested in her than he has admitted? This possibility causes Lavinia genuine pain, along with quickmurderous impulses; however, at the same time she knows that it is extremely important, always, to pretend to believe whatever a man is saying. She figured that out a long time ago, on her own: never accuse them of lying. And so now she says, “Well, darling, maybe I could get my parents to let me come back a day or so early. We could have fun in Boston. Just see each other. You could meet me at South Station.”
    “Oh, great. Say, that would be terrific.”
    Something
is
wrong; his voice is wrong. However, she will not let herself think about it; that would be fatal. She will go back early to Boston, and when he sees her again everything will be all right, Lavinia is sure of that—sure of her power, in that way. Her beauty.
    “I’ll let you know when I’m coming,” she says to Gordon. “Darling, I can’t wait to see you.” She will get all new clothes, everything new and beautiful, herself all beautiful and new. New lovely underclothes.
    “Kid, me too,” says Gordon.
    It is quite true that she can’t wait to see him again. To kiss him, to be kissed.
    There is no point, then, absolutely no point in going to Fredericksburg for Christmas—and no point either in Lavinia’s not taking moral credit for this shift in plans.
    “I’ve been thinking,” Lavinia says to her father, in the dark red leather library, full of books that no one reads. “You’re really right, Mother does hate it at the farm. It doesn’t seem fair to wish that on her, at Christmas.”
    “Ah, that’s my considerate girl.” Mr. Harcourt suppresses a sigh of relief.
    Her gray eyes meet his, so similar, in a level, serious look. They appear, father and daughter, to be two people speaking the truth; they both appear to be kind and concerned.
    Mr. Harcourt then asks, “How about your young man, though? It won’t be too hard to entertain him here?”
    “Oh no, there’s always something to do. All the parties. You know.” Not quite looking at her father, speaking vaguely, Lavinia adds, “Besides, he might not even be able to come. Those ROTC guys are always getting restricted.”
    “Oh.” If Mr. Harcourt senses duplicity in all of this he gives no sign; perhaps he is relieved not to have to meet the boy? He next asks, “Well, have you given any thought to your Christmas present?” and he smiles.
    Lavinia looks down modestly before she answers, “I really need some clothes. Maybe a coat?”
    In a pleased, surprised way her father’s smile deepens. “You’ve read my mind!” he tells her. “I’ve been giving some thought to coats for young ladies, in all that famous Boston cold. I thought—well, what would you say to a really good fur coat? A good dark mink? It would be a sort of investment.”
    He is always generous with Lavinia; still, this offer comes as a surprise. A couple of years ago, when she was at boarding school, Lavinia wanted a nice fur coat, just a simple sheared beaver, and her father really hit the ceiling: remarks about new-rich Jewish girls (“Jewesses”), vulgar little fifteen-year-olds in fur. So that now, when he offers mink, Lavinia is sorely tempted; she can so easily see herself in mink, she knows that she is perfect for some dark, glossy fur, her hair the perfect contrast, her height perfect to carry it off. Harvey was dying to give her a mink coat.
But:
she cannot appear in mink, meeting Gordon, mink would be something that neither he nor