porch, where, Frankie knew, there would be tables with punch and cookies and tea sandwiches set out. But within the first ten paces or so, they were ensnared in a conversation with Gregory Hinton and his wife. Dr. Hinton, as Frankie still thought of him, was some big mucky-muck at the National Institutes of Health, a hearty, white-haired man. His wife, Louise, was a good friend of Frankie’s mother.
In Frankie’s parents’ generation up here there were many distinguished, important people. Poets, bishops, explorers of the human genome, presidents of this college or that. When Frankie was young, she had assumed that her father belonged in this company. She had realized only very slowly that he didn’t, that his tenured position at what she finally understood was a third-rate college was not even in the same category of success. And in her own generation, almost no one had the kind of prominence some of the parents had. Hardly anyone even seemed to want it. They were all more self-invented, less allied with all those important institutions. Like her, she supposed.
Dr. Hinton and his wife were asking her about her life, her doings. How amazing! they said. Still in Africa all by yourself! How fascinating that must be! Frankie was aware of the pleasure she was taking in being thought of as a girl, a pretty young girl, again. They asked about Liz, and she got the treatment, too, in absentia—they couldn’t believe she could have children as old as five and four and two.
After a few minutes, when the Hintons had turned their enthusiasm onto Alfie and Sylvia, Frankie extricated herself and went directly to the porch for a glass of punch, remembering on her way that Liz had often brought a little flask of rum in her purse to spike it with when they were in high school, when, for a while, Frankie had had the pleasure of thinking of herself as one of the wild Rowley girls.
The punch was pink, as ever, with circles of sliced oranges and lemons floating on its surface. Frankie served herself with the long, curved ladle and then went to the railing and drank. Standing there with her cup, she surveyed the scene. If you blurred your eyes, she thought, it could have been her childhood, an impressionistic Sunday-best gathering of parents and children on the grass—smears and dabs of color for the women, the men more drab. In her clear view, she couldn’t immediately recognize anyone in the sixty or seventy people clustered on the lawn or standing on the porch near her.
She moved over to one of the tables covered with platters of cookies and little sandwiches. There was an old woman there, loading up a plate with at least one of each of the many kinds of cookies laid out—and there were at least a dozen. “An amazing spread,” Frankie said.
“You know what I miss?” the woman said. She was short and plump, with an enormous drooping bosom that took up the entire space between her shoulders and her waist.
Frankie took a cookie herself. “What?” she said.
“Meringues. Ellen Babcock used to make meringues for the tea every year. Oh, how I loved them! Even if they did get gooey by the end of the day.” She popped one of the smaller cookies into her mouth and ate it rapidly, her jaw swiveling. She made a little noise, swallowing, and then she said abruptly, “Now, who are you?”
Frankie told her.
“Oh, yes,” the old woman said. She nodded and nodded. “I knew Sylviaquite well. She used to babysit for us when she was … well, I suppose, in high school. Is she here?”
Frankie pointed out Alfie and Sylvia, still on the lawn, standing in a circle with several others.
“Aha!” the woman said. “With that Rowley fella. Not quite as charming as he thinks he is, that one.”
Frankie was startled speechless, this seemed so indiscreet. She picked up another cookie, just to give herself a few seconds, and then she excused herself, moving away from the old woman and down off the porch. She went to stand near a small
In Frankie’s parents’ generation up here there were many distinguished, important people. Poets, bishops, explorers of the human genome, presidents of this college or that. When Frankie was young, she had assumed that her father belonged in this company. She had realized only very slowly that he didn’t, that his tenured position at what she finally understood was a third-rate college was not even in the same category of success. And in her own generation, almost no one had the kind of prominence some of the parents had. Hardly anyone even seemed to want it. They were all more self-invented, less allied with all those important institutions. Like her, she supposed.
Dr. Hinton and his wife were asking her about her life, her doings. How amazing! they said. Still in Africa all by yourself! How fascinating that must be! Frankie was aware of the pleasure she was taking in being thought of as a girl, a pretty young girl, again. They asked about Liz, and she got the treatment, too, in absentia—they couldn’t believe she could have children as old as five and four and two.
After a few minutes, when the Hintons had turned their enthusiasm onto Alfie and Sylvia, Frankie extricated herself and went directly to the porch for a glass of punch, remembering on her way that Liz had often brought a little flask of rum in her purse to spike it with when they were in high school, when, for a while, Frankie had had the pleasure of thinking of herself as one of the wild Rowley girls.
The punch was pink, as ever, with circles of sliced oranges and lemons floating on its surface. Frankie served herself with the long, curved ladle and then went to the railing and drank. Standing there with her cup, she surveyed the scene. If you blurred your eyes, she thought, it could have been her childhood, an impressionistic Sunday-best gathering of parents and children on the grass—smears and dabs of color for the women, the men more drab. In her clear view, she couldn’t immediately recognize anyone in the sixty or seventy people clustered on the lawn or standing on the porch near her.
She moved over to one of the tables covered with platters of cookies and little sandwiches. There was an old woman there, loading up a plate with at least one of each of the many kinds of cookies laid out—and there were at least a dozen. “An amazing spread,” Frankie said.
“You know what I miss?” the woman said. She was short and plump, with an enormous drooping bosom that took up the entire space between her shoulders and her waist.
Frankie took a cookie herself. “What?” she said.
“Meringues. Ellen Babcock used to make meringues for the tea every year. Oh, how I loved them! Even if they did get gooey by the end of the day.” She popped one of the smaller cookies into her mouth and ate it rapidly, her jaw swiveling. She made a little noise, swallowing, and then she said abruptly, “Now, who are you?”
Frankie told her.
“Oh, yes,” the old woman said. She nodded and nodded. “I knew Sylviaquite well. She used to babysit for us when she was … well, I suppose, in high school. Is she here?”
Frankie pointed out Alfie and Sylvia, still on the lawn, standing in a circle with several others.
“Aha!” the woman said. “With that Rowley fella. Not quite as charming as he thinks he is, that one.”
Frankie was startled speechless, this seemed so indiscreet. She picked up another cookie, just to give herself a few seconds, and then she excused herself, moving away from the old woman and down off the porch. She went to stand near a small
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