we must take care of each other, stand up for each other. “You won’t be able to tell when . . .” and then he raised his eyes and we looked around to where Raquel stood in the doorway.
“Are you conspiring? You’re not planning a surprise party, are you?” She looked from one to the other of us, around the table. She joked lightly, but the uncertainty in her eyes was genuine. I felt as though I had somehow betrayed her, though I had done nothing but attempt to understand. We wouldn’t be able to tell when what ? When we had heard enough? I didn’t think I could ever hear enough. It was difficult to say whom he might be trying to protect. Perhaps he had been about to issue one of those bland proclamations about how these years were the best in our lives and we had better enjoy them while we could. Though it seemed obvious to me—something in the way he held himself, loose-limbed, coiled—that he took great pleasure in his present time of life.
Then he uncoiled, and all levity, and duplicity, resumed. “I know you don’t like surprises, sweetheart. No, Ginger was just telling us a ghost story. The one about the girl whose head falls off when she unties the ribbon from around her neck.” I knew that story. It was one of my favorites, though I could never remember its premise, only the denouement.
“Ginger and Cherry have to get home soon, Theo. We must bid them farewell.” Raquel gave us a wink and flattened herself against the doorframe, indicating that we should rise and pass by her. We did, Cherry with more willingness than I felt.
“Come back soon! I’ll be lonely here.” Raquel stood waving on the shabby porch, watching us walk up the hill.
As we wended our way, Cherry couldn’t stop exclaiming about Raquel’s bold, instructive lecture—“Who does she think she is, a gym teacher?”—and Theo’s titillating aside. “Do you think he was flirting with us?” she wondered, incredulously, and I nodded vacantly, reeling my thoughts away from this banal interpretation.
7.
Sunday
C herry’s house is a big white beauty on the village green. Mr. Endicott is from one of the first families of the town. They own a farm up in the hills, still a working farm, and he is our town lawyer, as was his father before, handling divorces and custody disputes, deeds and wills and lawsuits. He is also a great storyteller, drinking-buddy, and bowler. My parents have always been friendly with the Endicotts, and Cherry and I were habitually together as small girls. We had in common that we were only children, or at least the seven years between Jack and me made it feel that way, even before it was that way.
Only children are rare in a town full of Catholics. Cherry’s parents worship common sense. Scraps of paper are collected for leaving phone messages, the time between taking off your socks and getting into bed is to be used for turning your socks right-side-out and putting them in the hamper. I had been sleeping over at Cherry’s for so long her parents had consigned to me a little daybed built into the bay window in Cherry’s room. They called it “Ginger’s bay.”
I loved the Endicott house. It was drafty, and had a spare, straight-up-and-down look to its walls and steep staircases. When they built houses back then the idea of “space” had not yet been consumed by the people who lived in it; every inch of this commodity in the Endicott house was parsed out into little rooms with low ceilings, almost every room with its own fireplace. The Endicott family had, of course, installed central heating, but still, often Cherry and I huddled upstairs under layers and layers of quilts and comforters. On Saturday mornings, even in high school, we would bring all our blankets and pillows downstairs to sit on the floor in front of an old black-and-white movie.
TODAY WAS SUNDAY, and it seemed we just could not stay away. Or it was I who could not, and Cherry had not yet found the strength to resist
“Are you conspiring? You’re not planning a surprise party, are you?” She looked from one to the other of us, around the table. She joked lightly, but the uncertainty in her eyes was genuine. I felt as though I had somehow betrayed her, though I had done nothing but attempt to understand. We wouldn’t be able to tell when what ? When we had heard enough? I didn’t think I could ever hear enough. It was difficult to say whom he might be trying to protect. Perhaps he had been about to issue one of those bland proclamations about how these years were the best in our lives and we had better enjoy them while we could. Though it seemed obvious to me—something in the way he held himself, loose-limbed, coiled—that he took great pleasure in his present time of life.
Then he uncoiled, and all levity, and duplicity, resumed. “I know you don’t like surprises, sweetheart. No, Ginger was just telling us a ghost story. The one about the girl whose head falls off when she unties the ribbon from around her neck.” I knew that story. It was one of my favorites, though I could never remember its premise, only the denouement.
“Ginger and Cherry have to get home soon, Theo. We must bid them farewell.” Raquel gave us a wink and flattened herself against the doorframe, indicating that we should rise and pass by her. We did, Cherry with more willingness than I felt.
“Come back soon! I’ll be lonely here.” Raquel stood waving on the shabby porch, watching us walk up the hill.
As we wended our way, Cherry couldn’t stop exclaiming about Raquel’s bold, instructive lecture—“Who does she think she is, a gym teacher?”—and Theo’s titillating aside. “Do you think he was flirting with us?” she wondered, incredulously, and I nodded vacantly, reeling my thoughts away from this banal interpretation.
7.
Sunday
C herry’s house is a big white beauty on the village green. Mr. Endicott is from one of the first families of the town. They own a farm up in the hills, still a working farm, and he is our town lawyer, as was his father before, handling divorces and custody disputes, deeds and wills and lawsuits. He is also a great storyteller, drinking-buddy, and bowler. My parents have always been friendly with the Endicotts, and Cherry and I were habitually together as small girls. We had in common that we were only children, or at least the seven years between Jack and me made it feel that way, even before it was that way.
Only children are rare in a town full of Catholics. Cherry’s parents worship common sense. Scraps of paper are collected for leaving phone messages, the time between taking off your socks and getting into bed is to be used for turning your socks right-side-out and putting them in the hamper. I had been sleeping over at Cherry’s for so long her parents had consigned to me a little daybed built into the bay window in Cherry’s room. They called it “Ginger’s bay.”
I loved the Endicott house. It was drafty, and had a spare, straight-up-and-down look to its walls and steep staircases. When they built houses back then the idea of “space” had not yet been consumed by the people who lived in it; every inch of this commodity in the Endicott house was parsed out into little rooms with low ceilings, almost every room with its own fireplace. The Endicott family had, of course, installed central heating, but still, often Cherry and I huddled upstairs under layers and layers of quilts and comforters. On Saturday mornings, even in high school, we would bring all our blankets and pillows downstairs to sit on the floor in front of an old black-and-white movie.
TODAY WAS SUNDAY, and it seemed we just could not stay away. Or it was I who could not, and Cherry had not yet found the strength to resist
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