while Alexander was away, had little to do and few friends to see. And yet she seemed to get no pleasure from Mariana’s afternoon return from school. She did not rise from her chair or prepare a snack or ask how her day had been. “Do you have a lot of homework?” was the most she asked. The only traces of her day’s activity were the filled ashtray, the phone messages she took for Alexander on a pad at her elbow, and the evidence of a trip to the newsstand to get the paper — these and the books, the stacks of Modern Library editions, which grew around her chair.
“Mama, I’m supposed to ask you if you’d like to volunteer to work at the school bazaar this year. It’s on Saturday, April 7th.”
“Tell them I can’t, please. Your father will just be coming home.” Pilar always knew Alexander’s schedule, but only the dates of his departures and returns, never where he was onany given day. For this information, Mariana had to consult the engagement book on the desk. She checked the itinerary daily and left herself little clues as to whether her mother had opened it. She rarely did.
“I think it would be fun,” Mariana persisted. “I like it when you come to school.” She couldn’t remember the last time Pilar had made such a visit. Her friends’ mothers were always buzzing around the PTA office, working to raise money for some cause or charity at the expensive little private school, Wide World, which dearly held to its pretensions to a social conscience.
“I’m not particularly fond of the other mothers,” Pilar answered. “They wear full-length mink coats and insist their maids work twelve hours a day while they take taxis to school, raise money for protest marches and the Fresh Air Fund, and let their children go home alone every afternoon to household help.”
Mariana thought it might be nice to have a welcoming maid to greet her at the door and set out a snack. She was surprised by her mother’s contemptuous tone. “The maids are there,” Mariana clarified, “and some of them are really friendly. We’re not alone.”
The Feldmanns didn’t employ a maid. It was against her mother’s principles and they didn’t have the money for it. Payments on the purchase of the Swan still claimed their funds. Mariana often chose to visit her friends after school, dreading the return to her own silent apartment. But she couldn’t stay long because of her practice schedule. At home, with Pilar ever-present, she felt most alone. “Anyway, if you feel that way, why did you and Papa send me to Wide World?”
“I thought it would be truer to its principles. God knows what your father thought.”
“Did he visit it with you? Did you choose it together?”
“No. He didn’t have the time or interest.”
Mariana asked again, wistfully. “Well, anyway, I wish you’d work at the bazaar.”
Pilar lit a cigarette and took up her pencil again. “I’ll speak to your father about it if he calls. You know Saturdays are his busy teaching day and he needs me here.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mama.”
Mariana had heard Alexander speak with pride of her mother’s principles, of her work as founding director of a ballet school that fostered the talents of poor children, of her social work. To do this, she had given up her position in the corps of the New York City Ballet. Like her parents, Pilar had been ardently against social injustice and privilege. She had gone south in the early days of the civil rights movement and championed racial equity in the arts. She’d taught in settlement houses and clubs, in public schools in poor neighborhoods. Alexander told people how hard he’d had to struggle to capture her attention, so committed was she to her school and what he called “her Socialist ideals.” (This was not exactly true, Mariana later discovered; her mother, very much in love, had waited several years while Alexander made up his mind to marry her.)
“But Papa, why does she only stay home?” Mariana
“Mama, I’m supposed to ask you if you’d like to volunteer to work at the school bazaar this year. It’s on Saturday, April 7th.”
“Tell them I can’t, please. Your father will just be coming home.” Pilar always knew Alexander’s schedule, but only the dates of his departures and returns, never where he was onany given day. For this information, Mariana had to consult the engagement book on the desk. She checked the itinerary daily and left herself little clues as to whether her mother had opened it. She rarely did.
“I think it would be fun,” Mariana persisted. “I like it when you come to school.” She couldn’t remember the last time Pilar had made such a visit. Her friends’ mothers were always buzzing around the PTA office, working to raise money for some cause or charity at the expensive little private school, Wide World, which dearly held to its pretensions to a social conscience.
“I’m not particularly fond of the other mothers,” Pilar answered. “They wear full-length mink coats and insist their maids work twelve hours a day while they take taxis to school, raise money for protest marches and the Fresh Air Fund, and let their children go home alone every afternoon to household help.”
Mariana thought it might be nice to have a welcoming maid to greet her at the door and set out a snack. She was surprised by her mother’s contemptuous tone. “The maids are there,” Mariana clarified, “and some of them are really friendly. We’re not alone.”
The Feldmanns didn’t employ a maid. It was against her mother’s principles and they didn’t have the money for it. Payments on the purchase of the Swan still claimed their funds. Mariana often chose to visit her friends after school, dreading the return to her own silent apartment. But she couldn’t stay long because of her practice schedule. At home, with Pilar ever-present, she felt most alone. “Anyway, if you feel that way, why did you and Papa send me to Wide World?”
“I thought it would be truer to its principles. God knows what your father thought.”
“Did he visit it with you? Did you choose it together?”
“No. He didn’t have the time or interest.”
Mariana asked again, wistfully. “Well, anyway, I wish you’d work at the bazaar.”
Pilar lit a cigarette and took up her pencil again. “I’ll speak to your father about it if he calls. You know Saturdays are his busy teaching day and he needs me here.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mama.”
Mariana had heard Alexander speak with pride of her mother’s principles, of her work as founding director of a ballet school that fostered the talents of poor children, of her social work. To do this, she had given up her position in the corps of the New York City Ballet. Like her parents, Pilar had been ardently against social injustice and privilege. She had gone south in the early days of the civil rights movement and championed racial equity in the arts. She’d taught in settlement houses and clubs, in public schools in poor neighborhoods. Alexander told people how hard he’d had to struggle to capture her attention, so committed was she to her school and what he called “her Socialist ideals.” (This was not exactly true, Mariana later discovered; her mother, very much in love, had waited several years while Alexander made up his mind to marry her.)
“But Papa, why does she only stay home?” Mariana
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