The Three Weissmanns of Westport by Cathleen Schine Page B
Authors: Cathleen Schine
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Family Life, Domestic Fiction, Love Stories, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Contemporary Women, Single Women, General & Literary Fiction, Sisters, Mothers and daughters, Westport (Conn.), Westport (N.Y.)
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"Don't be sad," she said.
"Oh no." Betty patted her daughter's hand to reassure her. "I'm a merry widow."
This, to Annie and Miranda's surprise, turned out to be all too true. In the days to come, not only was Betty merry, but she insisted that she was, literally, a widow.
"Poor, dear Joseph," she said when they finally accepted Cousin Lou's invitation to dinner. "God rest his soul."
Lou raised an eyebrow and looked at Annie. Annie shrugged. "Mom's a widow," she said. "Didn't you know?"
"Don't be fresh," Betty said, and swept into the living room in her black linen pants and tunic.
Cousin Lou was not one to argue with anyone who was kind enough to accept his hospitality. He took Annie and Miranda, each on one arm, and escorted them into the big living room that overlooked the water. They were on a hill, and their view of the Sound was unimpeded except by the many figures who stood in front of the glass walls. There was an artist and a pianist, a Holocaust scholar, a psychiatrist, a young Internet mogul, several Wall Street people, two surgeons, an architect, and a lawyer--all of them with spouses, all of their spouses with their own careers. Lou introduced all his guests simply by their first names, as if they were family pets, even patting their heads now and then. It was only after he steered Annie and Miranda over to a woman dressed in white and perched on the arm of the sofa who, he reminded them, was his wife, that they learned in great detail the last names and occupations of the guests they had just been introduced to. Annie had half expected Lou to note that his wife was "like family," but instead, he hurried off and left Rosalyn to nod her rather large head in the direction of each specimen they'd just met and relate in a loud, rasping whisper what that person did professionally.
"They seem very distinguished," Annie said, sensing that was what Rosalyn required.
"I am drawn to exceptional people," Rosalyn said. "It is my vice." Then she smiled at the absurdity of someone like herself having something as tasteless as a vice.
"They're like family," Miranda offered.
Rosalyn raised an eyebrow at her. "One cannot choose one's family," she said. "Can one?"
"No," Annie said drily, noting simultaneously though silently that even when one, that is to say Rosalyn, stood, one was no taller than one had been when seated on the arm of the sofa. Annie smiled at Cousin Rosalyn. "Families are fate."
Rosalyn's prominent head balanced rather precariously on what came below, like a blowsy rose on a stem plucked bare of its leaves. The circumference of her head was emphasized by her hair, which was thin but of an intensely hued blond arranged in a helmet of great volume. Annie watched it revolve, slowly, like a golden globe, toward her mother, who now approached them in her beautifully tailored linen.
"Widow's weeds," Betty explained with a sad smile when Rosalyn admired her outfit.
5
Frederick Barrow was what Miranda could only call a pleasant-looking man--not, therefore, her type. He had a puckish, friendly face and his hair was thinning, not a distinguished receding hairline like Josie's, just thin, combed back and a bit too artistically long. Miranda was sorry on that score and disappointed for Annie. But, as she loyally pointed out to her mother, what hair he had was silver. And he had kind eyes. They called to mind an old dog's eyes, so dark and earnest, but that she did not say out loud. She reminded herself, instead, that she loved dogs and had often thought of adopting one from a shelter. A shepherd mix. Or a misunderstood pit bull. Immediately after this thought, she felt a rush of warmth for Frederick Barrow, as if he had himself rescued a large abandoned dog that very moment or, an even more compelling alternative, was wagging his tail against the wire confines of his cage, whimpering, his head appealingly tilted to one side, as he waited for Miranda to liberate him from his cramped prison.
In fact, at that
"Oh no." Betty patted her daughter's hand to reassure her. "I'm a merry widow."
This, to Annie and Miranda's surprise, turned out to be all too true. In the days to come, not only was Betty merry, but she insisted that she was, literally, a widow.
"Poor, dear Joseph," she said when they finally accepted Cousin Lou's invitation to dinner. "God rest his soul."
Lou raised an eyebrow and looked at Annie. Annie shrugged. "Mom's a widow," she said. "Didn't you know?"
"Don't be fresh," Betty said, and swept into the living room in her black linen pants and tunic.
Cousin Lou was not one to argue with anyone who was kind enough to accept his hospitality. He took Annie and Miranda, each on one arm, and escorted them into the big living room that overlooked the water. They were on a hill, and their view of the Sound was unimpeded except by the many figures who stood in front of the glass walls. There was an artist and a pianist, a Holocaust scholar, a psychiatrist, a young Internet mogul, several Wall Street people, two surgeons, an architect, and a lawyer--all of them with spouses, all of their spouses with their own careers. Lou introduced all his guests simply by their first names, as if they were family pets, even patting their heads now and then. It was only after he steered Annie and Miranda over to a woman dressed in white and perched on the arm of the sofa who, he reminded them, was his wife, that they learned in great detail the last names and occupations of the guests they had just been introduced to. Annie had half expected Lou to note that his wife was "like family," but instead, he hurried off and left Rosalyn to nod her rather large head in the direction of each specimen they'd just met and relate in a loud, rasping whisper what that person did professionally.
"They seem very distinguished," Annie said, sensing that was what Rosalyn required.
"I am drawn to exceptional people," Rosalyn said. "It is my vice." Then she smiled at the absurdity of someone like herself having something as tasteless as a vice.
"They're like family," Miranda offered.
Rosalyn raised an eyebrow at her. "One cannot choose one's family," she said. "Can one?"
"No," Annie said drily, noting simultaneously though silently that even when one, that is to say Rosalyn, stood, one was no taller than one had been when seated on the arm of the sofa. Annie smiled at Cousin Rosalyn. "Families are fate."
Rosalyn's prominent head balanced rather precariously on what came below, like a blowsy rose on a stem plucked bare of its leaves. The circumference of her head was emphasized by her hair, which was thin but of an intensely hued blond arranged in a helmet of great volume. Annie watched it revolve, slowly, like a golden globe, toward her mother, who now approached them in her beautifully tailored linen.
"Widow's weeds," Betty explained with a sad smile when Rosalyn admired her outfit.
5
Frederick Barrow was what Miranda could only call a pleasant-looking man--not, therefore, her type. He had a puckish, friendly face and his hair was thinning, not a distinguished receding hairline like Josie's, just thin, combed back and a bit too artistically long. Miranda was sorry on that score and disappointed for Annie. But, as she loyally pointed out to her mother, what hair he had was silver. And he had kind eyes. They called to mind an old dog's eyes, so dark and earnest, but that she did not say out loud. She reminded herself, instead, that she loved dogs and had often thought of adopting one from a shelter. A shepherd mix. Or a misunderstood pit bull. Immediately after this thought, she felt a rush of warmth for Frederick Barrow, as if he had himself rescued a large abandoned dog that very moment or, an even more compelling alternative, was wagging his tail against the wire confines of his cage, whimpering, his head appealingly tilted to one side, as he waited for Miranda to liberate him from his cramped prison.
In fact, at that
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