only way to protect one another and the purpose of Hostel. But none of them had ever “fallen,” not yet. Was it happening to Michael and Lyda, even as the rest of them stood in the Fishers’ backyard pretending to be having an ordinary party?
Austin stabbed at the bridge of his eyeglasses. “We can’t just—”
“Yes,” Clayton corrected him, and suddenly the bank president was standing there in the place of the genial host. “We can.”
By the time that Eulalie ordered Clayton to shepherd everyone into the television room to watch the speech, some of the “neutrals” were starting to come up with excuses to go home. They may have been ignorant about the existence of Hostel, but they were exquisitely attuned to social nuance. For so very many of Sebastion’s most respected couples to boycott this party could only mean that Eulalie’s social ship was sinking. The “neutrals” had no intention of going down with it.
“Such a lovely party,” they assured her. “ ’Bye-bye, Eulalie.”
“Should we send every body home?” Clayton whispered to his wife as they stood in their open front doorway staring at the departing backs of four guests.
“Not on your life,” she hissed back. “Nothing is wrong.”
“My dear, something is—”
“We will act as if nothing is wrong, Clayton. Turn up the sound so everybody can hear it. Make sure everyone has a drink who wants one.”
He shook his head—an unusual display of disagreement—and obeyed her.
5
Marie
By the time I have lunch ready, Deb has read it all.
She bounces into the kitchen looking pretty bug-eyed.
“Wow, Marie. That’s an amazing story!”
“Are you hungry? Sit.”
She obeys. “I have a million questions for you.”
I put a plate in front of her and a platter of sliced cheese and fruit, with crackers between us, and then I sit down across from her. “Okay. Shoot.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? It won’t bother you to—”
“Nope. Ask.”
“Well, one thing I wondered as I read it is, are they really sure your mother was involved the same way your father was? I mean, if she was always a rebel, the way Mrs. Fisher describes her, then why would she fall in with the segregationists?”
“My parents may not have done it for a ‘cause.’ ”
“What for then?”
“I don’t know. For money, maybe.”
“Oh.” Deb looks shocked at the idea of that, and I don’t blame her. It is shocking to think of selling out people—especially ones engaged in a risky and righteous struggle—for a mere material reward. I’d almost rather they had done it because they believed in something, even something reprehensible.
“I come from a long line of traitors, Deb,” I tell her gently.
“What do you mean?”
“My grandparents on my father’s side were Hollywood screenwriters, like Nathan, only they were Communists who gave up their friends’ names to the House Un-American Activities Committee.”
“The McCarthy committee?”
“Yes. In the fifties.”
She looks nearly as shocked as when I suggested that my parents might have done it for the money.
“Like father, like son,” I say, lightly. “It makes a kind of sense.”
When she doesn’t seem to know how to go on tactfully from there, I help her along a bit. “What are your other questions?”
“Well, I have another one about your mother.”
“Okay.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me that she did this terrible thing, and that she also warned James and helped him escape. Does that compute to you?”
“No, now that you mention it, but maybe that wasn’t her.”
“What wasn’t?”
“The woman in white who ran in to warn James.”
“He said it was—”
“No, he said he thought he met my mother.”
“But have you seen pictures of her?”
“A few. And they do look like the person he described to me,” I admit. “Short, blond—”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes, she was very pretty.”
Deb puts a square of cheese between two crackers and smiles
Austin stabbed at the bridge of his eyeglasses. “We can’t just—”
“Yes,” Clayton corrected him, and suddenly the bank president was standing there in the place of the genial host. “We can.”
By the time that Eulalie ordered Clayton to shepherd everyone into the television room to watch the speech, some of the “neutrals” were starting to come up with excuses to go home. They may have been ignorant about the existence of Hostel, but they were exquisitely attuned to social nuance. For so very many of Sebastion’s most respected couples to boycott this party could only mean that Eulalie’s social ship was sinking. The “neutrals” had no intention of going down with it.
“Such a lovely party,” they assured her. “ ’Bye-bye, Eulalie.”
“Should we send every body home?” Clayton whispered to his wife as they stood in their open front doorway staring at the departing backs of four guests.
“Not on your life,” she hissed back. “Nothing is wrong.”
“My dear, something is—”
“We will act as if nothing is wrong, Clayton. Turn up the sound so everybody can hear it. Make sure everyone has a drink who wants one.”
He shook his head—an unusual display of disagreement—and obeyed her.
5
Marie
By the time I have lunch ready, Deb has read it all.
She bounces into the kitchen looking pretty bug-eyed.
“Wow, Marie. That’s an amazing story!”
“Are you hungry? Sit.”
She obeys. “I have a million questions for you.”
I put a plate in front of her and a platter of sliced cheese and fruit, with crackers between us, and then I sit down across from her. “Okay. Shoot.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? It won’t bother you to—”
“Nope. Ask.”
“Well, one thing I wondered as I read it is, are they really sure your mother was involved the same way your father was? I mean, if she was always a rebel, the way Mrs. Fisher describes her, then why would she fall in with the segregationists?”
“My parents may not have done it for a ‘cause.’ ”
“What for then?”
“I don’t know. For money, maybe.”
“Oh.” Deb looks shocked at the idea of that, and I don’t blame her. It is shocking to think of selling out people—especially ones engaged in a risky and righteous struggle—for a mere material reward. I’d almost rather they had done it because they believed in something, even something reprehensible.
“I come from a long line of traitors, Deb,” I tell her gently.
“What do you mean?”
“My grandparents on my father’s side were Hollywood screenwriters, like Nathan, only they were Communists who gave up their friends’ names to the House Un-American Activities Committee.”
“The McCarthy committee?”
“Yes. In the fifties.”
She looks nearly as shocked as when I suggested that my parents might have done it for the money.
“Like father, like son,” I say, lightly. “It makes a kind of sense.”
When she doesn’t seem to know how to go on tactfully from there, I help her along a bit. “What are your other questions?”
“Well, I have another one about your mother.”
“Okay.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me that she did this terrible thing, and that she also warned James and helped him escape. Does that compute to you?”
“No, now that you mention it, but maybe that wasn’t her.”
“What wasn’t?”
“The woman in white who ran in to warn James.”
“He said it was—”
“No, he said he thought he met my mother.”
“But have you seen pictures of her?”
“A few. And they do look like the person he described to me,” I admit. “Short, blond—”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes, she was very pretty.”
Deb puts a square of cheese between two crackers and smiles
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