The Wintering by Joan Williams Page B

world, she thought, could be as easily shattered by a few hard facts as it could be improved by a little hard cash. How had Mrs. Decker acquired an air of total confidence? Amy wondered, staring at her liquor-mottled complexion. She tried to find some remainder of the unconventional girl Mrs. Decker must once have been, for early she had run away with an itinerant portrait painter and caused a scandal. Only Borden had come of the marriage and she had had to creep back home in shame; then her father died, having lost all the family money. Mrs. Decker, since, had painted cake plates and crocheted baby clothes and let herself be prevailed upon by her friends to sell them. She lived by pretense, Amy thought, staring around the threadbare room, and that was something she hated. The free spirit, the passionate heart Mrs. Decker must once have possessed were entirely missing in this purplish-faced woman. Staring at her, Amy felt fearful about her own rebelliousness.
    Borden came up the driveway in an old car, sitting with envious bravado on its high, outmoded seat. It might be the thing he wanted most in this world to be doing. The car door slamming in the small town’s stillness had an important sound. Borden dressed flamboyantly, seeking status, and wore now a pink shirt and a bright red tie, somehow blending with his carrot-colored hair. Waving a bottle in a wrinkled brown sack, he apologized for lateness. “I had to wait outside the pool hall for Cole to finish his game!” He and his mother caught hands ecstatically a moment, provided with another unsurpassable anecdote. Since the others were having a drink, Amy reluctantly agreed, as she would not hurry lunch by declining. But she cast a grateful look toward the dining room where Borden mixed drinks when he said they ought to go soon. Pouting daintily, Mrs. Decker agreed to tell Mary to hurry lunch.
    But later, nibbling a cherry from its stem, Mrs. Decker said whoever heard of only having one drink! Borden, indulgently, said that she might have a second, but she would have to take it to the table. Coming along after Mrs. Decker, Amy felt that Borden’s tolerance was something she lacked, which she must practice. She tried not to mind Mrs. Decker’s fingers drumming incessantly, like a pecking hen’s head, while she talked (and talked). Amy could not help but feel angry that people like Mrs. Decker and her own family, leading such uninteresting lives, were disparaging about Almoner, who had done so much for the world. Did they never think of the comparison? Maybe the bourbon was making her so hot and so sleepy. She would sleep at the table if they did not leave soon. Maybe it was only boredom making her eyelids want to close. The luncheon seemed it might stretch out the entire length of the hot summer afternoon. Amy opened her eyes wide and looked toward the window, hoping brightness there would keep her awake. She watched maids with their small white charges stroll past and return later eating ice cream. Borden and his mother kept on giving the endless details of things not important in the beginning, as her family did; looking back, turning her head from one to another, Amy wished Edith were in her place, she would so much enjoy the conversation.
    When Mary appeared with an asparagus souffle, Mrs. Decker commanded they praise it. Mary indulgently stood and stared beyond them, while they ooed and aahed. And though they were like fools, Amy thought, there was no way not to join in. She made little murmurs, then watched Mary swing back through the kitchen door, gladly. At least, eating stopped the continousness of the conversation, though with their mouths full, they had to stop and, again at Mrs. Decker’s command, exclaim over the rolls Mary brought in. Who else still made their own? they were asked.
    â€œTake two while they’re hot!” Mrs. Decker cried, as Mary circled the table.
    Tears welled up in Amy’s eyes. She did not want to live