but she gets shivers in the shade. And in the other hand she carries a glass of freshly made lemonade for Mrs. Gowan, the on-duty companion of Sally. Mrs. Gowan has found the children’spunch too sweet. She does not allow Sally to have anything to drink—she might spill it on her pretty dress or throw it at somebody in a fit of playfulness. Sally does not seem to mind the deprivation.
On the journey across the lawn Joyce skirts a group of young people sitting in a circle. Tommy and his new friend and other friends she has often seen in the house and others she does not believe she has ever seen at all.
She hears Tommy say, “No, I am not Isadora Duncan.”
They all laugh.
She realizes that they must be playing that difficult and snobby game that was popular years ago. What was it called? She thinks the name started with a B . She would have thought they were too anti-elitist nowadays for any such pastime.
Buxtehude. She has said it out loud.
“You’re playing Buxtehude.”
“You got the B right anyway,” says Tommy, laughing at her so that the others can laugh.
“See,” he says. “My belle mère , she ain’t so dumb. But she’s a musician. Wasn’t Buxtahoody a musician?”
“Buxtehude walked fifty miles to hear Bach play the organ,” says Joyce in a mild huff. “Yes. A musician.”
Tommy says, “Hot damn.”
A girl in the circle gets up, and Tommy calls to her.
“Hey Christie. Christie. Aren’t you playing anymore?”
“I’ll be back. I’m just going to hide in the bushes with my filthy cigarette.”
This girl is wearing a short frilly black dress that makes you think of a piece of lingerie or a nightie, and a severe but low-necked little black jacket. Wispy pale hair, evasive pale face, invisible eyebrows. Joyce has taken an instant dislike to her. The sort of girl, she thinks, whose mission in life is to make people feel uncomfortable. Tagging along—Joyce thinks she must have tagged along—to a party at the home of people she doesn’t know but feels a right to despise. Because of their easy (shallow?)cheer and their bourgeois hospitality. (Do people say “bourgeois” anymore?)
It’s not as if a guest couldn’t smoke anywhere she wants to. There aren’t any of those fussy little signs around, even in the house. Joyce feels a lot of her cheer drained away.
“Tommy,” she says abruptly. “Tommy, would you mind taking this shawl to Grandma Fowler? Apparently she’s feeling chilly. And the lemonade is for Mrs. Gowan. You know. The person with your mother.”
No harm in reminding him of certain relationships and responsibilities.
Tommy is quickly and gracefully on his feet.
“Botticelli,” he says, relieving her of the shawl and the glass.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your game.”
“We’re no good anyway,” says a boy she knows. Justin. “We’re not as smart as you guys used to be.”
“Used to be is right,” says Joyce. At a loss, for a moment, as to what to do or where to go next.
They are washing the dishes in the kitchen. Joyce and Tommy and the new friend, Jay. The party is over. People have departed with hugs and kisses and hearty cries, some bearing platters of food that Joyce has no room for in the refrigerator. Wilted salads and cream tarts and devilled eggs have been thrown out. Few of the devilled eggs were eaten anyway. Old-fashioned. Too much cholesterol.
“Too bad, they were a lot of work. They probably reminded people of church suppers,” says Joyce, tipping a platterful into the garbage.
“My granma used to make them,” says Jay. These are the first words he has addressed to Joyce, and she sees Tommy looking grateful. She feels grateful herself, even if she has been put in the category of his grandmother.
“We ate several and they were good,” says Tommy. He andJay have worked for at least half an hour alongside her, gathering glasses and plates and cutlery that were scattered all over the lawn and verandah and throughout the
On the journey across the lawn Joyce skirts a group of young people sitting in a circle. Tommy and his new friend and other friends she has often seen in the house and others she does not believe she has ever seen at all.
She hears Tommy say, “No, I am not Isadora Duncan.”
They all laugh.
She realizes that they must be playing that difficult and snobby game that was popular years ago. What was it called? She thinks the name started with a B . She would have thought they were too anti-elitist nowadays for any such pastime.
Buxtehude. She has said it out loud.
“You’re playing Buxtehude.”
“You got the B right anyway,” says Tommy, laughing at her so that the others can laugh.
“See,” he says. “My belle mère , she ain’t so dumb. But she’s a musician. Wasn’t Buxtahoody a musician?”
“Buxtehude walked fifty miles to hear Bach play the organ,” says Joyce in a mild huff. “Yes. A musician.”
Tommy says, “Hot damn.”
A girl in the circle gets up, and Tommy calls to her.
“Hey Christie. Christie. Aren’t you playing anymore?”
“I’ll be back. I’m just going to hide in the bushes with my filthy cigarette.”
This girl is wearing a short frilly black dress that makes you think of a piece of lingerie or a nightie, and a severe but low-necked little black jacket. Wispy pale hair, evasive pale face, invisible eyebrows. Joyce has taken an instant dislike to her. The sort of girl, she thinks, whose mission in life is to make people feel uncomfortable. Tagging along—Joyce thinks she must have tagged along—to a party at the home of people she doesn’t know but feels a right to despise. Because of their easy (shallow?)cheer and their bourgeois hospitality. (Do people say “bourgeois” anymore?)
It’s not as if a guest couldn’t smoke anywhere she wants to. There aren’t any of those fussy little signs around, even in the house. Joyce feels a lot of her cheer drained away.
“Tommy,” she says abruptly. “Tommy, would you mind taking this shawl to Grandma Fowler? Apparently she’s feeling chilly. And the lemonade is for Mrs. Gowan. You know. The person with your mother.”
No harm in reminding him of certain relationships and responsibilities.
Tommy is quickly and gracefully on his feet.
“Botticelli,” he says, relieving her of the shawl and the glass.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your game.”
“We’re no good anyway,” says a boy she knows. Justin. “We’re not as smart as you guys used to be.”
“Used to be is right,” says Joyce. At a loss, for a moment, as to what to do or where to go next.
They are washing the dishes in the kitchen. Joyce and Tommy and the new friend, Jay. The party is over. People have departed with hugs and kisses and hearty cries, some bearing platters of food that Joyce has no room for in the refrigerator. Wilted salads and cream tarts and devilled eggs have been thrown out. Few of the devilled eggs were eaten anyway. Old-fashioned. Too much cholesterol.
“Too bad, they were a lot of work. They probably reminded people of church suppers,” says Joyce, tipping a platterful into the garbage.
“My granma used to make them,” says Jay. These are the first words he has addressed to Joyce, and she sees Tommy looking grateful. She feels grateful herself, even if she has been put in the category of his grandmother.
“We ate several and they were good,” says Tommy. He andJay have worked for at least half an hour alongside her, gathering glasses and plates and cutlery that were scattered all over the lawn and verandah and throughout the
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