Amelia came back inside. Her face was grim. “Dad’s not ready to leave yet.” She put her arm around Grigg, and her hair fell on his neck. His sisters used White Rain shampoo, because it was cheap, but Grigg thought it had a romantic name. He could take the cap off the bottle in the shower and smell Amelia’s hair, and also Bianca’s, and also Cat’s. For a while he drew a comic with a superwoman in it named White Rain. She controlled weather systems, which was something he’d made up all by himself, but he later learned that someone else had had the idea first.
As Grigg stood in the kitchen of that Bel Air mansion with his sisters around him, he knew that his whole life, whenever he needed rescuing, he could call them and they would come. Junior high school held no more terrors. In fact, Grigg felt sorry for all the boys and girls who were going to tease him once he got there.
“Let’s go, then,” said Amelia.
“As if you don’t always sound weird,” said Cat.
The saddest thing of all was that when Grigg finally read Stranger in a Strange Land, he thought it was kind of silly. He was in his late twenties at the time, because he’d promised his mother never to read it and he kept the promise as long as he could. There was a lot of sex in the book, for sure. But a leering sort of sex that was painful to associate with his father. Grigg read The Fountainhead next, which he’d promised Amelia never to read, and that turned out to be kind of a silly book, too.
This was the third story we didn’t hear. Grigg didn’t tell it to us because we’d already gone home by the time he remembered it, and anyway none of us had read Stranger in a Strange Land and we were way too snotty about science fiction for him to criticize Heinlein in our chilly company. Nor did he want to describe the sex to us.
But this was a story we would have liked, especially the rescue at the end. We would have been sad for Grigg’s father, but we would have liked the White Rain girls. From the sound of it, no one who’d known Grigg since infancy could have doubted he was born to be a heroine.
From The Mysteries of Udolpho,
by Ann Radcliffe
“Bring the light forward,” said Emily, “we may possibly find our way through these rooms.”
Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light held up to show the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half of it. “Why do you hesitate?” said Emily, “let me see whither this room leads.”
Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suit of spacious and ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was, seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the damps, and with age.
“How cold these rooms are, Ma’amselle!” said Annette: “nobody has lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.”
“They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps,” said Emily, passing on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.—He was darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance; and the countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. “Holy Virgin! what can this mean?” exclaimed Annette. “This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice.”
“What picture?” said Emily. “Why a picture,” replied Annette, hesitatingly—“but I never could make out exactly what it was about, either.”
“Remove the veil, Annette.”
“What! I, Ma’amselle!—I! not for the world!” Emily, turning round, saw Annette’s countenance grow pale. “And pray what have you heard of this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?” said she. “Nothing, Ma’amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.”
“Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, Annette, while I lift the veil.” Annette took the light, and immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily’s calls to stay, who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her. “What is the reason of this, Annette?” said Emily, when she overtook her; “what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you so unwilling to stay when I bid you?”
“I don’t know what is the reason, Ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “nor any thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something very dreadful belonging to it—and that it has been covered up in black ever since—and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years—and it somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni came to the possession of it—and—”
“Well, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, “I perceive it is as you say—that you know nothing about the picture.”
“No, nothing, indeed, Ma’amselle, for they made me promise never to tell:—but—”
“Well,” rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the consequence, “I will inquire no further—”
“No, pray, Ma’am, do not.”
“Lest you should tell all,” interrupted Emily.
July
CHAPTER FIVE
in which we read Pride and Prejudice and listen to Bernadette
Sylvia’s first impression of Allegra was that no one had ever before had such a beautiful baby.
Jocelyn’s first impression of Grigg was that he had nice eyelashes and a funny name, and didn’t interest her in the slightest.
Prudie’s first impression of Bernadette was that she was startling to look at and dull if you listened, which you hardly ever had to do.
Bernadette’s first impression of Prudie was that, in all her long years, she had rarely seen such a frightened young woman.
Grigg’s first impression of Jocelyn was that she appeared to think sharing an elevator with him for a few floors was some sort of punishment.
Allegra’s first impression of Sylvia was blurred with her first impression of the larger world. For me? she’d asked herself, back when she had no words and no way to even know she was asking. And then, when Sylvia, and then, when Daniel had first looked into her eyes—More for me?
In Austen’s day, a traditional ball still opened with the minuet. The minuet was originally danced by one couple at a time alone on the floor.
“Everyone knows,” Prudie said, “that a rich man is eventually going to want a new wife.” She was seated with Bernadette at a large round table at the annual fund-raiser for the Sacramento Public Library. Rich men were all around them, thick on the floor as salt on a pretzel.
At the far end of the hall, in front of the huge arched window, a jazz band played the opening notes to “Love Walked In.” You could look up five stories, sighting along massive stone columns past four rows of balconies, each railed in wrought iron, to the dome of the Tsakopoulos Library Galleria. Great rings of glass hung suspended above.
Prudie had never been inside the Library Galleria before, though one of the teachers at the high school had had her wedding here. Somewhere on the balconies were little bronze fox faces. Prudie couldn’t see them from where she was sitting, but it was sweet to know they were there.
This was a romantic space. You could imagine serenading a lover on one of those balconies, or assassinating a president if that was the sick way your imagination ran.
So Prudie was disappointed that, simply because they’d both arrived before anyone else, she would now spend the evening seated by and talking to Bernadette. Dean on the other side, of course, but when couldn’t she talk to Dean?
In point of fact,
Prudie would not be talking to Bernadette so much as Bernadette would be talking to Prudie. Bernadette talked way too much. She meandered around her point, which, when gotten to, was seldom worth the journey. A housewife in the fifties, and, Prudie reminded herself, poor Bernadette, because they actually did expect you to keep your house clean back then. The women’s movement arriving at last, but too late to save Bernadette from the tedium of it all. And now an old lady of little interest to anyone. Peu de gens savent être vieux.
Both Prudie and Bernadette were here at some expense—tickets were one hundred twenty dollars apiece—to provide Sylvia with moral support. It was a dinner; it was a dance; local writers had been promised as entertainment, one to each table—Prudie was looking forward to that—but Sylvia was why she’d come. Sylvia had to attend, because it was for the library. And Allegra had said that Daniel was coming, too, and bringing a date—that family practice lawyer, Pam, he was so in love with.
While all Sylvia had was the Jane Austen book club. They weren’t much, they couldn’t even the score, but they could at least show up.
Everywhere Prudie looked she saw the signs of wealth. She tried for the fun of it to view the scene as a Jane Austen character would. A young woman with no money and no prospects, here, in the way of all these rich men. Would she feel determined? Would she feel desperate? Would there be any point in looking about, making a secret selection, when you could only sit and wait for someone to come to you? Prudie decided she would rather teach French at the high school than marry for money. It was a decision quickly made, but she could always revisit it.
Dean had gone off to check Prudie’s coat and get himself a drink, or he might have objected to her comment about rich men and their new wives. Dean was not a rich man, but he was the faithful sort. He might have said that money wouldn’t change him. He might have said that Prudie was the wife he would want, for richer or poorer. He might have said that he never would be rich, and wasn’t Prudie the lucky wife, then?
Prudie wouldn’t have made the comment in Sylvia’s hearing, either, but neither Sylvia nor Allegra had arrived yet. So far it was only Prudie and Bernadette, and Prudie didn’t know Bernadette all that well, so Sylvia’s divorce was one of the few topics of conversation they had in common. Jane Austen, too, of course, but the meeting on Pride and Prejudice was still a week away; Prudie didn’t want to spoil it with premature articulation.
Bernadette had set aside her no-effort dress policy in honor of the black-tie occasion and was très magnifique in a silver shirt and pants, with her silver hair moussed up from her forehead. Her glasses had been repaired and the lenses cleaned. She was wearing screw-on chunks of amber on her ears. They looked like something Allegra might have made. Bernadette’s earlobes were very large, like a Buddha’s; the earrings elongated them even further. There was a slight scent of lavender perfume and maybe a green-apple shampoo, the zinnias in the centerpiece, and some hardworking air-conditioning. Prudie had a good nose.
Bernadette had been responding to Prudie’s statement for quite some time and still hadn’t finished. Prudie had missed much of it, but Bernadette usually closed with a recap. Prudie waited until she appeared to be winding down to listen. “Being rich doesn’t effect the wanting,” Bernadette was saying. “So much as the having. You can’t possibly know all your husband’s failings until you’ve been married awhile. Happiness in marriage is mostly a matter of chance.”
Clearly Bernadette didn’t understand that they were speaking of Sylvia. Her opinions, while reasonable in some other context, were inappropriate in this one, and it was a good thing Jocelyn wasn’t there to hear them.
Prudie gave her a hint. “Daniel is such a cliché.”
“Someone has to be,” said Bernadette, “or what would the word mean?”
Subtlety was getting Prudie nowhere. She abandoned it. “Still, it’s a shame about Sylvia and Daniel.”
“Oh, yes. Capital crime.” Bernadette smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made Prudie think she’d maybe understood what they were talking about all along.
The band switched to “Someone to Watch over Me.” The song caught in Prudie’s throat. Her mother had been such a Gershwin fan.
An elegant black woman in a mink stole (in this heat!) sat down next to Prudie, who was forced to tell her that the whole table was taken. “So I see,” she said coolly. Her mink brushed over Prudie’s hair as she rose and left. Prudie worried that the woman might have thought she was some sort of racist, which she certainly wasn’t, anyone who knew Prudie could tell you that. She would have liked nothing better than to share the table with such an elegant woman. Where the hell was Jocelyn?
“It’s hard to choose a person to spend your life with,” Bernadette said. “Lots of people don’t get it right the first time out. I certainly didn’t get it right the first time out.”
Prudie wasn’t surprised to learn that Bernadette had been married more than once. Hadn’t Allegra complained to her that Bernadette always did repeat herself? (Hadn’t Allegra said this more than once?)
Allegra was lying across the bed in the room where Sylvia now slept alone. Sylvia was trying on dresses and Allegra was advising. None of the mirrors in the house showed your whole figure down to the shoes, so an advisor was advisable. And Allegra had an artist’s eye. Even when Allegra was little, Sylvia had trusted her judgment. “Are you going out like that?” Allegra would ask, and Sylvia would answer no, no, of course she wasn’t, and go back to her room to try again.
They were running a bit late, but since Sylvia was dreading the whole evening anyway, running late seemed desirable. She would have liked a glass of wine, and maybe more than a glass, but she would be driving. Allegra was drinking a chilled Chardonnay and hadn’t even started to dress yet. She would throw something on in two minutes and be breathtaking. Sylvia would never tire of looking at her.
It was too hot to have the blinds open, but Allegra had said she couldn’t see Sylvia well enough with them closed. Sunlight streaked the bedroom wall, cut to ribbons by the slats of the blinds. Half the family portrait was illuminated—Allegra and Daniel were bright and golden, Sylvia and the boys were in the shade. In a book, that would mean something. In a book, you wouldn’t feel good about what was coming for Sylvia and the boys.
“There won’t be anyone there my age tonight,” Allegra said. Sylvia recognized it as a question, even though Allegra hadn’t inflected it as one. Allegra did this whenever she thought she already knew the answer.
“Prudie,” Sylvia reminded her.
Allegra gave Sylvia the look Sylvia had been getting ever since Allegra turned ten. She said nothing out loud, because Prudie had recently lost her mother and should be treated with kindness. But Allegra had no patience for Prudie’s French. She herself didn’t speak Spanish to people who wouldn’t understand it. When you shared a mother tongue, why not use it?
“What’s the point of having dancing at these events, anyway?” Allegra asked. “I’m not just speaking on behalf of the lesbians here. This is for us all. A dance is about who you’ll dance with. Who will ask you? Who will say yes, if you ask? Who you’ll be forced to say yes to. A dance is about its enormous potential for joy or disaster.
“You remove all that—you provide a band at an event where husbands just dance with their wives—and the only part of a dance you’ve got is the dancing.”
“Don’t you like to dance?” Sylvia asked.
“Only as an extreme sport,” Allegra answered. “With the terror removed, not so much.”
Grigg had suggested that he drive Jocelyn into Sacramento because he was still new to the area, while she had been to the Galleria on other occasions. As Jocelyn had dressed for the evening she’d found herself filled with affection for him. Really, he hardly knew Sylvia, plus his income was not what it had been. Yet here he was, buying a pricey ticket, putting on a gray suit in the dreadful summer heat, and spending a whole evening with a bunch of old women, and married women, and lesbians, just from th
e goodness of his heart. What a good heart that was!
She finished her makeup and then there was nothing more to be done, except to brush the dog hair off, and absolutely no point in doing that until she was out the door. Jocelyn was ready to go at the exact moment they should have been going.
But there was no sign of Grigg, and in the twenty minutes she waited, her affection began to fade. Jocelyn was a punctual person. This was, she believed, a matter of simple courtesy. Arriving late was a way of saying that your own time was more valuable than the time of the person who waited for you.
Waiting gave Jocelyn too much time to think about the evening ahead. She’d hardly seen Daniel since he moved. She could look around her own house, and there was the stereo system he’d helped her pick out, the dryer he’d helped her hook up. All those times over all those years, Daniel had dropped by with a movie he and Sylvia had rented and thought Jocelyn would like, or Chinese food when they knew she’d be getting back from a show too tired to eat unless she was made to. Once when she had had a nasty flu, Daniel came over and cleaned her bathroom, because he suspected the toothpaste on the mirror was preying on her mind and interfering with her recovery.
Hating Daniel was such terribly hard work that in his absence Jocelyn had allowed herself to stop. Although she would have said this to no one, tonight would be hard on her as well as Sylvia. She had no desire to see Daniel’s new girlfriend and no desire to look closely at why that should be. She resented Grigg for the delay in getting it over with.
Then, when Grigg did arrive, there were no excuses, no apologies. He seemed, in fact, to be totally unaware that he was late. Sahara was wild and welcoming. She seized a ball in her mouth and raced between the chairs and over the couch, oblivious of the heartbreak that lay just ahead. This diverted attention from Jocelyn’s cooler reception. “Nice dress!” Grigg said, which in no way soothed her, but made it hard to be snappish in return.
The Jane Austen Book Club Page 14