“What kind of high school kid knows Charles Aznavour?” Bennett said.
“You have a brother named St. John?” Doyle said.
“Who’s Daddy-o?” Katya asked.
“He’s my…father.” I never realized how weird it sounded until then.
“Norrie’s full of surprises,” Robbie said.
I guess I was just as exotic to them as they were to me.
“My grandmother likes those old French music hall singers,” I explained. I’m happy to give you credit for everything, Almighty. “Sometimes she plays her Aznavour records when we go over for—” I was going to say “tea,” but decided not to. Between high school, Daddy-o, St. John, and my familiarity with French pop songs, I’d been exotic enough for one night. “—To visit.”
“Now that we’ve got that straight…” Doyle said.
“You really think Aznavour’s better?” Bennett asked me. “Did you know Trenet said, ‘I make songs like an apple tree make apples. They come from inside me’? How can you not love that?”
The conversation resumed, and now I had a place at the table. I still felt self-conscious, but it was so much fun to listen to them talk that I didn’t mind. They came from other places, and their world was the whole world, not just a few miles of North Baltimore filled with private schools and dilapidated mansions. The whole, wide world. I forgot all about Brooks. It was like our date had never happened, like he didn’t exist. Nothing existed outside of that secret restaurant. I had stumbled into a new world and left the old one behind.
EIGHT
JANE AND SASSY AND GINGER AND I WENT TO YOUR HOUSE FOR tea after school that Tuesday. I usually like tea at your house, but that was the beginning of The Tension.
It was a nice October afternoon, the air just starting to crisp up. The grass in Sherwood Gardens was turning brown, and the trees that lined your long drive were shedding their leaves. Bernice was putting watercress sandwiches on the silver tea tray when we walked in.
“Hi there, girls,” Bernice said. “Mrs. Beckendorf is waiting in the library. Better scoot on in there because you’re late and she’s in one of her moods.”
“Oh, lovely.” Ginger snatched a sandwich off the tray and popped it into her mouth. You’re hard on Ginger, but admit it, Almighty: It can’t be easy having you for a mother-in-law.
I love your library. Week after week I walk in and am amazed all over again. All those thousands of books, two stories high, and the sunlight pouring in through the tall windows, making the air sparkle with dust motes. Through the French doors, I saw Wallace pottering around outside on the terrace, moving plants from one place to another and watching Raul blow fallen leaves into a pile. Every once in a while, Wallace glanced in and gave us that quick two-fingered salute, like “Wallace Beckendorf reporting for duty.”
You were sitting at the head of the tea table as always, with Buffalo Bill on your lap and a Schubert string quartet on the sound system. No zesty French pop songs that day.
We kissed you hello and sat down. You glared at us for a few tense moments, grimly stroking Buffalo Bill’s stiff Schnauzer fur. At last you said, “Good afternoon, girls. Norris. Jane. Saskia.” You always pronounce Sassy’s name in that peculiarly emphatic way, as if it tastes funny in your mouth. Don’t you like it? Once, I heard you sniff that Saskia sounded like the name of a European actress. Ginger agreed. The difference is that Ginger thinks that’s a good thing.
“And Virginia. Who is no longer a girl and should begin behaving as if she is aware that middle age has arrived and she is not a dewy-eyed debutante. Yes, it happens even to her.”
Ginger went pale but I doubt she was surprised.
“I’m speaking of that abominable dress you’re wearing,” you said. “Don’t you think a woman of your age should cover her knees?”
Maybe Ginger’s dress was a bit on the short side, but come on, she has good legs. She plucked her napkin off the table and placed it over her knees.
Bernice brought in the tea tray and you poured out steaming cups of Earl Grey for all of us. Sassy reached for a sandwich. In spite of the fact that you hate her name, Sassy is the only one of us who never seems intimidated by you. Not counting the boys, of course.
“Virginia, how is my dear Alphonse?”
“He’s very well,” Ginger said. “Skipping through life as usual.”
“Glad to hear it. And, girls, how are you doing in school this year? Saskia?”
“Pretty well, Almighty.” I happened to know this wasn’t true—Sassy was practically flunking math—but I wasn’t about to mention it and spoil your wonderful mood.
“Jane?”
“Just peachy.”
“I hear that note of sarcasm in your voice, young lady. Don’t think I don’t. Your report card will come out soon enough and then we’ll see how peachy everything is. Norris, how are you faring in your last year at old St. Maggie’s?”
“Fine so far, Almighty,” I replied.
“Good. Now. I have issues to discuss with all four of you, Saskia first. What’s this I hear about you being immortal?”
Sassy blinked. “Where did you hear that?”
“From your baby brother, Theodore—once I stopped him from torturing poor Bill here. Out with it.”
“I’m not immortal, Almighty. I mean, probably not. It’s just that I’ve had a lot of accidents lately and I never seem to get hurt.”
By then I knew that Sassy had been hit by a car, but she’d made it sound like nothing, just a tap. And anyway she seemed fine. I didn’t realize she felt this made her immortal.
“Count yourself lucky, child. My advice to you is to be more careful and you won’t have so many accidents. You are not immortal except in the sense that our souls will ascend to heaven when we die, thanks to the sacrifice of our dear Lord. If we’re lucky. And girls who go around committing blasphemy are not good candidates for heaven.”
“No, ma’am.”
Jane spread jam on a piece of toast. Your face clouded over.
“Jane, if you don’t learn to hold your knife properly, no man will ever want to marry you.”
Jane wanted to wave that knife in your face like a switch-blade—I know she did—but only set it on her plate and defiantly chomped on her toast in the most unladylike way she could. You suppressed your annoyance admirably.
“Now, Jane. Father Burgess tells me that you’ve been giving Sister Mary Joseph a terrible time in Religion class. I don’t need to ask if this is true; I can see by the wicked, gleeful look in your eye that the situation is even worse than I thought. If you’re not careful, Jane, you’ll be expelled from St. Maggie’s. How would you like that?”
“I’d love it!” Jane cried. “I want to go to public school.”
You laughed. “You’d last about a minute with those hoodlums.”
“Ha. You don’t know Jane,” Ginger drawled.
“I don’t want to hear any more bad reports about you this year, Jane.”
Jane glared at you, and you glared back. Two powerful wills facing off. After an endless moment, Jane looked away. You won that round. But I’d never count Jane out.
“Now, on to Norris.”
Ulp.
“Your debut. Have you chosen your escorts for the Cotillon yet?”
“Well, there’s Daddy-o and St. John,” I said. “You’ve already arranged that, I think.”
“Yes, and your third escort will be Brooks Overbeck. What I’m asking, Norris, is if you have sent him an invitation yet. Time is a-wasting.”
“Not yet, Almighty.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? You’re not thinking of asking another young man, are you?”
Your beady blue eyes bore into me. You were onto me, and you wanted to make sure that I knew that you knew.
A lot goes on under the surface at these teas, doesn’t it?
“I believe Brooks has already made some kind of overture to you, to let you know he’ll gladly accept your invitation. Correct?”
“Well, he asked me to a dance—”
“Sounds like an overture to me. Get that invitation in the mail.”
I couldn’t speak. I was angry and afraid. I thought, Who does she think she is, telling me what to do with my life this way? It was just a stupid date to a stupid dance. I had nothing against Brooks Overbeck, but I didn’t like being ordered to go out with him. Next, I thought, you’d tell me we were getting married in June.
“We’ve been to Downs and ordered the invitations,” Ginger said, trying to stave off a fight.
“Mamie Overbeck has already told everyone that Brooks is escorting Norris to the Cotillon,” you said firmly. “I believe she’s even told the society reporter at the Baltimore Sun. That means it will happen. If it doesn’t happen, Mamie will be annoyed, and I’ll be annoyed. Brooks will be hurt, and your debut to society will be ruined, forever besmirched by your selfishness or laziness or whatever it is that is keeping you from doing your duty to this family, Louisa Norris Sullivan.”
I’d sat through your lectures and orders before, Almighty, and I’d left your teas in tears. But never like this. Maybe it’s because I was older now, or maybe it had something to do with the change that happened in Speed Reading class, but this time you went too far.
I knew that anything I said would steel your resolve and make you more stubborn, which would only make things worse for me.
“Do you hear me, Norris?”
“I hear you,” I croaked.
“Good.” You smiled, but you weren’t happy. “Now that most of our business is over, let’s enjoy some of these lovely cakes Bernice made for us. More tea, Virginia?”
The Schubert CD ended. “Norris, we need some more music,” you ordered. “Put on La Sonnambula.”
I found the CD—Maria Callas singing La Sonnambula—and put it on. Opera music blasted into the huge old library. I turned it down.
I choked down a cucumber sandwich and swallowed my tea while I stared at that giant portrait of you as a young girl that hangs high on the library wall. You posed in your riding outfit with your beloved horse, King, two spaniels at your feet. You were maybe sixteen when that portrait was painted; younger than I am. I wondered: Did people call you Almighty Lou yet, at that age? Or were you still just Louisa?
After tea we went outside to say hello to Wallace. He wore a sun hat that day, even though it was October, to protect the pink and white skin on his head.
“Hello, girls! Have a nice tea with your grandma?” he asked.
Sassy gave Wallace a hug. We all liked him. He didn’t seem to have any idea he was married to a saber-toothed tiger, and that was what was endearing about him.
That night as I lay in bed in my Tower Room, I thought about the Cotillon. I pictured myself in a white dress like a bride, dancing with Daddy-o, then with St. John, and then with Brooks. But every time Brooks spun me around he turned into Robbie.
You sat in a place of honor at the head table, scowling at the dance floor and telling Robbie the infiltrator to get out of Brooks Overbeck’s way. The music changed from a waltz to the melancholy aria from La Sonnambula as the room grew bigger and bigger and spun around me until I fell asleep.
NINE
BY THE END OF OCTOBER I ASSUMED THAT ROBBIE WOULD SIT next to me in Speed Reading class. My reading speeds were inching up but not as much as they should have been. I kept getting distracted by the words. I’d see one I liked and would stop to admire it. Robbie was the star of the class. He had the highest numbers every week.
“Why are you even bothering with this stupid class?” I asked him. “You’re already a speed reader.”
“I wasn’t before I started,” he said. “And besides, I like my classmates.”
After class he told me that Katya was in a group show at the Cader Gallery and he was going to the opening party Friday night. “Want to come?”
“Yes,” I said, and then I started thinking about what I’d said yes to and added, “Wait—I take it back.” Katya had been nice to me that night at Maurice’s, but a lot of Robbie’s other friends were bound to be there too. Including maybe snide Marissa, creepy Josh, and the jealous Charles Theater girl. What if I felt weird there?
“Too late,” Robbie said. “You said yes. You can’t take it back.” Then he looked at me more carefully. “Why do you want to take it back?”
“I’m afraid your friends will be mean to me in such a subtle and sophisticated way I’ll barely know they’re doing it,” I confessed.
“I’ll protect you,” he said.
“Then I’ll go.”
Jane wanted the Mercedes that night so she dropped me off downtown, and I met Robbie just outside the gallery. It was packed. People spilled out onto the street, laughing and smoking cigarettes. The first person Robbie saw when we walked in was Doyle.
“Hey—we’re all going over to Carmen’s for dinner after this,” Doyle said. “You guys in?”
Robbie glanced at me. “Sure,” I said. “Dinner is good.”
We wandered around looking at the art. Katya’s piece was a video monitor mounted inside an elaborately painted gold frame. The video showed a girl dressed up like the Mona Lisa, sitting still as if posing for a painter.
“Do you like it?” Robbie asked me.
“Yes, I do.”
“It’s so late eighties,” Doyle whispered to us. “But I won’t tell Katya that.”
We found Katya in the middle of a crowd of her friends and congratulated her. I felt shy. Waiters passed around bottles of beer and plastic cups of wine. The room got hot and crowded and stuffy. Robbie said something to me but I couldn’t hear him over the noise, so he shouted whatever it was and I still couldn’t hear him.
“LET’S STEP OUTSIDE FOR SOME AIR,” he yelled.
I nodded and we threaded our way through the people. Just as we got to the door, who should come in but Ginger and Daddy-o. They looked out of place yet somehow perfect, Daddy-o in a bow tie and one of his old tweed suits, and Ginger draped in mink and crimson lipstick. It hadn’t occurred to me that they’d be at Katya’s opening, but it should have. Sometimes I forget that the medieval artifacts Daddy-o works with and pieces like Katya’s video are part of the same world.
“Well, well, look who’s here!” Daddy-o said in his jovial way. “I didn’t know you ran with the art crowd, sweet pea.”
“Who are you here with?” Ginger asked. “Claire?”
They smiled reflexively at the sight of me, their delightful daughter, but looked a bit baffled as they took in the young man standing beside me and realized he wasn’t Claire in any way, shape, or form.
“Darling, who’s your friend?” Ginger purred.
I summoned my manners. “Ginger, Daddy-o: This is Robbie. Robbie, these are my”—gulp—“parents.”
Robbie shook Daddy-o’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Robbie who, darling?” Ginger asked.
“Pepper,” Robbie said. “Robinson Pepper.”
Ginger accepted his offered hand at last. “Charming to meet you.”
“What do you think of the show?” Daddy-o asked. “Should we bother braving this mob or simply turn around and head for dinner?”
“It’s good,” I said.
“Definitely worth a look,” Robbie said. I was proud to see that he didn’t seem rattled by suddenly meeting my parents. He held his own with them, cool for cool.
“Would you two like to join us for dinner after we have a look round?” Daddy-o asked. “We’re only going down to the Prime Rib, but I still say they have the best steaks anywhere.”
Oh no. God no.
“We can’t,” I blurted.
“We’re invited to a friend’s for dinner,” Robbie said.
Ginger raised one of her overplucked brows. “Oh? A friend? And I don’t suppose that would be a Miss Claire Mothersbaugh, would it?”
“Who?” Robbie said.
“No, Ginger, it’s a friend of Robbie’s. Don’t worry, I won’t be home late.”
&nb
sp; “Who’s worried?” Daddy-o said. “You can’t stay out late in this town no matter how hard you try. Nothing stays open past two!” He pressed Ginger forward, into the crowded gallery. “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Oh no they wouldn’t. I waved them off and we stepped outside into the chilly night air, pungent with cigarette smoke and car exhaust.
“Well, that’s that,” I said. “We can’t stay. We have to get out of here.”
“But Carmen’s dinner doesn’t start for another hour.”
“We can kill some time, get a coffee or something.”
“Was it that bad? What did you tell them you were doing tonight?”
“They didn’t ask. I guess Ginger just assumed I was doing something with my friend Claire. Or maybe one of my sisters told her that, to cover for me.”
“Are you going to get in trouble now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They could bombard me with annoying questions. Or they might never mention this night again. It could go either way.”
“I thought they were nice,” Robbie said.
“They know how to talk to people,” I said. “They’re always ‘nice.’”
Robbie scuffed the sole of his shoe on the dirty sidewalk. “Well, let’s walk down to Carmen’s. By the time we get there we’ll only be a little bit early.”
We walked downtown. Robbie took my hand. I was nervous about what Ginger and Daddy-o would say when I got home, but I tried to push that out of my mind because I was also nervous about my ability to make it through a whole evening with Robbie’s friends without looking like an idiot.
“What are your parents like?” I asked. “I bet they don’t go around calling everybody ‘darling.’”
“That’s for sure,” Robbie said. “My mother’s a psychiatrist. She’s half Jamaican and half Jewish—she calls herself a Double J—and she’s very cutting and blunt. She wants everyone to be honest and face the truth all the time. It’s brutal. I really appreciate people like your parents, who take the trouble to pretend to be nice, even if they don’t mean it. You have no idea what a wonderful thing that is, Norrie. It’s so civilized.”
Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters Page 5