by Susan Isaacs
She tried, not terribly hard, to break his hold. “Is this how you bully your brothers and sisters?” she demanded.
“Yes. Take it back.”
“What’s in it for me?” she asked.
“Me.”
“Oh. Okay, I take it back.”
Nicholas released her wrists and she put her arms around his neck. “Just wait,” he said.
“For what?” She smiled knowingly.
“For your family to meet me.”
She dropped her arms. “You had to remind me, didn’t you?”
“Well, we have another two days here.”
“Nick, please, there’s no point in going.”
“We have to go. We’ll be working all summer, and you said they probably won’t come to the wedding.”
“Rhodes will.”
“But you said they’ll find some excuse not to come.”
“Isn’t that enough for you? Doesn’t that indicate something about them?”
“Yes, but that still doesn’t mean I don’t have to meet your parents.”
“Father and stepmother.”
“Richard and Dorothy. Whoever. It’s the right thing to do.”
“We have a crummy, tiny house. You’ll hate it. You’ll feel suffocated. Rhodes never brought any of his friends home. I’ll bet she still hasn’t fixed the rip in the window shade in the bathroom, and I haven’t been home in more than three years. And she buys the cheapest paper napkins and terrible toilet paper.”
“Wait until you see the kind of place we’ll be able to afford. Last night—when I went downstairs to see if the raccoons were at the trash cans—I ran into my father. Are you ready for his first and only words of the entire day to me? ‘Not one thin dime, Mr. Barrymore.’”
“Was your mother with him?”
“No. She was asleep by then. Not that she would have stopped him.” As he often did when preoccupied, Nicholas rubbed the flat of his hand up and down his thigh. “How does she seem to you?” he asked.
“She seems—not so bad.”
“The truth.”
“Well, I don’t know. If I didn’t know she’d been in and out of psychiatric hospitals, I wouldn’t guess it. But there’s something wrong. I don’t know how to say it.”
“Say it.”
“She seems like she’s reading for the role of a well-bred lady. Her carriage is just right, her accent’s perfect, but it’s as if she’d just been handed the script a few minutes before. There’s no conviction.”
“You should have known her. She was always dashing around, but she had such spirit. Even if I only saw her for five minutes, it was—you’ve heard this all before. Ad nauseam.”
“No, Nick.”
“Forget it. The point is, we’re going to be totally broke.”
“Now, come on. That’s nothing new. We’re going to live in a slum, period. But it will be a slum in New York.”
“But guess what comes before New York?”
“Nick, listen to me.”
“Let me under the covers. I want to be close to you.”
“No. Please listen.”
“You really think you can hold out until we’re married?”
“Yes. It’s only three months and most of the time we’ll be working two hundred miles apart.”
“I can’t believe I was so dumb it took me until May to realize how I felt about you. Two months earlier, and we could have had jobs with the same summer stock company.”
“And now you want to waste our last few days together.”
“Come on, Jane, don’t get yourself all worked up over Cincinnati. You’re not a kid any more, dependent on them. You’re Phi Beta Kappa hot stuff.”
“I’m not hot stuff. And you’ll see, it’ll be so awful for you. You’ll get one look at them and you’ll say, ‘Uh-oh, big mistake. Bad genes, bad environment, bad breeding—’”
“Just stop it.”
“‘Altogether bad news.’ Better have your gas tank filled so you can put Ohio behind you before sunset. You think I’m kidding, don’t you?”
“Jane, we’re not moving in with them, are we? We’re spending between forty-eight and seventy-two hours with them, and that will probably be it until whenever—probably at little Bubblehead’s christening five years from now. Don’t worry, I can take what they can dish out.”
“You’ll see, you’ll wind up running or you’ll feel so sorry for me you’ll go through with it even though you don’t want to.” She’d tried to keep up the irony, but midway through her sentence she felt her voice break and expose her fear.
He took her hands between his and pressed them against his chest. The depth of his gentleness always took her by surprise. “Jane, I’ll be there to take care of you.”
“A little something to eat?” It was so terrible Nicholas wanted to laugh. Dorothy was offering him a slice of cucumber on a small square of white bread. Five minutes before, Dorothy had announced, “It’s tea time!” and Jane had looked as if she wanted to die of embarrassment; she sat on the far side of the couch staring into her cup as though she wished she could drown herself in it. Dorothy had put paper doilies over every flat surface, including the saucers. On the table before them was the sugar, wedges of lemon, and a dinner plate with what had obviously been a frozen chocolate layer cake cut into finger-sized pieces.
“Thank you,” Nicholas said. Not even his grandmother had ever offered him a formal tea, although he supposed she might have had them years before. The girls he’d gone out with at prep schools and some of the women’s colleges had been taught to serve tea and he’d had to endure those a few times, but he’d never known anyone who did in her own house. Tea was for England or for the flu. He took one of the canapés. The cucumber, instead of a translucent wheel held by butter, was a thick circle squashed into the bread.
“You’re very welcome.” Dorothy smiled at him.
He had been surprised by Dorothy’s plainness. He supposed he’d expected a witch or someone with a bright red mouth and long fingernails like the stepmother in Snow White, but she was ordinary. Her hair had the tight hardness of pin curls and hairspray. Her dress was navy or black with a white collar and looked more maid’s uniform than stylish. Her arms and legs were heavy. She had the ugliest ankles he’d ever seen. But still, her meanness wasn’t evident; she looked ordinary, like a member of the audience of a TV quiz show.
“Jane?” Jane shook her head. When they’d arrived the night before, Nicholas had observed Richard and Dorothy closely. Jane’s father had acted in a removed manner. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether or not to kiss her hello and ultimately was saved when Jane saw Rhodes and rushed to fling her arms around him. Richard alternated awkward attempts at conversation with exaggerated concern: was her room cool enough? would she like to read his Time? Mostly, though, he was silent. What Nicholas could not gauge was whether Richard loved, or even liked, his daughter. For the entire evening not a single discernible emotion passed across Richard’s bland face. But Nicholas had no difficulty gauging what Richard was: a man of little consequence.
Dorothy sidestepped with the plate from Jane to her son. It was only after more than an hour the night before that Nicholas realized that she did, indeed, detest her stepdaughter. He’d tried to deny it, saying to himself that Jane’s feelings had prejudiced him, but the more he watched Dorothy, the more certain he became of her hate. She seemed unable to look at Jane directly, yet when she did speak to her, her eyes narrowed and she pulled her arms close to her body, as if tensing for an attack by an evil and sly enemy. Her words were cordial—“Don’t you trouble yourself, dear” when Jane rose to help clear the table—but after he listened for a while Nicholas could hear violence behind them. When Jane made an irreverent comment that made Rhodes laugh, Dorothy’s face tightened horribly. Nicholas didn’t know how he knew, but he knew Dorothy would like it if Jane were dead. It shocked him at first and then upset him so much it had taken him hours to fall asleep. He felt sick for Jane’s sake.
“Rhodes, you must have one. These are your favorites.” It was obviously news to Rhodes, but he took two of the canapés and thanked his mother. She did not smile so much as glow back at him. Nicholas could not blame her for that.
Rhodes was so handsome it embarrassed Nicholas to look at him. His appearance was so extraordinary that it seemed wrong for him to be sitting on a lumpy couch in a drab house in Cincinnati. But, Nicholas conceded, he really wouldn’t belong anywhere because his beauty would always diminish his surroundings; Rhodes would make Versailles seem shabby. Yet even though Nicholas didn’t like to stare, he was drawn to Rhodes. The boy was too handsome not to look at. There was not a single feature that was less than beautiful. Even his forehead was magnificent. For the first time the phrase “noble brow” had meaning. All his life people had told Nicholas how good-looking he was, and he knew his appearance was an asset, attracting girls, smoothing his social path. But Jane’s brother—they had the same deep blue eyes—was in a whole other league. Perhaps another world. It was obvious that Rhodes was used to people admiring him, even staring at him. Once or twice he’d caught Nicholas at it and simply smiled, as if to reassure him it was all right, that it was inevitable and certainly no breach of etiquette.
Rhodes sat between Nicholas and Jane. As he brought the canapé to his mouth, Nicholas saw Jane lowering her head—the tension she’d been under finally lifting—battling an urge to laugh. That instant, as Dorothy bent to put the plate on the table, Rhodes poked Jane with his elbow to stop her, but he too seemed ready to laugh. It was then Nicholas realized how important Rhodes had been for Jane; throughout her childhood, he’d been the antidote to the poison his mother exuded.
A moment later, when Dorothy left the room to get the milk for the tea he requested, Rhodes turned to his sister and said, “Creepette, don’t you have the brains not to crack up in front of her?”
“I can’t stand it,” Jane said. “It’s too terrible. Tea!”
“She’s just trying to impress Nick. You should be thankful. You need all the help you can get.” Rhodes turned to him. “Nick, aren’t you impressed? The lovely teapot with the chipped spout and the Kroger labels dangling from the teabags? Isn’t that how they do it in New York?”
“I’m very impressed,” Nicholas said.
“I can tell,” Rhodes said. Nicholas liked Rhodes. He liked him because even though he was not a relaxed, regular guy—Rhodes was too aware of the impact of his beauty for that—he was intelligent and amusing. But most of all Nicholas liked Rhodes because it was obvious Rhodes loved Jane, even though a good deal of their time was spent on mutual abuse. Rhodes turned to Jane. “Listen, Stretch, you can’t afford to be so picky. I mean, tea is tea; be thankful you got anything. We’re all numb, absolutely reeling from shock. You’ve snagged a winner—which is almost impossible to comprehend—and Mom’s trying to make a decent impression before he comes to his senses and runs.” Rhodes’s face shone with the pleasure of having his sister home. He seemed to relish his New York audience too, for after each dig at Jane he’d glance at Nicholas, looking for his smile of acceptance. It was clear he thought Nicholas sophisticated. Rhodes readjusted his spoon, placing it on his saucer at the exact angle Nicholas placed his. The day before, Nicholas had spotted Rhodes opening the buttons on the collar of his shirt, which Nicholas had simply forgotten to do up. Rhodes turned back to Jane. “You must have gotten him very drunk. Or did you get yourself preggy so he’d have to marry you? Hmmm? A little backstage dalliance with the pride of the Ivy League?”
“If you weren’t so emotionally crippled I’d be angry, but all I can really do is pity you.”
“Nick,” Rhodes said, leaning across Jane. “I don’t have to remind you you’re marrying beneath you, but—”
Dorothy returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of milk. She poured a little into Rhodes’s cup, put it beside the teapot, and sat in Richard’s chair across from the couch. She smoothed her dress over her lap and smiled at Nicholas. Suddenly her back went rigid, as if she had just remembered that the mark of a lady is good carriage. Nicholas knew he intimidated her and was glad. “Well,” she said, “isn’t this nice?” He nodded and took his first sip of tea. It was lukewarm. He set the cup down. “We’re so pleased you and Jane were able to stop by.” She paused and added momentously, “And isn’t it something that you have a cousin in Cincinnati, a cousin like Clarissa Gray.” Dorothy turned to Rhodes. “The Grays are often in the Enquirer society pages. Quite often. They’re one of Cincinnati’s finest families. And very close friends of the Harts.”
Clarissa Tuttle Robinson had been New York’s most touted debutante in 1939. In 1940, she had married one of the wealthiest, most dashing bachelors east of the Mississippi, Philip Gray. Clarissa’s family was substantial on both sides. Her father’s family owned a shipping company. Her mother was a Tuttle, Samuel’s sister. However, there was nothing about Clarissa to indicate she was Winifred Cobleigh’s first cousin. She had gone from a fresh-scrubbed beauty to being glamorous nearly to the point of hardness. Beneath prominent slashes of cheekbone were hollows so deep it seemed she had no back teeth. Her makeup was not the two tender pats of peachy rouge common to Cincinnati society matrons; it was vivid and heavy. Her dark eyes had been outlined with a thick black pencil or crayon and the line was extended almost a half inch, Cleopatra-fashion. Deep pink rouge stained her cheeks nearly up to her eyeliner. Her lips were outlined too, in a red that contrasted with the dark pink of her lipstick. Streaks of gold and silver shot through her short brown hair, making it look very expensive.
“You must fill me in on all the family gossip,” she said to Nicholas. Her voice, like Nicholas’s and his brother Edward’s, was slightly husky, but her pronunciation was a little stilted, as though she had a slight speech impediment or that English was not her first language, which was of course not the case. Her speech simply may have been a reflection of her frequent extended clothes-buying and vacation trips to Europe, where she spoke other languages, or her desire to disassociate herself from Ohio. Clarissa sat on a lawn chair covered in blue and white awning stripes on a terrace that overlooked a few of the twenty-five acres of the Gray property. Opposite her, behind Nicholas and Jane, the lawn rolled on and on until it stopped at a mass of oak, pine, and sugar maples; a rock garden nestled at one edge with the exquisite, studied randomness of the artificial.
“I guess you know about Aunt Polly and Uncle Jeremiah,” Nicholas said.
Clarissa nodded. “Yes. But that he’d leave her! And at his age!” She crossed her leg. Her foot, nearly bare in the jeweled thong, moved in little circles. She wore an ankle-length white silk skirt printed with ribbons of raspberry, green, and yellow. Her raspberry shirt, also silk, was opened one button’s worth too much for Cincinnati, exposing a great deal of deeply tanned skin. Around her neck was a thick choker that looked as though it were made of white Rice Krispies but was actually composed of twisted strands of small baroque pearls. Her earrings were the same sort of pearls resting in a cradle of diamonds. “I know he’s your uncle, Nicky, but he’s my cousin, and really, Jerry’s never even voted in his entire life and suddenly he’s off with Kennedy’s—what is she?”
“I think she’s a deputy assistant appointments secretary or assistant deputy. My mother and my grandmother haven’t said a word about it and it happened the week before finals, so I haven’t had a chance to hear the details from any of the cousins.”
“How is your mother?” She put her hand on Nicholas’s sleeve. She wore a knuckle-to-knuckle gold wedding band.
“Much better,” Nicholas said. “Really. She came to my graduation and we went from there to the farm in Connecticut, all of us. I knew the only way to get Jane used to the family was to throw her right in. She survived.” Nicholas turned to Jane, who was seated beside him on the low flagstone wall that surrounded the terrace, and smiled. She was wearing the same green cotton shirtwaist she’d worn under her commencement gown. She smiled back, still awed by Nicholas’s relationship
to the renowned Clarissa Gray—Rebecca Hart’s dearest friend—and she had said little beyond hello. Fortunately, it was not necessary, for Clarissa had such a gift for charming chatter she could have had a fulfilling social life entertaining mutes.
“Jane,” Clarissa said, “you’ll have to forgive me for monopolizing your fiancé, but I haven’t seen Nicky since—well, since he was a boy, actually. He was darling, of course, but he had a broken something—arm, I think. And here he is, handsomer than ever and engaged. In Cincinnati, no less, and to the daughter of one of John Hart’s”—she paused for a faction of a second—“key people.”
Richard Heissenhuber did not look like a key person. He and Dorothy stood on the other side of the flagstone terrace, holding drinks a maid had brought them, looking more like a couple applying for positions as cook and driver than guests.
At his mother’s insistence, Nicholas had called his cousin Clarissa, who demanded that all the Heissenhubers join them for dinner.
Richard had tried to demur, saying he didn’t want to put Mr. Gray in the uncomfortable position of having to entertain an ordinary working stiff, but Dorothy had seized on the opportunity and—out of Nicholas’s hearing—told Richard it would be wrong not to go, that an invitation from people like the Grays was like an invitation from the White House.
Now they both looked miserable. Dorothy, learning it was to be an informal evening, had worn a white dress with larger-than-life red and blue roses printed all over it and a new pair of navy patent leather shoes. The dress kept riding up in back despite continual surreptitious tugs on the skirt. The shoes were tight, and every few minutes she lifted her left heel, trying to relieve the pain where the shoe was slicing into her foot.
She sipped her ginger ale and Richard his screwdriver, and the two of them—now at the sort of house they had long ago given up hope of being asked to—chatted with the sweaty eagerness of people who know they do not belong. Richard was trying to appear comfortable and casual in his only sports jacket, a brown wool with elbow patches he hadn’t worn for years. It was itchy around the neck, and the minute he got to the Grays’ he realized the sleeves were too short. His shirt was short-sleeved, so his wrists and an inch of forearms dangled out of the jacket. He tried to keep his arms bent so no one would notice.