Seating Arrangements

by Maggie Shipstead

  And now she was an old woman, about to become a great-grandmother, sitting at a party on a summer evening and thinking about death. Greyson swatted the birdie over Dicky Jr.’s head into the grass and turned to make sure Daphne had seen. Love was just one more thing that would make it difficult to die. When had she become so morbid, so resigned? She didn’t know. The sun’s daily arc might have tricked her into believing she was following an infinite circle, but she knew she was marching a straight line. What a party guest she was. What terrible vodka the Van Meters had. She closed her eyes and pressed her palm against her lips.

  Seven · The Serpent in the Laundry

  The lobsters had turned the clownish red of death. Winn pulled them out of the pot with tongs, cursing under his breath at the heat and at Livia. Oil smoked in a skillet, and he tossed in Dicky’s tuna and thought again of Agatha sitting on the arm of Mr. Buckley’s chair. Why did these girls think they could go around sitting on the arms of men’s chairs? Livia acted as though he were the one provoking her, yet his behavior had been unimpeachable. All he asked of her was basic civility and an ounce of propriety, but she was like one of her sea creatures, goaded by the slightest disturbance into puffing up and flashing warning colors.

  The two terrible phone calls had come not long before Christmas, the first on a night when Winn and Biddy had been to a party and were sitting at the kitchen table, half drunk and flipping through catalogs. Winn’s red bow tie was undone around his open collar, and Biddy, who usually did not drink much at all, was flushed and pretty from mulled wine, a sprig of mistletoe tucked behind her ear. When the phone rang, she answered. She smiled, and then her face changed.

  He looked up from a page of dog cushions in different colors and plaids, monogrammed with dog names. “What?”

  “She’s pregnant,” Biddy said.

  “Who’s pregnant?”

  “Livia.”

  “Livia?”

  He had wanted to seize the phone, had in fact attempted to seize the phone; he felt an insane and overwhelming conviction that he had the means to nip the whole situation in the bud. All he needed to do was talk some sense into his daughter, to tell her that this was unacceptable, would not be stood for, was not the way this family worked. She absolutely could not, and would not, be pregnant if he had anything to say about it. But she was not standing on a ledge somewhere debating whether or not to get knocked up. The thing was done, the die was cast. Biddy fended him off, first with shooing motions, then by catching him by the belt when he made a break to pick up a phone in another room. She pressed the receiver against her shoulder. “No, Winn,” she said. “Not yet. You’re on the bench.”

  He supposed she had been right to send him, scowling, back to the kitchen table, where he could only watch the conversation, spy on it really, gleaning from Biddy’s side that Livia had simply, whimsically decided to do without any kind of protection and had no illusions of keeping it. He felt a need to be busy, and he opened all the doors in an advent calendar that Biddy’s sister Tabitha had sent, popping the chocolates and their crumbs onto the table and then fetching the trash can from under the sink and sweeping the whole pile into it. There were long periods when Biddy said nothing, only made soothing noises that told him Livia was crying on the other end. What had she expected, he wondered. What on earth had she been thinking? He smacked the kitchen table with his palm and gritted his teeth.

  In a few days, he calmed down. He had, at first, taken for granted that Livia’s situation would be obvious to the world. He had imagined her waddling home for Christmas break in maternity clothes, needing to be hidden away, the season’s celebrations ruined by public shame, but gradually the realization came to him that Livia was only barely pregnant, the keeper of a tiny, rudimentary embryo and nothing more. He felt generous enough to send her an e-mail expressing his support. “Dear Livia,” he wrote. “I was sorry to hear about this unfortunate turn. Everyone makes mistakes, and we will handle this discreetly. I hope you are not too distracted from your studies. Hang in there, kiddo. Dad.”

  And Teddy Fenn of all people. Winn liked the boy well enough (they were, after all, fellow Ophidians), and Livia was enraptured by him, but the relationship had obviously never been anything permanent. They were young; Livia was too emotional, Teddy less than committed. In truth, Winn had counted on the relationship ending, and the sooner the better because the thought of being tied to Jack and Fee Fenn with anything stronger than the gossamer threads of puppy love was repugnant. He hoped against all odds that Teddy had not told his parents about Livia’s condition, that Jack Fenn was not sitting in his own kitchen, in his own Christmas dishabille, pondering the possibility of their shared grandchild. Preferring not to dwell on the idea, Winn shut it away and prepared to wait the whole thing out. Then Livia phoned to tell them Teddy had broken up with her.

  He had been at work in his study, worrying over some financial documents, and while Livia talked, his eyes strayed to the pages.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, pal,” he said. “But everything will work out in the end. You’ll see.”

  “No, it won’t.” A snot-filled snuffle traveled down the line and into his ear, nearly making him gag. “I lost my virginity to him, and this is what he does?”

  Winn covered the receiver with one hand. “Biddy!” he called. “Phone!”

  Biddy picked up in another room, and Winn listened to Livia tell the story again. Teddy had come to her and said he had been considering leaving the relationship for some time, and the pregnancy, for him, was too much to bear.

  “He said it had gotten too hard,” Livia said. “Cry me a river, you know? Like this isn’t hard for me? And then he said he couldn’t be part of this, of what I was going to do. Oh, and the best part is that suddenly he’s Catholic. And I was like, well, you never go to Mass. And he was like, well, you don’t have to go to Mass to be Catholic. And I said maybe not, but it would be good corroborating evidence that you’re abandoning me because of religion and not because you’re a chickenshit dickhead.”

  “I seem to remember that Jack was Catholic,” Winn said.

  “Well, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Hmm,” Winn said, digesting. “Has he told his parents?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it. None of his friends know, of course.” Livia was gaining steam. “Because heaven forbid he should look like an asshole.”

  “Or maybe he thinks the situation is private,” Biddy put in, “and doesn’t want to make you vulnerable to gossip.”

  “His friends actually threw him a party,” Livia went on. “They called it the Emancipation Celebration. And they invited all these girls, slutty girls, like stocking a fishpond, who knew their fucking job was to fucking fuck my boyfriend. Congratulations, you’re easy! You’re really special! I know lots of people who went. People I thought I was friends with. Isn’t that so fucking obnoxious?”

  “No need to swear,” Winn said. He twiddled his pen. He knew about these parties. You made sure there was enough booze, and you invited a few girls who would be sure bets for the newly single brother. Harmless, really. Just a show of support.

  “It is obnoxious,” Biddy said. She was in the room above Winn’s study, and he heard her chair shift. “But, Livia, the bottom line is that you don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t love you.”

  “He loves me,” Livia said. “I know he does.”

  “If they’re throwing him a party then he must be in pretty rough shape,” Winn offered. “They probably wanted to cheer him up.”

  “Daddy, they were supposed to be my friends, too.” Her voice broke. “But it turns out I’m just something to be free of.”

  “Try not to take everything so personally.”

  “Winn, how is she supposed to not take that party personally?”

  “How would you feel,” Livia said, “if Mom left you, and then all her friends threw a party at the house and tried to get her laid?”

  “Mr. Buckley could be the deejay,�
�� Biddy said.

  Livia hiccupped, almost a laugh.

  “You have to understand,” Winn said, “that the fellows in his club have to be loyal to him first, and they’re doing what they can to help him through a hard time.”

  “Winn,” said Biddy.

  “This is just what they do, Livia. The party doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s a tradition. If your friends had thrown you a party like that would you have turned it down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “The point is,” Livia said, “couldn’t they have done something nice for Teddy without rubbing it in my face that they think all I’ve done for the past two years is prevent Teddy from enjoying his God-given quota of pussy?”

  “Livia,” said Biddy. “Find a different word.”

  Winn struggled to control his voice. “I’m sure,” he said, “they just meant to give him a good time, take his mind off things for a night, show him there are other fish in the sea.”

  “Winn,” Biddy cautioned.

  “Daddy. Other fish in the sea? Could you please be on my side? I’m your daughter. Your jilted, pregnant daughter.”

  The stairs creaked, and Biddy appeared in the doorway, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder. Eyes wide, she sliced horizontally at the air with one hand and mouthed, No. He waved her away. “Livia, all I’m saying is that the less importance you place on this party and the less attention you pay to what Teddy’s doing, the better you look. Pretend you’re not bothered. Go on with your life. People will respect that.”

  The phone was quiet. “Livia?” said Biddy.

  “There’s something else.”

  Winn straightened the papers on his desk. “What?”

  “The Emancipation Celebration was on Thursday, and then on Saturday there was a normal sort of party at the club. I went to it. I was pretty drunk.”

  “Yes?” said Winn.

  “I’m only telling you this because people were there whose parents you know. You’d find out eventually.” She sniffed. Winn wanted to tell her to blow her nose. “But I kind of lost it and told everyone I was pregnant.”

  “What do you mean you told them?” Biddy said.

  “I might have sort of shouted it.”

  “Oh, Livia,” said Biddy, “you didn’t.”

  “Obviously I did, Mom. It’s not just a fun lie I made up.”

  “Don’t snap at Mommy,” Winn said. “How many people could have heard you? Not too many?”

  Livia’s voice was small. “A lot. Pretty much everyone who was there. And they all told other people.”

  “What other people?” Winn said.

  “Like the whole Ophidian, their girlfriends, their friends. The entire world.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Winn exploded. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I went crazy.”

  “No, Livia, tell me what you were thinking.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t. I’m sorry.” The last word was swallowed by a sob.

  “This kind of behavior is unacceptable. I have been very understanding about this whole situation because I thought we agreed this would remain private. We need to get these outbursts under control. You were way out of line. Out of line. It’s bad enough that you go around acting like a floozy, but then you throw your dignity right out the window and the whole family’s with it. It’s not becoming. It’s not adult. People won’t respect you.” He stopped, his well of censure unexpectedly run dry.

  “Please, Daddy. It’s done. I’m sorry. Please don’t torture me. However embarrassed you might be, I promise I feel a million times worse.”

  “Everything’s always worse for you, isn’t it? As though that’s an excuse. You can’t keep your knees together, and now we see you can’t keep your mouth shut either. You need to think about other people for once. The Ophidian is something I respect, and you chose that place, of all places, to drag this family through the mud. I can forgive many things, Livia, but I’m not sure this is one of them.” He could hear her ragged breathing. “Hello?” he said. “Livia?”

  “The Ophidian?” she said. There was a high tremor to her voice. “You think the worst part of this is that it happened at the Ophidian?”

  “The Ophidian is very important to me.” He wanted to shout at her that he had wanted a son who would be a member of the Ophidian, not a daughter who got knocked up by one.

  “You can take your stupid club and shove it up your ass, Daddy. You know another thing people respect? An ounce of fucking loyalty from their own fathers.” The line clicked.

  “Hello? Livia? Don’t you hang up!”

  “She hung up,” said Biddy.

  Winn took off his glasses and rubbed his face. Then he put his glasses back on, picked up his pen, and turned crisply back to his papers. Biddy stepped closer. “Winn?” she said.

  Winn held a sheet up to the light and frowned at it. “What?”

  “I think you could have handled that differently.”

  “She told me to shove the Ophidian up my ass. Is that the way civilized people speak to their fathers? No. I will not indulge her with a response. She’s too worked up. She’s hormonal. I can’t get through to her when she’s like that.”

  “You graduated almost forty years ago. Do you really have to put the Ophidian above your child?”

  “I did no such thing.”

  She came around the corner of his desk to face him, tapping at the wood to get his attention. He wanted to slap her hand. “Really?” she asked.

  “No!” he said, nearly shouting. He took a deep breath. “Well look, dear. Look.” He set down his pen and folded his hands. “I was one of those boys once. I was only trying to provide her with some insight into what they were doing because I thought another perspective might be useful. You know, maybe they don’t all need to be summarily shot. One thing I don’t know, I am willing to admit, is what it’s like to be a pregnant twenty-year-old, you’re right. Especially one who goes into a crowded party full of our friends’ children and announces that she’s gotten herself”—he pushed his papers around—“in a bad way. So, if I wasn’t as diplomatic as I might have been, I apologize.”

  “Livia’s suffering,” Biddy said. “What she did was wrong, but she’s obviously miserable about it.”

  “She should be!” he erupted. “She deserves a little misery. I’m trying my damnedest to be reasonable here, Biddy, but she’s making it awfully difficult. What more do you want?”

  “It would be nice if we didn’t always just have to assume you love us.” Biddy’s voice rasped, but Winn was in no mood to console any women.

  “Have I or have I not been a good husband to you?” he said. “Have I provided for you? Given you freedom and support? I don’t treat you badly. I don’t complain about your family. I’ve given you free rein over this wedding. What more do you want from me, Biddy? Have I or have I not been a good husband?”

  Biddy stood up straight. “I think,” she said, “you’ve been the best husband you probably could be.”

  AS QUICKLY AS Winn could dish them up, the lobsters were carried off and devoured, hollowed out into empty red armor piled high in ceramic bowls. He wondered what Biddy had done with the sick lobster—he couldn’t imagine her killing it, nor did he think she would have left it somewhere to die.

  All the Adirondacks were full, so he carried a straight-backed chair out from the dining room and sat in it with a gin and tonic—the fourth and strongest of a quick succession—sweating a dark circle onto his knee. He had poured the first after Livia had flounced out of the kitchen and the second and third not long after that, as he ate his own lobster alone in the dining room, preferring to sit at a proper table and not to sprawl on the deck or lawn. In his left ear, Dicky was telling a long story about, he thought, Oliver Wendell Holmes. In his right ear, Maude laughed arpeggios at something Biddy was saying. He was tipsy. Quite tipsy. Around him, the party was gaining a pointless momentum, becoming
a parade to nowhere. Night had fallen, and Biddy had gone around setting out hurricane lanterns and lighting them with a kitchen lighter. Their orange glow, extending from the murky edge of the dark lawn into the thick of the crowd, was warmer and more enticing than the wan grids of pale incandescence that fell from the doors and windowpanes, turning people to shadows as they passed near the house. Agatha was standing and leaning over Sterling, giggling and pouring him a drink in a pose that cried out for go-go boots and a stewardess outfit in loud, groovy colors. Sterling’s eyes meandered from her face to her neck to her waist and back again.

  “And we got hold of a bunch of lobster shells,” Dicky Sr. was saying, having moved on from Justice Holmes. “Bags of them, already starting to smell—I mean they were decidedly ripe—and we put them in the heating ducts of their building. This guy Jeffrey Whitehorse broke in; he could pick locks. He said he had an uncle who was a jewel thief. Strange guy, Jeffrey. While he was at it, he stole this club coat of arms they’d cooked up and had gotten carved somewhere, and we mailed it as a gift to the prime minister of Iceland. The next day you could smell their building from three blocks away. Terrible, terrible smell. Nothing quite like rotting shellfish for a stink.”

  Winn was watching Daphne, flushed and bleary eyed from laughing, leaning against Greyson with a bottle of nonalcoholic beer balanced on her belly, but Dicky’s story, issuing with clipped precision from his thin, Rooseveltian lips, disoriented him, keelhauled him through a chaotic wash of memory, and when he came up on the other side, he had to check to see that it was indeed Dicky speaking, Dicky’s aquiline profile in the shadows and not the dark silhouette of his own father.

  “No,” said Maude, pulling Winn back into the present, “you don’t mean Iceland. You mean Ireland. And his name was Whitehouse, not Whitehorse. Whitehorse makes him sound like an Indian.”