Seating Arrangements

by Maggie Shipstead

  “You tell the story then, dear.”

  But Maude had already lost interest. “Sterling is certainly popular with the ladies tonight,” she said sotto voce.

  Agatha and Sterling had begun playing a hand-slapping game. Sterling’s reflexes were surprisingly quick. He flipped his hands out from under Agatha’s and slapped the backs of hers before she could pull them away. “Rematch!” she said, and he did it again. “How are you so fast?” she cried. Livia was watching them from across the knot of chairs, her face without expression but her eyes dark and active, and Celeste, who sat beside her, was watching them all. Winn didn’t know if he was more distressed by the idea of Sterling sleeping with Agatha or Livia. Probably he should be most bothered by finding himself swimming in the same pool of potential partners as his daughters, but all he could summon was a fatalistic apathy.

  “Girls have always liked Sterling,” Dicky said.

  “Go figure,” said Winn. Maude laughed one uncertain trill.

  Just then Greyson stood up, clinking two beer bottles together. “Everyone,” he said. “Everyone.”

  “He’s a prince. He’s a catch,” said Maude, leaning close to Winn’s ear as though telling a secret. He did not know who she meant. She winked and nodded.

  GREYSON SANG a song, not a short one, that Livia had not heard before. It was old-fashioned and brassy and provided an abundance of opportunities for the singer to drop to one knee and mime with pumping hands the tromboning palpitations of a heart in love. He sang well enough, in a reedy tenor Livia remembered from Christmas caroling. Charlie and Francis, former Tigertones both, sang backup and provided goofy slide-whistle sound effects. Daphne beamed. Agatha, drawn to the spotlight, danced her way to a post just behind Daphne, where she shadowed her friend’s delight—clapping her hands in time with the song and shimmying from side to side. She winked at Sterling, who tipped his glass at her, and Livia felt squashed and defeated. Never before would she have argued that Daphne was more beautiful than Agatha, but the sight of joyful, radiant Daphne beside vaudevillian, showboating Agatha convinced her.

  Dominique sat off to one side, a little apart, a drink in one hand, watching the action with a pained expression badly hidden under an indulgent smile. She wore white canvas sailor pants and a blouse in stiff black cotton with an asymmetrical neckline, and her legs and arms were both crossed, one foot in a silver ballet flat bouncing just off the beat of Greyson’s song. A thick silver bangle was pushed high up on her forearm, but otherwise she wore no jewelry. For most of her life, Livia had wanted to be Dominique, and the desire returned with new strength: to be aloof, impassive, queenly with close-cropped hair, classic in a way that had nothing to do with pastels or goofy little whales but was about elegance and coolness. Did they all seem ridiculous to her? Livia longed to be more mysterious, more self-possessed, more neutral in her color palette, the kind of woman whose thoughts were the object of speculation. Dominique rubbed her biceps and then turned to retrieve a folded square of fabric that she shook out, revealing a bright yellow and orange batik, embroidered with flowers, loops, and abstract squiggles and studded with tiny mirrors that flashed in the lantern light. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she was transformed from chic, minimalist European into something more vibrant and arresting, a dark head emerging from folds of saffron and canary, a sun priestess.

  Growing up, Livia had always assumed that Dominique would one day be fully integrated into their circle, married to a boy like the ones Daphne had been friends with at Deerfield, settled somewhere around New York, still cool, still exotic but also neutralized, fully adapted, a happy convert. Her differentness had seemed all the more precious because Livia had not believed it would last. But instead Dominique had gone to Michigan when she could have gone to Brown, to culinary school when she had been accepted at Wharton, to Belgium when an equally good job was on offer in Boston. She abandoned the clothes, the music, the mannerisms, and most of the friendships of her prep school self, and yet through all that shedding she seemed to become more calm and assured than ever.

  Transformation captivated Livia, but she was squeamish at the thought of changing her own life. To change would be to admit that she had been going about things all wrong. Her people noticed change, discussed it, speculated about its superficiality, its vanity. The only kind of change they understood was the flickering skin of the octopus, blending in with its surroundings, or the real estate flipping of the hermit crab, always shopping for a slightly roomier prison. Dominique would probably advise her to leave, to go somewhere else and start fresh and then come back when she had become who she wanted to be. But Livia couldn’t see the way. It was too late for her, already too late.

  After the applause died down and Greyson finished kissing Daphne, there could be heard, from somewhere on the island, the sound of a bagpipe.

  “What is that tune?” Oatsie said.

  Winn said, “Is it ‘Amazing Grace’?”

  “Dad thinks every song is ‘Amazing Grace,’ ” Livia said. “It’s like he’s color-blind but for music.”

  “Tone-deaf?” posited Francis.

  “No,” Livia said, “it’s that he only knows the name of one song.”

  “Maybe it is ‘Amazing Grace,’ ” said Piper.

  “No,” said Dicky Jr. “It’s from that movie about the Titanic.”

  “Titanic?” said Dominique from her corner, tickled. “Dicky Duff Jr., I would not have expected you to come up with that.”

  Dicky Jr. shrugged. “It’s what it is.”

  “Everybody,” said Greyson, “my brother is a twelve-year-old girl.”

  “In 1997,” put in Francis.

  Daphne sighed and stretched. “I have to go lie down,” she said, rubbing her belly. “I might be back but probably not.”

  Escorted by Greyson, she went inside. “Don’t neglect your cocoa butter!” Oatsie bellowed after her.

  Winn stood. “Drink orders?”

  There was a chorus of requests, and when they died down, Oatsie said, “What about you, Livia? Do you have any beaux?”

  Livia was aware that only the wobbly partition of Celeste separated her from Sterling. She struggled for a few seconds with how to answer, not wanting to seem either unavailable or too available and also wondering what information had already reached him through the pneumatic tubes of gossip, but before she could formulate anything, Celeste piped up with, “Livia’s pining over the one who got away.”

  Livia rounded on her and gave an incredulous flick of her head. Celeste seemed to think that because she’d been through so much romantic tumult herself, seen so much, she had the right to impose a policy of total openness on everyone around her, certain they understood their troubles didn’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things.

  “Oh?” said Oatsie. “How did he get away?”

  Celeste tapped the side of her nose with one finger. “In the worst way. Without permission.”

  “We don’t need to talk about it,” Livia said.

  Oatsie’s glasses caught the lantern light. “Don’t worry, dear. There are other fish in the sea.”

  “Are there?” Livia said, heating up. “I thought there was just the one.”

  “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” Celeste said. “Maybe it’ll be a second marriage for both of you.”

  “Second marriage for who?” Piper said, appearing with a glass for herself and one for Dominique.

  “No one,” Livia said.

  Sterling spoke. “Daphne and Greyson,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Celeste has uncovered the dirt. They were both married before. Go on, Celeste. You were about to tell us about Daphne being a showgirl.”

  “At the Golden Nugget,” Celeste said without hesitation. “She married a craps dealer. It only lasted a month.”

  “My parents were both married before,” Piper said brightly, pleased to be sharing good news. “My mom’s first husband died, and my dad’s first wife ran off with her ophthalmologist. Things always tu
rn out well in the end.”

  “That’s true,” Livia said. “They always do. One hundred percent of the time. How many times have you been married, Celeste?”

  “Oh, about a million,” Celeste said around the cigarette Sterling was lighting for her.

  “My husband and I were philanthropists,” Oatsie said. “But since he’s passed, I’ve lost the knack.”

  She regarded her grandson with such fixed interest that Sterling said, “What?”

  “I don’t know whether you should ever marry, Sterling, dear. I think maybe not. You are not the type.”

  “Why is that?”

  They stared at each other with their indolent, unblinking gazes, each perfectly comfortable under the scrutiny of the other. “You’re a clever boy,” Oatsie said. “But you’re not very nice.”

  Sterling absorbed his grandmother’s pronouncement with equanimity, and in the quiet, an odd sound could be heard from somewhere nearby. “What is that?” asked Francis.

  “What?” said Piper.

  “Shh,” said Dominique. “I hear it, too.”

  The sound, a regular sort of huffing like the respiration of a train, grew louder until suddenly a dog, an immense black Labrador, burst like a cannonball from the darkness of the lawn, bounded onto the deck, and began rushing from chair to chair, panting and wagging solicitously as though in apology for his late arrival. His nails tapped a flamenco beat on the wood. Livia pushed his snout from her crotch, and he went directly to Sterling, who watched the intimate explorations of the inquiring nose without interest. The lanterns burnished the dog’s coat and caught the whites of his eyes. He was the size and shape of an oil drum. “Hey, get away from there,” Francis said when the dog went for the plate beside his feet.

  “Come here,” called Agatha. “Here, boy! Here!”

  “What is he looking for?” said Dominique as the dog bustled past, his black nose searching the air and then following an invisible trail along the deck and then revisiting the air.

  “He’s looking for the treasure of the Sierra Madre,” Oatsie announced in her loud, round, plummy voice.

  “He’s probably from the IRS,” said Sterling.

  Agatha patted her thighs. “Here! Here, doggie. Why doesn’t he like me? Come here!”

  Winn, who had been sitting back by the house with the other parents, lurched to his feet. “Whose dog is this?” he demanded. “Who brought this dog?”

  “No one did,” Livia yelled at him over the hubbub. “He just appeared.”

  “I thought we were getting a stripper,” Charlie said.

  “Here!” cried Agatha.

  “Keep him away from those lobster shells,” said Dicky Sr., not stirring from his chair.

  Greyson reemerged from the house, took in the scene, and with one lunge caught the dog by his collar. The animal sat down, jovial and inky black, pink tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth and tail tick-tocking from side to side. “Everyone,” he said, “I’d like you to meet”—he looked at the collar—“Morty.”

  “Morty?” shrieked Piper. “That is not his name.”

  “Where did he come from?” Winn kept asking. “Why is he here?”

  Grinning, the dog looked rapidly from side to side, craning around at all the faces. A thick string of drool unfurled from the edge of his lip and draped itself over Greyson’s hand.

  “Shit!” said Greyson, releasing the collar. “He slimed me!”

  The dog, free again, was in more of a hurry than ever and ran slip-sliding around in a circle, dodging everyone who reached for him. The party was on its feet, darting around calling the dog, wanting to pet the dog, trying to grab the dog. Finally Morty saw his chance and leapt from the deck, vanishing down the dark slope of lawn, and Agatha, focused entirely on her pursuit and not on her feet, went headlong after him, belly flopping into the night. A stunned silence hung over the party for as long as it took to draw breath, and then they were all in hysterics, rocking and tipping in their chairs, wheezing and gasping. Livia, doubled over in spasmodic laughter, looked out through her tears and noticed the peak of the party as it passed.

  Her father was kneeling on the edge of the deck. “Agatha?” he said. “Are you all right?” Her face with its tousled yellow mane appeared and then a hand as she dragged herself up, keening with laughter. He reached out for her and hoisted, struggling to get her on her feet. She teetered from side to side, disheveled, a barefoot urchin, trying to wipe her eyes and brush the grass and dirt from the front of her dress. For a moment she clutched the front of his shirt.

  “Ooh,” she said, catching sight of a ribbon of raw skin running down her forearm. “Oopsidoodle.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He took hold of her wrist and held her arm up to the light.

  “Why wouldn’t he come to me?” she asked. “He went to everyone else.”

  Livia did not like the way her father was patting Agatha on the shoulder—clumsily, sort of like she was a horse, but with a fixed, embarrassing attention. She looked at her mother, who was sitting with the Duffs and studying her own hands in her lap with raised eyebrows. Maude said something to her, and she turned, smiling, her brightness switched on again.

  Celeste was still undone by giggles. “Because,” she said to Agatha, barely getting the words out, “he’s neutered. He’s not interested.”

  “He’s a dog,” Agatha said testily.

  Celeste waved a hand in apology but couldn’t stop laughing.

  From her chair, Dominique said, “Morty didn’t like you. That’s all.”

  “It’s true,” Agatha said, looking hurt and slurring faintly. “He didn’t like me. Oh, God, why didn’t Morty like me?”

  “He liked you,” Winn said, leading her to a chair. “Of course he did.”

  “Dogs don’t have to like everyone,” Oatsie said.

  Livia stepped off the deck and lay flat on her back in the grass. An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior—people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black ovals of night sky embedded in the rattling walls. How strange that something so drab, so confined, so stifling with sour exhalations and the fumes of indifferent machinery might be mistaken for a star.

  • • •

  “DO YOU THINK your mother is happy in there?” Winn said, returning to the corner of the deck where Biddy and the Duffs were sitting. He had gone inside to get a beer and the first aid kit, but somehow the kit had passed from his hands into Sterling’s, who was now sitting beside Agatha, daubing her scrape with a cotton ball while she bared her teeth at the sting.

  “Oh, did she go inside?” Maude said.

  “She’s there.” Winn tilted his head at the window through which Mopsy could be seen sitting in the dark living room, a narrow shadow dwarfed by a wing chair. She reminded him of how, at his wedding, he had searched the windows of the Hazzards’ house for his mother’s face. “I asked her if she wanted some light, but she said no.”

  “Thank you so much for checking on her, Winn, but I’m sure she’s fine. She might be a little tired. She gets tired. She’s probably resting. This is a wonderful party. You are so sweet to go to the trouble.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Biddy. “Really.”

  “Well now, Dicky,” Winn said. “Have you gotten out on the golf course much lately?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Dicky Sr. said, mournfully shaking his head. “Things have been awfully busy.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Maude. “He was out on Wednesday with Marshall Hattishaw.”

  “Thank you, dear. Next time I’ll let you answer the question.”

  “Marshall Hattishaw?” Winn said, fumbling with a bottle opener. “Do I know him? Where did he prep?”

  “Andover. Do you know him?”

  Winn nodded, summoning an indistinct image of a blond man holding a squash racquet. Finally he managed to pry the cap off the bottle, but the toothy disc slippe
d through his fingers and rolled away somewhere under the chairs.

  “He’s a doll,” said Maude.

  “I don’t know him,” Biddy said. “Where do you know him from, Winn?”

  “Here and there. We move in the same circles.”

  “What about you?” Dicky asked. “How’s the working life?”

  “Ah,” Winn said. “Fine. I’m not golfing as much as I’d like, though. I played a few rounds last month. Actually, I’m hoping that soon I’ll be able to take you out on the Pequod course. We’ve been on the waitlist for a while. I can’t imagine it’ll be much longer.”

  “No,” Dicky said. “I’m sure not.” But a glance had passed between him and Maude.

  Winn peered at them. “Jack Fenn’s on the membership committee. Do you know him?”

  “I do, very well,” said Dicky. “We go way back. He’s a solid guy, Jack. A class act.”

  “Yes.” Winn nodded. “Yes. We were at college together. Unfortunately, there’s some bad blood between Livia and his son.”

  Another communication passed between Dicky and Maude, but this one was not so much seen as felt, just a subtle shift in their postures. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dicky said.

  “The mistakes of youth,” Winn said, raising his bottle. “May they not be visited on the old.”

  Biddy patted Winn’s thigh. She turned to Maude. “Tell me—Daphne was saying something about Francis spending time in a monastery?”

  “Yes, my goodness, can you believe it? My little Buddha. Francis is very spiritual. I keep telling him he’ll have to give a little family lecture on, you know, serenity and, what is it he says, acceptance, and, let me see, the middle way. Francis says—”

  “I only hope,” Winn said, “that Fenn can look beyond our differences when it comes to the Pequod.” His hand had escaped Biddy’s, and his index finger was pointing at Dicky. He let it drop into his lap.

  “Winn,” said Biddy. “Leave it for now.”

  “I can’t imagine Jack would hold something like that against you,” Dicky said. “That’s not Jack’s way. He’s a stand-up guy, Jack.”

  “If there’s a problem, it couldn’t be Jack. No. No, no,” Maude said.