Bethlehem

by Karen Kelly

  * * *

  Societal mindfulness notwithstanding, Helen’s nonchalance was positively queenly as she opened her jewelry box and selected a fulgent bracelet of canary yellow diamonds set in platinum. “Could you latch this, please?” She held her wrist out to her husband.

  As Hollins fixed the clasp, their younger daughter appeared in the doorway. “Well, look who’s here—the flapper herself!” Hollins took in the finished product, giving his daughter a wink as he checked his watch and slid it into his vest pocket. “I do hope you’ll get cleaned up soon. We are due in the foyer in ten minutes.”

  Susannah shot him an indignant glare, then made a small spin, patting her hair. “What do you really think? Acceptable?” She was dressed and ready in the beaded silk gown, with white satin gloves rising past the elbow and a slender diamond band settled over her marcelled waves.

  “My dear, if you will please excuse my French, I must say you are wearing the hell out of that dress.”

  “Honestly, Hep! Couldn’t you think of a more couth way to give the compliment? For goodness sake, we aren’t on the docks.” Helen picked up her gloves, then turned to Susannah. “You look beautiful, darling—la belle de la balle, certainement. No need to make any excuses for my French.”

  The receiving line took form just as the guests started to arrive, with Kit dashing down at the last minute, shrugging into his tailcoat. The expansive double doors were thrown open and the family stood to the side in the center hall, greeting the guests as Alvin—the butler retained for events—ushered them in. India wore a smashing emerald satin number that draped low on her back and complemented her coloring perfectly. Because she was somewhat shorter than her younger sister, she had to rise onto her toes as she whispered to Susannah, “Where’s Chap? He should be here by now.”

  Susannah was well aware that India had dressed specifically for Chap. She felt a tug of sympathy for her sister’s obvious efforts. “You know Chap—always up to the brim of his hat in something to do with a ball or a bat.” Or a girl, she didn’t add, although it was no secret that Chap was as adept playing that field as he was on the ballfield.

  Sighing, India smiled forlornly at her sister. “Wyatt would have been here an hour ago, offering to carry up champagne or pitch in parking cars with Jimmy. I guess you got the good one.”

  The gravel on the drive crunched pleasantly as cars delivered guests to Brynmor’s august entrance. Susannah had always loved that sound—it was the sound of anticipation, of arrival. Most of the guests employed drivers, but for those who drove themselves, Jimmy acted as valet, standing erectly at the bottom of the broad stone steps, uniform pressed and buttons shining.

  Of the 150 invitations extended, there were 124 acceptances. Kit and India had each invited a few friends and old schoolmates, and Susannah had included any of her classmates who had already made their debuts. In their parents’ set, there were friends from Bethlehem, Allentown, and Easton, as well as some from as far away as Greenwich and Grosse Pointe. Even Vance Wright, Hollins’s archrival at U.S. Steel, made the trip with his wife, Agnes—a friend of Helen’s from finishing school. And, of course, there were the relatives: Helen’s family from Boston and both of Hollins’s sisters with their husbands, traveling from Chicago and Cincinnati, along with several cousins who were of age.

  During the reception, guests milled about in the grand hall, spilling through the tandem French doors to the courtyard, where flickering torches cast dancing light across the flagstones. In addition to serving champagne, waiters circulated with silver trays of oysters and caviar on tiny toast points, accompanied by monogrammed linen napkins.

  As the stream of haut monde was beginning to taper off, a tall, striking figure with dark hair slid past a group in the doorway and hurried toward the family. “Sorry—had to take care of a bunch of babies all day.” Chap kissed Helen lightly on the cheek and shook Hollins’s hand, holding his tie in the other. “The new recruits got to campus last night. Can someone please help me with this?” He held the tie out with a defeated look, and India stepped right up. Moving him into the shadow of the staircase, she proceeded to make the bow. Susannah couldn’t help noticing her sister’s hands shaking just a little. They stepped back into line just in time to greet Clement Clark, the president of Bethlehem Savings and Loan. A confirmed bachelor, he had arrived alone. After paying the requisite respects, he clapped Chap on the back and pulled him aside to enthuse about next spring’s prospects for the Lehigh baseball team. It was common knowledge that Mr. Clark was Chap’s biggest fan.

  When it appeared that all of the guests had arrived, Hollins took a position halfway up the stairs, Helen at his side. “If I may have your attention, please.” He waited a moment for the chatter to subside. “I’d like to welcome you all to Brynmor, and thank you for being part of this little celebration in honor of our youngest daughter’s eighteenth birthday.” With a bittersweet smile, he tipped his glass to Susannah. “It seems like just yesterday she was trying to convince me to let her run the elevator at Bethlehem Steel. She even showed up one day with her own white gloves, ready to take Dickie’s place in the cage.” He paused briefly. “She was five years old.” The crowd laughed and Susannah made a curving motion with her fist, working an invisible lever. Hollins gazed at his daughter for a long moment; there was a revealing sheen in his eyes. “As anyone who knows Susannah can attest, she has been—and will be—an astounding success at whatever she does. But, while she is certainly capable of getting a rise out of a room”—his brow lifted significantly—“something tells me she will never be an elevator operator.” There was more laughter, and Hollins raised his glass high. “So please join me in a toast to this beautiful creature as she crosses the threshold to adulthood. We may be losing a little girl, but we are gaining an exceptional young woman.”

  The guests held their glasses up in tribute. As strains of music drifted from above, Hollins enjoined them to move to the ballroom. “The band is starting without us. We will reconvene here for midnight supper.” He held his hand out toward Susannah, and proceeded to escort his wife and his daughter up the grand staircase.

  The crowd followed, with Kit and India ushering from the rear. Kit was in charge of Grandmother Avery, who had traveled from Boston with Helen’s brother and family. She grasped his arm tightly as she made her way up, one step at a time. Her gown—a high-necked creation with sleeves that ran past her wrists—was in distinct contrast to the modern dresses her granddaughters wore, and she had the old-order Victorian demeanor to match. “My dear boy—I’m relieved to see you haven’t succumbed to that dreadful new trend.” She gave a disdainful sniff up the stairway at a young man in a tuxedo. “A dinner coat at a formal affair! What’s next … a dressing gown and slippers?” Her British accent had not dimmed after thirty-seven years on American soil, and it imbued her every pronouncement with commanding authority.

  Kit grinned when he saw that Chap—sporting a jaunty white dinner jacket—was the object of his grandmother’s outrage. His friend was still monopolized by Clement Clark, who was clutching Chap’s arm in exactly the same manner as Grandmother Avery was grasping his own.

  The orchestra was in full swing as they reached the third landing. Hollins and Susannah were christening the floor with a father-daughter dance as the guests looked on, applauding as Hollins swept his daughter in broad circles. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the newest dance crazes, but Hollins Parrish was an ace waltzer.

  As the dance ended, Susannah happily accepted another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Hollins led his wife onto the dance floor, and Susannah looked around expectantly for her escort. She spotted him against the wall, still trapped in conversation with Mr. Clark. He was casting covertly around for help, and when she caught his eye, he gave a small, relieved wave. Extricating himself from the large hand on his shoulder, he crossed the floor to Susannah.

  “Hello, old Chap,” she said, in a perfect imitation of her grandmother’s Belgravia accent. “I thought perhap
s you’d taken a fancy to Lord Fiddleladdie over there. Quite cozy, you two seemed.”

  Placing his hand lightly on her waist, Chap looked down with a suspicious squint. “It sounds like someone has been into the champagne. Have you been misbehaving, little girl?”

  Susannah giggled and set her glass down as he led her onto the dance floor. “My behavior has been impeccable.” She stifled a hiccup, grasping his shoulder as he pulled her close. “I have been into the stars. Lovely, twinkling flutes of stars, which sparkle all the way down.”

  Chap gave a low laugh as he moved her across the floor in a fluid fox-trot. “I wonder if you father is aware you’re making such an excellent effort to empty his cellar.”

  “It’s my birthday—I’m entitled to swallow some brilliance.” Despite the free-flowing “brilliance,” Susannah was following Chap’s every step as naturally as breathing. “And don’t worry about the supply—Hep bought out every vineyard in France. Not to mention all the hard liquor he could get his hands on. Especially gin.”

  The wine cellars at Brynmor had been deep to begin with, but with the passing of the Volstead Act, Hollins had ordered as many cases of wine and champagne as he could flush out of France and Italy. He also claimed the whiskey and gin stock of almost every distributor in the region. Tonight he was serving Pol Roger by the case-full, as well as single-malt scotch whiskey for the men.

  “You’re familiar with Hep’s ginventory, aren’t you?” She gave Chap a knowing look. “It is truly a triumph.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” An oblique smile tugged at Chap’s lips as he fixed his gaze over her shoulder.

  “Right.” She drew the word out. “Certainly, Kit has no idea where the key is. The two of you have never … let’s say … borrowed a bottle or two.”

  Chap narrowed his gold-green eyes at her. “A shameless spy. Nothing has changed since you were eight years old.”

  “Shameless, I am.” She grinned as she plucked a flute from a passing tray. “Shamelessly thirsty.” Her eyes danced as she raised the stem. “Bottoms up!” She took a sip, but that was all; Chap took the glass from her hand and set it on the nearest ledge. Susannah dropped her chin with a protesting huff. “Wyatt said I shouldn’t let you boss me around.”

  Chap grinned. “You are a handful, Sassy Parrish.” He moved her toward the center of the ballroom, dancing through the throng that now crowded the floor. “How does Wyatt manage?”

  The orchestra was playing “Dreamy Melody”; as it came to an end, Susannah pouted a little. “I wish they would get to the good stuff.”

  As though he had heard her, the bandleader struck up a lively rendition of “Do It Again.” Susannah squealed and squeezed Chap’s hand, her smile radiating like Vega. “That’s more like it! Come on.” With a shimmy, she scooted toward the bandstand, pulling Chap behind her as she threw a wink over her shoulder. “Time to show me what you’ve got, old man.”

  Her hands and feet moved in rhythmic syncopation, and the beads on her dress shimmered and swayed as she led Chap into a swinging Black Bottom. Some of the younger set stayed on the dance floor, doing their best to keep up, but there wasn’t anyone who could dance like Susannah. It was as if the brilliance she had been drinking shone through her skin—she sparkled like a prized Grand Cru.

  Chap was a quick study, but when the band broke into “Charleston,” he generously abdicated to Gerald Barnwell, an old classmate who could match Susannah’s every step, throwing himself into it like a cyclone.

  A group of young men were sipping scotch by the bar, and Chap joined them. “Couldn’t keep up, eh?” Kit ribbed his friend as he handed him a drink.

  Chap shook his head. “She’s something, your little sis.” His gaze was directed in the vicinity of the orchestra platform, as Susannah—in a move all her own—made a nimble pirouette, swiveling her hips in an undulating fishtail.

  The boys were debating the chances of the Senators versus the Giants going into the World Series, and although this was a topic Chap knew something about, he was oddly distracted. When he failed to respond to a question repeated three times, George Steichen slugged him in the arm. “Didn’t know you were such a jazz fan, Chappie. Don’t mind us—we’re just having a discussion here.”

  As the song ended, Chap handed his glass to George. “Duty calls.” He gave his friend an irritated look. “And don’t call me Chappie.” Making his way back to center floor, he stepped in front of his gangly replacement. “Sorry, Gerald, that’s all you get.”

  Gerald pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Thanks for the dance!” Unusually large front teeth saddled his smile with an unfortunate goofiness. “I’ll be back for more!” He did a little jive step as he scuttled away, and certainly didn’t hear it when Chap muttered to himself, “Not likely.”

  The band had reverted to a slow waltz, and Susannah smiled teasingly as Chap took her hand. “You’re back! I thought I’d lost you.” Although her last partner had come out looking decidedly worse for wear, the effects of exertion had only enhanced Susannah’s glow.

  He looked away with studied detachment. “Wyatt expects me to do my job. I wouldn’t want to let him down.”

  They moved together with an ease that was preternaturally effortless—like birds flying in formation—and stayed on the floor as the Wildecats segued into a wistful rendition of “What’ll I Do.” Susannah had become curiously quiet, and when the next number proved to be another slow one, Chap didn’t let go of her hand.

  * * *

  The band was taking a break. It was hard to know how many songs they had played—for some reason time had become formless and indefinite. But now the music had stopped, and for the first time since Chap had elbowed Gerald out of the way, his eyes met Susannah’s.

  In that infinite instant, they saw it. The look they exchanged wasn’t questioning or confounded. It wasn’t awkward or abashed. It was helpless and horrified and empirically certain. Somewhere, in the lilting measures of the music, everything had changed. The algorithm that had been calculated years before—the accepted premise that it would always be Susannah and Wyatt, that Chap was not just Kit’s best friend but the established object of India’s heartbroken desire—was suddenly, shockingly, shattered. It was Hippasus discovering that the square root of two is an irrational number: the math had been wrong all along.

  “Would you like to get some air?”

  Susannah simply nodded, and with his hand on the small of her back, Chap ushered her toward the open doors across the room. As they passed through the crowd, Susannah saw her sister standing with several of her old friends from Bishopthorpe. India was giving her a purposeful, imploring look.

  They stepped onto the balcony and Susannah drew a deep breath. “You should dance with Itty.” Her tone was oddly wooden. “She would like that.”

  Chap was looking into the distance, and he replied without turning his head. “I don’t want to dance with Itty.” His words were soft and strained—betrayed by a raspy catch.

  After a moment of silence, they heard a cough.

  “Hello there.”

  Susannah jumped and Chap wheeled around. Charles Collier was standing in the shadows, alone with a glass of whisky. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?” He waved his glass lightly through the air, as if to demonstrate the pleasing accommodation of the atmosphere.

  “Yes.” It took Chap an extra beat to respond, and the word hung there for a moment. “It, uh, feels good to get some fresh air. It was getting a little warm in there.”

  “I imagine it was particularly warm on the dance floor.” Charles rattled the ice in his glass and took a sip. Although the moon cast a pale yellow glow across the smooth limestone, he was leaning back on the balustrade with the light behind him; it was impossible to see his expression.

  Susannah suddenly felt something like nausea, and she turned abruptly toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me please, I need to powder my nose.”

  An endless procession of faces
floated past as she skirted the edge of the ballroom. Her smile was frozen in place and she nodded in numb response to greetings and birthday wishes from well-meaning guests, but she didn’t stop. The ladies’ powder room was just to the right, but there was a group of women clustered there and Susannah turned left, heading for the back stairway. She rushed down the stairs, nearly landing on her seat as the smooth leather of her soles slipped over the carpet; in the west wing hall, she practically ran to her bedroom. Shutting the door, she stopped short and leaned back with a ragged breath. Then she closed her eyes and stayed there, propped against the mahogany panels, hands over her face.

  The Earth hadn’t tilted on its axis—it had tipped over completely. She replayed the stunning instant she had known. There was something happening as they danced—she floated in Chap’s arms like a feather in a stream, with a strange, transcendental feeling of utter fulfillment, made more bewildering by the fact that she hadn’t realized it had been missing before. She hadn’t known what was happening—only that she didn’t want it to end. And then he’d looked at her, and it was suddenly crystal clear. Her mind’s eye fixed on that moment: the sure knowledge … the crushing remorse … the essential, soul-bequeathing acceptance. And through the shock of that recognition, really seeing him for the first time—tall, dark, cataclysmically attractive. Panther eyes and a sybarite mouth. The memory took her breath away.

  But in the next moment she felt a wrenching twist in her heart. Oh—Wyatt. Sweet, tender Wyatt, who had been at her side for what felt like her entire life. A tear slipped down her cheek and she bent over with the weight of it. Wyatt—who had written her the moment he had arrived on campus, beseeching her to respond right away, signing off with a reference to the days on the calendar: 1 down, 106 to go. She couldn’t bear to think of the ways that this would hurt him.

  But, like any epiphany, the knowledge had been immediate and absolute: it was Chap. If she could have called back the echoing peal as it rippled across the universe, she would have, only there wasn’t any way to unring a bell. She knew—with the clarity of a copper chime—it would only ever be Chap.