Superior Women

by Alice Adams

  However, since Megan is working somewhere almost in the Village, some publishing house near Union Square, Megan has said, she, Lavinia, will simply get into a cab and go down there. Let Megan choose a place she knows. Her own turf, as it were.

  Lord knows what Lavinia should wear, though. Probably not too dressed, so far downtown. And it actually, almost, doesn’t matter what she wears, or infinitely less so than usual. Maybe she should wear Levi’s, for a joke, the way they all used to, all the time, back in Barnard Hall.

  The truth, though, the frightful, ghastly truth that has been pushing toward the forefront of Lavinia’s mind, is that it does not matter where she and Megan have lunch, or what she wears—Lord, not in the least, of course not. Because she has recently realized, or faced a fact that diminishes all other possible problems, which is that already, at twenty-three, she has made a fatal, absolute mistake: she should not have married Potter Cobb.

  Lavinia’s true, main, basic problem is that simple and that terrible, and it has taken her three years to bring herself to admit and even partially to face it, three years and all her strength (Lavinia, in her way, is an honest woman).

  This gradually and painfully emerging view is not the same as a mere discontent with Potter would be; that could be taken care of, in one way or another. No, in his way Potter is perfectly nice, a perfectly okay husband, very presentable and rather quiet (and if in some ways he is a little less than nice, well, only a very naive person, like Megan, probably, would expect good sex in marriage). Lavinia can even appreciate the irony of its being she, wise Lavinia, who made this mistake, she who did not confuse sex and love with marriage, who knew what marriage meant.

  It is simply that having seen as much as she now has of New York, Lavinia has also seen how much better she could have done. Dear Lord, how infinitely better, a young woman like herself, with everything. (A girl who has everything: that is a perfectly fair description of herself, Lavinia somewhat bitterly decides.)

  And part of the excruciating pain that she is experiencing (and it is excruciating: the face that she sees before her in the mirror is anguished, almost too anguished to be beautiful, she looks almost old)—much of that pain comes from her recognition of how dumb she was, how deeply stupid, to take Cambridge and Harvard standards for the world’s. What looked superior, what looked to be the cream of the crop, as it were, at Harvard, is very small potatoes in New York. If she had come down to New York after graduation, a pretty, single girl, with a pretty, small apartment (something on Sutton Place? her father likes that neighborhood; he would have paid for it, probably), oh! then she could have met anyone at all. She could have not married until she was twenty-five or twenty-six, even. And then have really chosen well, instead of taking the first “suitable” person who came along.

  For an instant, in a quick hot flash of rage, Lavinia blames Gordon Shaughnessey for this terrible, this fatal error. It is all his fault. If he had not ditched her, they could have gone along and had a nice college romance, until she was ready to ditch him (as she surely would have, eventually; never in the world would she have married a person with that name, in Boston). And she would surely not have married his roommate. A moment of colder reflection, however, forces her to abandon that view, and the comfort of that anger. Besides, it’s difficult, with Gordon dead.

  In any case, New York is full of really superior men; cruelly, almost all the men she meets are superior to Potter. Or does she simply think that, is—oh, God!—sexual frustration actually damaging her mind? Is that possible? A monstrous notion—she pushes it away. Even thinking of sex will only confuse what is already irreparably bad. Her marriage.

  In any case, almost everywhere Lavinia goes she sees wonderful-looking men, sleek blond men, with great tans, wearing marvelous tweeds and rich silk ties, or dark interesting men in dark (bankers’) gray flannel. Men who all stare at her, and who smile, acknowledging her beauty.

  Most recently, there has been a man whom she seems to have seen everywhere, has met at a lot of parties. Henry Stuyvesant. Not handsome, he is almost funny-looking, really: too tall, six feet five or six, with big ears, a long nose, wearing glasses. Once he took off his glasses, though, and Lavinia saw the most remarkable eyes, so dark, so liquidly deep. There is something about Henry Stuyvesant that is very interesting. He is obviously intelligent—very. (At Harvard he was on the Advocate and in the Signet Society, she has found out that much.) He is usually with someone very beautiful, some deb, or young divorcée, but she has never seen him with the same woman more than twice. No one seems to be sure exactly what he does, and therefore, Lavinia believes, he must be very rich. Also, she has given his shoes a very careful look (a sure test, in her view): his are invariably dark English wingtips, still new-looking, very well polished. Maybe he is the richest man in town?

  So far, they have had only a couple of silly party conversations. But Henry Stuyvesant likes her, Lavinia can tell. She will see Henry tonight, she then remembers, cheeringly; she and Potter and some friends, including Henry, are going out.

  She will not have an affair with Henry Stuyvesant, though. But even this thought makes Lavinia smile, however, and she notes that the very idea is making her prettier. If we even go out to lunch together, ever, she thinks, it will have to be in a very public place. Maybe the Oak Room, where everyone will see us.

  Lavinia next telephones Megan. “Megan baby, I know you’re terrifically busy, with that job and everything, so I’ll just jump in a cab and come down to you. We can go wherever you like, down there. Well, where do you usually go? There must be some place. Megan, why are you sounding so difficult? There’s no point in your coming all the way uptown, and then having to go all the way back. Of course I know where Gramercy Park is, some cousins of Potter’s live there. We had dinner down there last month, a beautiful old apartment. Well, of course I can find the hotel. Honestly, Megan, you’re not in California. Cabdrivers know where they are. Okay, I’ll see you at twelve thirty. In the lobby—okay, the dining room.”

  The Gramercy Park Hotel turns out to be perfectly okay, quite a pleasant dining room. Actually, had she known it was going to be so attractive, all the nice white linen and fresh flowers on the table, quiet waiters, Lavinia would have worn a newer suit, she now reflects. Not this leftover from college, her old Blackwatch plaid; too good to throw out, it seemed both appropriate and amusing, for a downtown lunch with Megan.

  Sipping from her frozen daiquiri, Lavinia frowns as she realizes that Megan is now ten minutes late, and in an idle way she scans the room. Her wandering gaze is unfocused, until it is caught by a perfect gray flannel suit, long full skirt and short trim jacket, on a thin young woman who looks very much like—dear Lord, it is, it is Megan. Megan, who comes up to Lavinia, smiling and blushing. Very pretty, and thin—Lord, she must have lost thirty pounds. Even her breasts are much less visible.

  Megan sits down, saying, “I’m really sorry I’m late. There’s so much work, and more this afternoon.” To the hovering waiter, who seems to know her, she says, “I don’t think I’ll have a drink, thanks, Bill. A glass of tomato juice?” Her smile at Lavinia indicates, somehow, that being late is not nearly as important as her work.

  Lavinia gives her own smile. “I hardly know my baby Megan without her baby fat,” she says.

  Megan blushes again. “What’s funny is that I actually don’t think of myself as thin.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about that. People who have plastic surgery and think they still have big noses. Or breasts.”

  “Well, yes.” Megan’s tomato juice arrives. She squeezes lemon into it, somehow managing to squirt juice into her left eye. “Oh, shit.” She wipes at the eye with her napkin.

  Lavinia giggles, briefly. “Well, I can certainly hear the effect of Adam Marr.”

  Megan seems not to understand, at first, but then she grins, and acknowledges, “Well, he certainly is, uh, influential. And I did see them quite a lot. In Paris.”

  “You don’t see them now?”


  “Not nearly as much. They’re up in Connecticut, and Adam’s so busy. And Janet and the baby.” Megan looks slightly uncomfortable.

  In her old way, Lavinia presses on. “From what I hear, Adam’s giving her a really bad time.”

  Megan’s eyes cloud, unhappily, as she says, “Well, you hear a lot of gossip, when someone gets really famous.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s always fire, I always say,” Lavinia remarks, and she wonders: Can one drink have made me drunk? How silly I sound. She feels herself not quite in control, a condition she despises. She sips at ice water, which does not alleviate the burning intensity of an emotion which she is forced to recognize as the purest rage: rage at Janet Cohen (Janet Cohen!) for being married to a famous man, even to a vulgar theatrical success like Adam Marr, a success that will never last. And Lord, for having a baby. A boy. (And horrible Adam is supposed to be very sexy; he probably does it to her all the time, when he’s not doing it to someone else.) “I’ve heard a lot about Adam Marr and ‘aspiring young actresses,’ ” Lavinia manages to say. (She is as angry now at Janet Cohen and at Adam as she was earlier this morning at Gordon Shaughnessey, and quite as fruitlessly; there is something wrong with her, clearly.)

  Propitiously, at that moment the waiter arrives to take their order. They both want seafood salads, coffee later.

  Pulling herself together, as best she can, Lavinia in her cool social voice asks, “Well, Megan baby, now tell me all about your life as a working girl.”

  Megan’s face, divested now of what Lavinia has chosen to call her baby fat, reveals strong bones; even her small nose looks stronger. Irish peasant bones, Lavinia decides; she is barely listening, as Megan names books and writers dealt with by her publishing house. e e cummings, Robert Frost. Not exactly what you would call a best-seller list, but then Megan has never been practical.

  “—of course if you don’t care a lot about poetry it doesn’t make a lot of sense, what I’m doing,” says Megan. Does Lavinia hear a certain sharpness, a small rebuke in that last sentence? She is hypersensitive today, she reminds herself; she feels fragile. She is getting the curse, probably. Again.

  “But tell me all about successful young married life,” Megan is saying, with what looks like an innocent, inquiring smile.

  At that, unaccountably, what Lavinia had not at all meant to say bursts out (or one of the things that she had not meant to say). “I want to have a baby, and I never do. Every month, it turns out that I’m not pregnant, again. And everyone is having them but me. Peg, twins, and now that boy, Rex, and now she thinks she’s pregnant again. And Janet Cohen, I mean Marr, and her boy. And I’ve taken tests, and there’s nothing—Oh, I don’t know why I’m saying all this!”

  “Oh, Lavinia, that’s really too bad. But you haven’t been married very long, really. Doesn’t it take some people years?”

  The intensity of Megan’s concern further mortifies Lavinia; Lord, what’s wrong with her? She does not “confide” in people, and now, seemingly, she is unable to stop. “I just have this feeling,” she says. “This sense that it won’t work out with Potter. Pregnancy, I mean. I won’t get pregnant, by him.” Seeing that Megan seems to believe her, and (dear Lord!) that Megan pities her, her plight, Lavinia recklessly (lyingly!) adds, “Although otherwise of course we’re absolutely perfect, in every way. Potter is, well, he’s just terrific. I’m sure you know what I mean, little Megan.” And she gives Megan a long, probing look, faintly smiling (back in control).

  By now Megan looks so flustered, so utterly confused, that Lavinia is able to reestablish their connection as she feels that it should be, to regain what is her necessary upper hand. “You know, Megan, it’s really time you thought about getting married yourself,” she says. “Isn’t there some handsome editor down there?”

  “Actually not. They’re married, mostly, and the not married one is, uh, queer, I think. But he’s very nice.”

  “Oh, swell. What a great environment you’ve picked. But Megan, you must know someone. You don’t want to turn into one of those awful New York career women.”

  Surprisingly, Megan announces, “I think I’d like to earn a lot of money.” Those words seem to have surprised her too; she looks taken aback, as though she had not quite intended to say that.

  “Well, that’s certainly the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say. But why not marry some nice rich man? Now that you’re so thin and all. And Megan, I must say, that’s a terrific suit.”

  A blush. “You like it? I just got it yesterday. At Lord & Taylor.”

  To have lunch with me, Lavinia thinks, and she is touched by this tribute, although of course it is no more than her due, from Megan. “Their things are nice,” she concedes, of Lord & Taylor, “but you really should try Bendel’s sometime.”

  After a small pause, Megan asks, “Well, what do you hear from Peg?”

  “Well, she’s absolutely wonderful. Of course she adores living in Texas, and sometimes they go to New Orleans for weekends. And all those adorable babies. Old Peg was obviously made for motherhood, it makes me so jealous. You know, I think you were pretty hard on her sometimes, little Megan. I don’t think you appreciated the true old Peg.” This is said with a very severe look, which ends in a forgiving smile.

  “Probably that’s true.” Saying this, however, Megan does not blush; she does not even look particularly concerned. Lavinia doubts that Megan is even thinking of Peg, at that moment.

  With her small frown Lavinia asks, “What do you hear from Cathy?”

  Megan comes back into focus. “Oh, she really loves it in California. She says she is getting fat from all the great restaurants. Can you imagine Cathy fat?” Megan is smiling as she asks this, affectionately (quite fatuously, Lavinia thinks).

  Lavinia gives her own smile, having just realized that she is as uninterested in Cathy as Megan is not interested in Peg, and she further reflects that it is odd how clannish the Irish are; even generations later, Megan and Cathy, those micks, are so drawn to each other, atavistically. “Darling Megan,” Lavinia purrs, “if I can imagine and even see you thin, I can certainly see Cathy fat.”

  Megan’s interest seems caught by this. “Maybe we’re all changing in some profound way?” she asks. “Shifting roles, and identities. It’ll be fascinating to see what happens in the next ten or twenty years. The next five, even!”

  “Well, if you’re thinking of a best-seller about our lives, or a movie, just give me at least three sons,” says Lavinia, quite conscious of the sadness of her smile. “Tall dark thin sons, and they’ll all go to Harvard. Or maybe one will rebel, and go to Yale.”

  Soon after that they separate, with a flurry of talk about getting together again, very soon.

  Friends, perfect friends. Why not be friends forever, she and Henry Stuyvesant? That solution comes to Lavinia, as that evening she again contemplates her silver-mirrored face, and thinks of Henry. This time she is less meditative, somewhat hurried, though; people are coming for drinks before they all go out for dinner, and dancing, most likely at LaRue. Smiling, Lavinia calculates that all the other young wives will be in their pearls and black, whereas she has on her new gray chiffon.

  But: friends. She and Henry Stuyvesant. The idea of such a friendship, with such a brilliant and attractive man, fills Lavinia with a warm and virtuous pleasure. She thinks of the Duchess of Guermantes and Swann, although of course Henry is hardly Jewish (and Swann wasn’t very Jewish). But, if they could be friends for life, she and Henry, it would be like owning something wonderful, an enviably beautiful house in the country, or a lovely boat. Or jewels. And no one will ever quite understand the nature of their friendship, hers with Henry; there will be false rumors, suspicious speculation, as over the years they are so often seen together, lunching in the Oak Room, laughing together in the corners of large parties—even, on rare occasions, dining together, Potter having been called away to Chicago, or somewhere on business. Or maybe Potter could even be in a hospital, with som
e tiny minor operation, a hernia or something safe like that.

  Perhaps tonight, as they dance, Henry will ask her out for lunch, and she will say, Yes, I’d love to, are you fond of the Oak Room, as I am?

  There have been times, since her marriage and their move to New York, when Lavinia has experienced moments of discouragement with the accoutrements of her life, moments at which she has perceived her own apartment as discouragingly similar to those of her friends. They all live on the upper East Side; their rooms all are filled with family antiques, plus a few bold “contemporary” touches, here a Noguchi lamp, there an Eames chair. And everywhere a similar weight of wedding presents, the silver or crystal ashtrays, Paul Revere bowls, pewter cocktail shakers. And at such bad moments even their friends have seemed remarkably alike, and unoriginal. For some reason all the wives are blond, or almost; they all went to Vassar or Wellesley or Smith—Lavinia’s having gone to Radcliffe is a little outré, in many eyes. The men all wear Brooks clothes, perhaps an occasional fling at J. Press or Chips, a wild pink shirt. They all work in law firms or brokerage houses. (She wonders: what kind of parties do Janet Cohen and Adam Marr go to, and where?)

  On the night after her lunch with Megan, however, Lavinia’s contentment with her apartment and her friends seems at least for the moment restored. Hers is the most truly elegant apartment of them all; the graceful effect of her (real) Louis Seize chairs is not marred by anything clumsy, Jacobean. And she and Potter are the only couple to have a Robsjohn-Gibbings dining room table.

  And, as for friends, what other young woman has a friend like Henry Stuyvesant, who is standing just now beside that Robsjohn-Gibbings table, where the drinks are?

  Henry looks across at her, at Lavinia, and he smiles. He takes off his glasses, and winks! as though he has understood everything that she has been thinking, all her plan. Without glasses his eyes are very beautiful, Lavinia again observes. So dark and thick-lashed, almost like a woman’s eyes, and so intelligent.