Bill swerved the Vespa around a corner. Barbara tried to hold back a little scream. She was sure that she and her books were going to slide into the gutter. She clutched the front of Bill’s jacket in her fist.
Now they were gaining on the sound truck. “On track forty-nine at a quarter to nine”…their song. Bill increased his speed and began to steer the scooter in curves, so that Barbara swayed back and forth.
“Bill! Stop!” she pleaded.
“Getting seasick?” he called over his shoulder.
“No. I just don’t want to die young.”
Bill straightened his course. “You’re much too pretty for an early grave.”
“Thanks,” said Barbara to the back of Bill’s neck. “That’s big of you.”
“You’re welcome,” answered Bill cheerfully.
Bill putted across the bridge over the stream that bisected the residential neighborhood of Bayview. He went past the park with its bandstand left over from another era, past the public library, onto Barbara’s street, and up the hill, where he stopped in front of the MacLanes’ house and tipped Barbara off his scooter onto the curb.
“Whew!” Barbara smiled at Bill with the rain falling gently on her face. She noticed that the front of his jacket was a whorl of wrinkles where her hand had clutched it.
Bill grinned at her from beneath his umbrella.
Stalling for time Barbara said, “At least I’m still in one piece.” She wished she could ask him to come into the house, but she knew her mother was not home. Neither could she stand in the rain trying to prolong the conversation. “Well, thanks for the ride,” she said, because there was nothing else she could say.
“You’re welcome.” Bill grinned at her. “I don’t suppose you have anything to eat in the house?”
Barbara thought quickly. She did not want to come right out and say that she was not allowed to ask a boy to come in unless one of her parents was home, but having unexpectedly landed a boy, so to speak, she did not want to let him get away. She glanced at the front steps, which were out of the direction of the rain and under the wide overhang of the roof. Fortunately they were dry. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the steps. “I’ll go in and see what I can find.”
Bill pulled the umbrella out of his jacket and collapsed it before he kicked the stand under his scooter and left it parked at the curb. He sat down on the top step with the ease of someone sitting on a chair in the living room. Apparently he expected no explanation for not being invited into the house.
Barbara ran around to the back door. In the kitchen she found Gordy eating tuna fish out of the can with Buster at his feet. “You know Mother doesn’t like you to do that,” she scolded. “She wants you to make a sandwich if you are going to eat tuna.”
Gordy ignored this. “I didn’t know you liked ham,” he remarked, presenting Buster with a flake of tuna fish on the tip of his finger.
“Ham?” Barbara was flinging open cupboard doors in search of something, anything, to feed Bill before he got away.
“You just rode home with a cunning ham.” Gordy laughed heartily at his own poor joke and scraped the bottom of the tuna fish can with a spoon.
“If I couldn’t make a better joke than that, I’d keep still.”
Barbara had a feeling the nickname would stick. From now on Bill Cunningham would be known in the MacLane household as the Cunning Ham, just as Rosemary’s Humphrey had been known as Old Fleetfoot. She found the cookie jar empty. Gordy again. The cookie jar was always empty. She found a half a bag of corn chips that Gordy had missed, or perhaps had not got to yet, and poured two glasses of milk, which she set on a tray and carried out the front door. Bill was still sitting on the step. She set the tray down and sat beside it. “Have some corn chips and a glass of milk,” she said hospitably.
“Thanks,” said Bill, and crunched into a handful of corn chips.
“Isn’t it funny?” remarked Barbara. “I was planning to bake some cookies this afternoon.” Now why did I have to go and say a thing like that? she asked herself. It was simply not true. She had not baked cookies since her junior high school cooking class.
Bill looked interested. “You were?”
Now Barbara was stuck with her fib. “Yes. The cookie jar is empty.” This was certainly true. Since her mother had gone back to teaching, it was almost always empty.
“My mother never bakes cookies,” said Bill, and Barbara thought he sounded as if he wished she did.
“Doesn’t she like to bake?” asked Barbara.
“I don’t know. Anyway, she doesn’t have time. She has this big career and everything. She’s pretty tired when she gets home.” He reached for another handful of corn chips.
Mrs. Cunningham’s career was well known in Bayview. She commuted to San Francisco, where she wrote advertising copy for a chain of women’s clothing stores. She was always the most fashionably dressed commuter at the bus station, and her clothing always looked brand-new, as if she had bought it only the day before. This was in sharp contrast to the housewives of Bayview, who were seen about town in comfortably baggy slacks on cold days and in cotton blouses and skirts on warm days.
“We eat out a lot,” continued Bill, “but the store pays Mom so much she can’t turn them down. Every time she tries to quit they give her more money.”
Barbara could not find anything to say to this. Her family almost never ate in restaurants; and although she knew her mother and father could always use more money, they seemed satisfied with their pay as teachers. Her mother, she knew, was teaching because teachers were needed and not because she wanted more money, although of course the extra income was welcome, especially since Rosemary was in college.
“Anyway, Mom bought me the Vespa,” said Bill.
Barbara was a little shocked by this statement. In her family a gift came from both parents, no matter which one earned the money that paid for it.
“But it sure would be nice if she baked cookies once in a while,” continued Bill, searching the bag for the last of the corn chips.
Barbara began to feel sorry for him. She pictured him going home hungry to a cold house. At least in winter it might be cold, if his mother turned the furnace off before she went to work, but that was not probable since she earned so much money. At this time of year, even though it was raining, the weather was not very cold. She tried, but it was almost impossible to feel completely sorry for a boy like Bill.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer.” Bill rose and opened his big black umbrella.
Barbara did not want him to go so soon. “Oh, you weren’t keeping me from anything.”
“The cookies,” Bill reminded her.
“Oh—yes,” said Barbara hastily. She considered for a moment before she added, “Drop by for a handful sometime.” She was satisfied that she had struck the right casual note. She did not want him to think she was trying to trap him with cookies for bait.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Bill managed to bow with a flourish and hold his umbrella over his head at the same time. “This was a lot better than eating a bag of French fries at the drugstore. See you soon.” With that he stuck the umbrella handle down the back of his neck, mounted his Vespa, and was off down the hill with a wave and a backward grin.
Barbara watched the umbrella disappear around a bend in the road and, still smiling, she turned and walked into the house. Bill Cunningham. The last boy she had ever expected to notice her. She liked him. She really did. She liked him the way she liked the fizz in ginger ale and the cherry on a sundae. That was Bill Cunningham, and maybe this was the beginning of love. What fun it would be if someday they could look back and say, “We fell in love—plunk, just like that—while a stop light changed from red to green.”
Barbara considered Bill and wondered what her father thought of him. There was one good thing—Bill’s name usually appeared on the honor roll—and, considering her father’s attitude toward grades, anyone’s grades, Barbara felt this was a real bonanza. She could no
t think of a single thing about Bill that her father could object to. He was a good student, he took part in school activities—but not to the extent that he could be called a big activity man—he was lively and full of fun, but he never got into trouble. He was, to use a phrase Rosemary used a lot since she went away to college, well-adjusted. There was however his Vespa to think about. Barbara wondered how her parents would feel about her riding around town on a motor scooter, but she quickly dismissed this small worry. If Rosemary had permission to get married, surely she could have permission to ride on a Vespa.
Barbara went into the house and took a quick inventory of the kitchen cupboards for cookie ingredients. There were no nuts or raisins, which eliminated a lot of recipes right there.
“I had an old dog. His name was Blue,” sang Gordy from his room.
Barbara began to read cookie recipes. Brownies were out. She had no nuts. Checkerboard cookies. Too difficult. Refrigerator cookies. She did not want to wait for the dough to chill. Oatmeal cookies. Well…maybe. They weren’t really good without raisins. Snicker-doodles. She liked the name. Sugar, flour, shortening, egg…roll into balls the size of a walnut…dip in sugar and cinnamon. They sounded good, and the recipe made four dozen. Gordy would probably smell the cinnamon while they were baking and demand some, but she should be able to hide most of them….
Barbara got out a mixing bowl and measuring cup, but before she set about baking snicker-doodles for Bill Cunningham, she added raisins and walnuts to the shopping list on the cupboard door. “I’m falling in love,” she whispered experimentally to herself, and found the words comfortable on her tongue.
Chapter 5
The next evening, while Mrs. MacLane and Barbara lingered at the table and Mr. MacLane was enjoying his after-dinner cigar, Mrs. MacLane asked, “What are we going to do about Greg’s family? We can’t put it off any longer.”
Barbara knew at least some of the answers, because she had skimmed through the book about weddings from the library. “The wedding book says the groom’s family calls on the bride’s family,” she informed her mother.
“I know,” said Mrs. MacLane, “but if they are going to drive fifty miles to call, it seems as if we should offer them a meal. And if we are going to do that, I think we should simply ask them to come for supper in the first place.” No one had anything to say to this suggestion, so she continued. “I wonder what the Aldredges are like.”
“Rosemary says Greg’s father has made a lot of money in the luggage business,” volunteered Barbara, “but he’s not terribly intellectual.”
Her father scowled through a cloud of cigar smoke. “And since when did I raise my daughter to be a snob?” he asked.
“Now what on earth did Rosemary mean by a remark like that?” demanded Mrs. MacLane.
“Oh…you know…” said Barbara vaguely. “He doesn’t go to museums and concerts and things like that.”
“And neither did Rosemary until she went away to college,” Mrs. MacLane pointed out. “And if that is her definition of culture, I’m afraid your father and I don’t measure up either. At least not for a long time. Not since we had three children.”
“He’s probably been too busy earning money, so he could educate his family,” said Mr. MacLane, leaning back in his chair once more. “The poor fellow probably hasn’t had time to do anything else, with three children in college. Too busy keeping his nose to the grindstone.”
“Greg has supported himself since he went into the air force,” Barbara informed her father.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us all,” said Mrs. MacLane. “What did Rosemary say about Greg’s mother?”
“Oh, she’s all right, I guess,” said Barbara. “Anyway, Rosemary says Greg doesn’t let her bother him anymore. He’s very mature about it. She used to bother him until he went into the air force, but he’s past that stage now. He says she’s a nice gal.” Barbara was not prepared for her parents’ reaction to this bit of information.
“Well!” said her mother.
“I’ll be darned,” said her father.
Barbara was anxious to make her parents understand. “But Rosemary says it’s important to rebel against your parents. Otherwise, nobody ever grows up.”
“Oh, she does, does she?” Mr. MacLane knocked the ash off his cigar into the ashtray Barbara had fetched when dessert was finished.
“I suppose in a way she’s right,” reflected Mrs. MacLane, “but somehow I don’t like her to be so blunt about it.”
“It seems to me,” said Mr. MacLane, “that ever since Rosemary has been going to the university she has been talking like someone who has read a book on psychology.”
“I don’t know why,” puzzled Mrs. MacLane. “She isn’t even taking psychology.”
Barbara had the explanation. “But her roommate is. Millie is majoring in psychology. Rosemary learns a lot from her.”
“How nice,” said Mrs. MacLane dryly. “I am so glad we are to share in the benefits of Millie’s college education.”
Mr. MacLane exhaled a large blue cloud of smoke. “Well, let me tell you something. Someday some mother is going to rebel against her children; and when she does, I will be the first to contribute to a statue in her honor, to be placed downtown in the center of the plaza. A bronze statue. And each year on Mother’s Day I shall personally lay a wreath at her feet.”
“Oh, Dad.” Barbara’s tone implied, Don’t be silly. “Rosemary says—”
Mrs. MacLane interrupted. Apparently she did not want to hear any more of what Rosemary had to say. “At least we know Greg’s mother is a nice gal. Or so Greg says. Shall we ask the Aldredges for Sunday night supper or shall we not? If we do we had better have them soon, because June is coming closer every day.”
“Sure,” agreed Mr. MacLane expansively. “The old man and I ought to get along just fine. We can talk about baseball and other nonintellectual subjects.”
“Dad, please don’t make a big thing out of what Greg said.” Barbara was impatient, more with herself than with her father. Knowing her father’s talent for worrying a subject the way a dog worries a bone, she never should have repeated verbatim what Rosemary had confided, but somehow the remarks about Greg’s parents had sounded different when Rosemary had made them. Barbara had been impressed by Rosemary’s and Greg’s adult, detached attitude. They had seemed so emancipated, so mature. But now she was no longer certain. Maybe they were just disloyal.
“Who’s making a big thing of it?” Mr. MacLane asked in his jovial after-dinner manner. “You said Rosemary said Greg’s father wasn’t terribly intellectual. Well, neither am I. And, I might add, neither is Rosemary.”
“Oh, Dad. You are, too, making a big thing out of it,” Barbara informed him. “I’m sorry I ever mentioned it. Just forget all about it.” But she knew her father would not. This was too good a topic for his talent for banter.
There was a slight frown mark between Mrs. MacLane’s eyebrows. “What do you suppose Greg has told his family about us?” she wondered aloud. “He really doesn’t know us very well, and there’s no telling what he may think or what Rosemary may have told him.”
“She probably says her father is a little crude, but a good egg,” suggested Mr. MacLane. “And she probably says condescendingly that you are a good kid who doesn’t use her mind.” Mr. MacLane had never let Rosemary forget that she had once said the trouble with the members of her mother’s club was they did not use their minds.
“I can’t believe she’d say a thing like that,” said Mrs. MacLane.
“Why not?” her husband wanted to know. “Kids nowadays feel they can say anything about their parents. This makes them well-adjusted, as Rosemary would probably say.”
“For one thing, now that I have gone back to teaching, I think she has finally conceded that I do use my mind,” said Mrs. MacLane.
What about me? Barbara began to wonder. What had Rosemary told Greg about his future sister-in-law? She rummaged through Rosemary’s secondhand psych
ology jargon for phrases that might fit. Something like, “Barbara’s all right but she’s terribly immature.” Or, “Barbara’s all right but she can’t get along with Gordy. Sibling rivalry, you know. She feels insecure.” Then Greg would pass this along to his family, who would arrive expecting a very young girl quarreling with her brother. Barbara resolved to stop quarreling with Gordy at once. When the Aldredges arrived, she would be so poised and so grown-up that they would leave, asking one another, “Was that the girl Greg said was immature? Impossible! She and her brother got along beautifully.” Yes, Barbara was going to have to watch her step.
That same evening Mrs. MacLane composed half a dozen drafts of a gracious note to Greg’s mother and father, inviting them to come for supper Sunday evening. She read all versions aloud to Mr. MacLane, and when they agreed on the wording, the letter was written and mailed. Two days later an equally gracious note arrived accepting the invitation.
The acceptance precipitated a flurry of house cleaning and silver polishing. “This is supposed to be a friendly visit, not an inspection,” Mr. MacLane reminded his wife.
Mrs. MacLane laid down the dust cloth and sighed. “I know, but I can’t keep things looking the way they should when I’m teaching.”
Barbara thought guiltily of the fluff of dust she had shoved back under her bed with her toe, and went to get the dust mop.
By late Sunday afternoon the house was shining, Gordy had been persuaded into his gray suit, the table was set, and the salad greens were chilling in a plastic bag in the refrigerator. The family was ready for what Mr. MacLane persisted in referring to as the big powwow.
“Dad, please take off that green eyeshade,” pleaded Barbara, trying to see the house and her parents through Rosemary’s eyes. “You know Rosemary doesn’t like you to wear it when her friends come here.”
Sister of the Bride Page 6