To See You Again

by Alice Adams

  A Southern Spelling Bee

  One afternoon in the late Thirties, in Washington, D.C., a blond and handsome man who was to become a World War II hero, a fighter pilot of exceptional daring—that man got so irritated at a little girl of six, his daughter’s age, that he decided to get even with her by having a spelling bee. As he told this story over the years, which he often did, he forgot a lot that actually happened, including his own irritation which began it all, and how it ended. It became just a funny story about two little girls.

  The man’s name was Cameron Lyons, and he was from Charleston, South Carolina, and he always spoke in those soft and unusually slow accents. His wife, Lillian, was from North Carolina, but more and more she spoke as her husband did. He was from a better family, with a better Southern name. Their daughter was called Helen Jane, plump and pretty and blond, and dearly loved by both her parents. The irritating other child was Avery Todd, and she was a distant cousin, or child of cousins, from Cameron’s side of the family; her father, Tom, was in a sanatorium in Virginia, drying out, and her mother was busy with Avery’s younger brother, a delicate boy, and with her bookstore. And so Lillian had said that they would take Avery for a while. That was like Lillian; she was always taking people in, even in their narrow Georgetown house, even in the Depression, providing food and shelter for stray relatives. She had a strong sense of family.

  Avery was a dark, sharply skinny child, with large melancholy eyes and a staggering vocabulary. She was physically awkward, not good at jump rope or hopscotch or roller-skating, but her mind was exceptional. She read all the time, read grown-up books from her mother’s store—more than was good for her, in Lillian’s opinion—and had been heard to describe Gone With the Wind as “boring.” The two children got along fairly well, but that was probably because Helen Jane had an extremely peaceable disposition.

  But Cam, who was unexpectedly intuitive, and open to vibrations, felt waves of pure hatred that flowed toward his cherished daughter from small Avery. And why?

  His irritation at Avery began to reach a peak at lunch when innocent Helen Jane said, “Oooh, macaroni and cheese! I just love macaroni,” and Avery said sternly, “Helen Jane, inanimate objects are not to be loved.” Cam also repeated that remark over the years, but again, as something funny that little Avery had said.

  And so, while Lillian and the colored girl were clearing up from lunch, Cam took the two children into the living room and announced that they were going to have a spelling bee.

  Avery looked very pleased, but Helen Jane pouted and said, “Daddy, you know I can’t spell anything.”

  “That’s all right, honey, you’ll be all right.” He turned to Avery. “Mississippi.”

  “M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i.”

  To Helen Jane he said, “Helen.”

  “H-e-l-e-n.”

  To Avery, “Constantinople.”

  “C-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-i-n-o-p-l-e.”

  “Jane.”

  “J-a-n-e.”

  And so on, for quite a while.

  (“I ran upstairs crying, of course,” said Avery, many years later, when asked what happened after that.)

  In the Forties, while Cam was heroically in England and France, the two young girls continued in their divergent directions. Sexually as well as intellectually precocious, Avery had an early and violent adolescence; there was always some passionate involvement with a boy—her heart was often broken. Sheltered, passive Helen Jane never fell in love until she was eighteen, and then she fell in love with Stuart Claiborne, an exceptionally rich and handsome Southern boy, whom she married a year later, and to whom she bore four children, and whose secret ugly temper she endured until he was finally involved in a housing scandal during the Johnson administration.

  In Avery’s case there was a rumor of a very early (annulled) marriage to a colored trombone player, but—to Lillian and Cam—this was so monstrous a thought that they loyally discounted it as slander. But she did get married several times, although never in church or even in her own home so that silver could be chosen and presents sent, permanent addresses noted down. One husband (they believed) was a professor—a divorced man, a Jew. Another husband (they thought) was a poet.

  Avery’s mother died (she of the bookstore), and her father remarried.

  They had had only the briefest glimpses of Avery over the years, but Lillian, with her strong sense of family, had kept her newest name and address in the book, and so, when they came to San Francisco, where Avery was living, they telephoned. Somewhat surprisingly (“I could hardly believe it—she was so—well—gracious—grown-up,” Lillian reported to Cameron), Avery invited them to dinner. To meet her husband, Joseph. They were not sure what he did—some kind of a doctor? Although, given Avery, anything so sensible was unlikely.

  Over the phone, Avery had said to Lillian, laughing in a new (to them), dry, grown-up way: “You’ll see, he looks a little like Cam.”

  At first glance neither Cam nor anyone else would have noticed a resemblance between himself and Joseph. But what Lillian and Cam did continuously peer at Joseph to find out (they did not know they were doing this) was: what is wrong with this one? Why did she choose him? On the surface at least there was nothing wrong: he was blond, conventionally handsome and polite, if a little quiet. The apartment was attractive. And Avery in her own dark way looked quite beautiful.

  But, being a Southern woman of a very definite kind, Lillian withheld compliments, and instead she launched into a recital of their day in San Francisco. Adventures on cable cars, exotic stores. “Well, I just want you to know I found the most lovely brocade in this little bitty store on Grant Avenue, but instead of Chinese there were these Jews. You know, I just love the Jews. I think they’re absolutely marvelous. I don’t care what anyone says.”

  Cam caught a startled glance exchanged between Avery and Joseph, but at least neither of them said anything. Years back, he knew, Avery would have lashed out at anything anyone said about Jews, even Lillian saying she liked them. But after all, Avery was Southern, and somewhere she knew what not to say.

  Lillian had not stopped talking for a minute. “It’s for Mary Lillian’s wedding, in June,” she said. “That’s my oldest granddaughter. Not a speck of money but they’re both real smart so I reckon they’ll be okay.”

  Then Avery announced dinner, and the four of them went in to her pretty table. Lillian cried out, “Avery, isn’t that your mother’s silver? I recognize it, I always said you should be the one to have it, even if some people thought your brother would appreciate it more.”

  Cam had to admit to himself that Avery looked younger than Helen Jane did, probably because Avery was so thin. With her burning dark eyes and her long proud neck she had turned into quite a woman. Strange.

  Lillian was telling about Helen Jane’s recent remarriage. “The nicest man you’d ever want to meet. A widower, and he’d never had any children. Now, doesn’t that tell you something about the kind of man he is? To take on four not his own? He works in Washington, of course. In the C.I.A.”

  Avery said, “The C.I.A.?”

  “Oh yes, the grandest job. They come down to see us all the time and we have the best old time.”

  Cameron said, “Avery, this fish is delicious, just plain delicious. Whoever would have thought you’d grow up and learn to cook?”

  “No one related to me, certainly,” Avery said.

  And Joseph, “Actually, she’s a terrific cook.”

  Cam noticed that Joseph drank a lot, lots of vodka before dinner, and now he was really pouring down the wine. To Cam this was an amiable and familiar weakness, more comprehensible than Jewishness or writing poetry, but for Avery, with all her father’s trouble with the stuff, it seemed an odd choice; it was as though she had made some sort of circle.

  “What is it that you do out here, Joseph?” Cam asked.

  “I’m a psychiatrist. Mainly children.”

  “I married my doctor,” said Avery, as though she were making a joke.


  Consciously refraining from telling any of the psychiatrist jokes he knew, Cameron said, “Well, if you’re interested in children you’ll like this story about this little old gal here, your Avery.” And he told the story about the spelling bee. And at the end in his gentle way he chuckled, and he said, “Helen Jane never did catch on, but of course Avery did.”

  “What did you do then?” Joseph asked Avery.

  “I ran upstairs crying, of course,” Avery said.

  “Did you, old sweetheart?” old Cameron asked. “I didn’t remember that.”

  By the middle of dessert, Joseph, who had indeed been drinking a lot, beginning with the vodka sneaked into his tomato juice, to cope with the hangover from the night before, slumped over in his seat. His unconscious face was no longer handsome, but swollen and coarse. “The ugliest old thing you’d ever want to see” is how Lillian later, with considerable exaggeration, described Joseph’s passed-out face to Helen Jane and Ken, of the C.I.A.

  But after one glance each of those Southern-trained people pretended that he was not there—what had happened had not happened—and none of them glanced a second time.

  And after dinner Joseph was left snoring at the table; they all (those three Southern people) went into the living room, where Avery served coffee, and Lillian showed pictures of the grandchildren and of her daughter’s marriage to Ken. And then Lillian and Cameron got up to go, and to make their prolonged Southern ritual of farewell.

  At last that was over and Cameron had bundled Lillian into their rented Mercedes and he stood on the sidewalk with Avery, in the cold San Francisco summer night. Avery’s arms were bare and she shivered, and at that moment Cameron was seized with an impulse toward her that was violent and obscure and inadmissibly sexual. He reached toward her—surely he had simply meant to kiss her good night?—but as he stepped forward everything went wrong and his heavy foot bore down on the uncovered instep of her high-arched foot, so that she cried out in pain.

  “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry!” breathed old Cam, drawing back.

  “It’s all right, I know you are,” she said.

  (“But why did you ask them to dinner?” Joseph asked her sometime the next day.

  “I don’t know, I think just the sound of their voices over the phone. When I was little I thought Cam was the most marvelous, glamorous man alive,” and she sighed. Then, “I thought they’d be nice!” she cried out. “God, don’t they know? How I must have felt about a little girl who could just smile to get love and not have to spell Constantinople?”)

  “What took you so long? What on earth were you talking about?” Lillian asked Cameron, in the heavy, purring car.

  “I—uh—stepped on her foot. Didn’t mean to, of course. Had to say I was sorry.”

  “My, you are the clumsiest old boy, now aren’t you.” And Lillian chuckled, quite satisfied with them both, and with the evening.

  True Colors

  Just a year ago, another balmy blue May, here in San Francisco, I was newly and madly in love with a man I had met a couple of weeks before. We were silly, like adolescents; love seemed to us our own unique invention—love meaning, of course, the most overwhelming, most intense and inexhaustible sensuality. We thought that no lovers had ever made love so frequently, or so violently as we. David, a just-divorced father of three, a lawyer. I am, and was then, a divorced mother of one, and an editor, part time.

  We met, David and I, in the Washington Square Bar and Grill, where I had gone to dinner with a friend, Anna, an actress, who is talented but often unemployed; we see each other fairly often, more for lunches than for dinner, since she is usually involved with some man or other. I am usually not.

  I had not been to that particular restaurant before, perhaps because I had heard almost too much about it; it is the sort of place mentioned in columns, locally. Anna goes there a lot; she lives in North Beach, she says it’s her neighborhood pub. And the “singles” aspect of the bar, as we waited for a table, hemmed in by such a lively crowd, made me feel somewhat shy; Anna, dramatically blond, handles situations of that nature considerably better.

  In any case, we were standing there in the crowd, hoping to get a table soon, I suppose looking somewhat helpless, when a smallish man with thick gray hair (obviously premature; he looked young) and sad brown eyes moved closer to us and asked if he couldn’t buy us a drink. He had on a dark gray suit (with a vest!) but looked okay. I was the one he had addressed, oddly enough, but it was Anna who said yes, he sure could; we’d love some white wine. At that moment the most striking thing about him, aside from the gray hair, and that vest, was the fact that he had a big fistful of silver dollars, jiggling them in his hand. And when Anna said we’d like white wine he went off to the bar to pay for the drinks—with silver, probably. He came back with the glasses of wine at the same instant that the waiter said our table was ready, and so it seemed polite to ask him to come along—Anna asked him.

  In that way we three sat down in a booth together, David seated across from Anna and me. Right off, after introducing himself, he explained about the silver dollars: he had spent the weekend in Las Vegas, and made a lot of money there. Anna and I laughed at the very idea of Las Vegas, of making money in that way, and he laughed too. The first real luck he’d had in several months, David said, since his divorce. Being single was okay, he guessed, but he missed his kids. Handsome David, with that thick surprising hair, slightly slanted brown eyes, a strong nose and rather delicate narrow mouth—from the start I was very aware of his mouth.

  He told us that he was a lawyer, and I was struck, at that moment, by the odd fact that the only lawyers I know these days are young women—friends of about my own age, I mean. The men I know are in what could be loosely described as the arts, although you would have to stretch that to include journalism and some commercial art. Which, according to a rather conservative friend of mine, explains why I have so often been dumped: I tend to be drawn to “unreliable” artists, beginning with my husband, a painter, who cut out for New York when I was pregnant with Barbara, just leaving a note. (This was not as bad as it sounds; we were not getting along well at all, and it is probably harder to bring up a child with a husband you don’t get along with than by yourself, or that’s what I imagine. Besides, like so many good artists, my husband—my former husband—was much more successful in New York than out here, and sometimes sent money for Barbara.)

  Anna asked David what kind of law he practiced, and he said that actually he was in investments. “I still find it exciting, sometimes,” he said, and he laughed in an appealing way. “Basically I’m just a gambler.”

  I said that sounded like fun, which it suddenly did, and I got a beautiful smile from David. “Well, it is,” he said.

  How is it that certain things between people become so quickly clear? I don’t know, no idea, but quite soon it was obvious that David and I were—relating? communicating?—were compellingly drawn to each other, would probably spend the rest of the evening together, and probably in bed. It was clear too that Anna didn’t mind or feel left out; actually she seemed pleased at the situation, as though she had introduced us to each other, and I could feel her thinking, Oh, at last someone sensible for Maud, a lawyer in a three-piece suit. Also—the early luck of lovers—she was meeting the current man in her own life at the airport, coming up from L.A., later on. And so we all three talked and laughed, and David and I stared at each other with curiosity, sneaking smiles—and with an almost breathless anticipatory lust.

  Then Anna went off to meet her Hollywood friend’s plane, and David and I came back to my place, on Pixley Alley, where Barbara (ten, old enough to be left alone, I hope) was already asleep. And immediately, on my old brown corduroy sofa, we fell to kissing and touching, to falling in love.

  Like Romeo, he left my house near dawn, a faint yellow light that seemed an enemy, so famished were we still for more of each other—although, by then, so utterly exhausted. But I am bringing up Barbara, or trying to, in a way that
could be thought prim, old-fashioned; I do not force the fact of my lovers upon her attention; for the most part I keep them out of sight. And actually there haven’t been so many; my experience with my husband scared me off men for a while, and I was very busy then with Barbara. But I have had a couple of long-term involvements that ended badly, by being dumped; I don’t seem to know when to get out first.

  In David’s case, however, being so much in love, I asked him for dinner with me and Barbara, the very next night.

  He and Barbara got along well. I had made a spicy pot roast that is one of her favorites (and also, I remembered at some time during dinner, the favorite of the last lover in my life before David came along), and David liked it too, and we all ate and laughed a lot together. Obviously used to meals with kids, David did not ask about school or her plans for being a grown-up; instead he mentioned a couple of movies that he’d seen, and he said that when his kids were little he used to take them to the small beach in the Marina, very near us—Barbara and I used to go there too, which she remembered.

  And, aside from a few furtive but uncontrollable embraces when she was doing something in another room, we waited for Barbara to go to bed, to fall asleep. And then we rushed together, wild and insatiable. And tender. In love.

  Two weeks later, that was how we still were, still wildly in love, and astounded at our luck in meeting, although a few problems of a practical nature had made themselves apparent; namely, money and children. About money problems David was very direct, which I liked. When I asked him for dinner again, he said, “It’s really good of you to cook. I’m trying to stay out of restaurants until the next infusion of silver comes along,” and he laughed, making it okay, not grim; and he always brought along the wine. The child problem was harder to get around, though; his three spent weekends with him, and if they met me just then, he thought, they would tell their mother and she would be even angrier, more demanding when they got to court, and it would not be fair to tell them not to tell her, too burdensome. And so the second weekend of knowing each other we were apart for two whole days, early (very early) Saturday morning until late Sunday night. Barbara was less of a problem, having met and liked David; still, she was why we didn’t get to spend the night together.