by Alice Adams
She turned to face him, and they both smiled, familiarly, but what Harry said was, “I’m not supposed to tell you this but I have to: you got in!”
Not at first understanding him, Cynthia then thought, Oh, law school. He means Georgetown. And she felt a stab of disappointment, strong and irrational, she knew that. Just what had she wanted him to say? She said, “Oh. Swell.”
Why didn’t he say at least something about her coming back to live there, to live with him? Deciding that she was not so irrational, she scowled. “Goddam it, Harry,” she began.
But whatever diatribe she had had in mind was interrupted by a loud creak from the garden gate, not far behind them. Harry and Cynthia turned to see that the gate was opened by Paxton, Graham’s friend, who was standing closest. And there in the gateway was a very tall, thin, hesitant young woman. Shy and pretty. Light brown, a Negro. Who said to Paxton, in a low half whisper, “I’m looking for Miz Odessa Jones—told me she’d be here.”
Paxton looked politely blank, but Cynthia cried out, “Nellie!” and she hurried over to where the young woman stood, just outside the gate.
But Odessa got there first. Odessa, seeming to swim out from behind and around Cynthia. Odessa, speaking more loudly and harshly than anyone had heard her before, “Girl, where you been?”
But, at the same time, she grasped her daughter, the girl her exact same height, in an enveloping hug that lasted. Then the two women stood apart from each other, and Odessa, now smiling widely, could be seen to be scolding her daughter, but no one, not even Cynthia, so near, could hear the words.
Paxton to Graham: “What on earth was that all about?”
“That young one was Odessa’s daughter, Nellie. I guess she’s been missing, and Odessa’s been really worried.”
“ ‘Odessa?’ What a great name.”
“She’s always been here, she’s a great woman.”
The two young men exchanged a look of great affection. Of pleasure in each other. Of love.
Some yards away, near a splendid group of potted white azaleas, Abby Baird was explaining more or less the same thing to Joseph, and to his mother, Sylvia. “Odessa is really the greatest,” Abby whispered. “She and my mother have always got along, in their way, but Dolly Bigelow—God! explosions.”
“Two strong Southern women,” Joseph mused.
“Yes, Odessa’s stronger, but I’m not sure she knows that.”
Odessa was heading into the house, closely followed by her daughter, and everyone could hear as Odessa said, “I’ve got a whole heap of work to do, and you can help me with it. Never mind if these days you’re a secretary.”
Happily, Nellie laughed. “Come on, Mama. Secretaries work.”
Music blared out over the garden just then. Inappropriately: “Moonlight Serenade,” Glenn Miller. The repetitive slow-dance beat, the insinuatingly sweet thin melody winding in and out. Conversation except with the nearest person became impossible. To Joseph, into his ear, Abigail said, “In high school they always played this for the last dance. Escort no break.”
“What?”
She explained the system, and Joseph laughed as he told her, “You sound as though you liked all that. How can I marry a Southern belle?”
She admitted, “Well, I sort of did. It was hard not to, really. You know, it even smells like one of those dances here. Gardenias, we all wore them, but I don’t see any growing, do you?”
He looked around, “I probably wouldn’t know a gardenia from a turnip.”
“You know, what Billie Holiday wears on her ear.” “Oh.”
Melanctha put her hands over River’s ears, such beautiful long brown silky ears. She knew that he didn’t like music; he disliked it almost as much as he disliked thunder, and guns. And she was sure that he would especially not like this goopy garbage.
Deirdre, who had always liked this song, tried not to cry. She was reminded of so many things, mostly dances back in high school, all those good-looking boys, lots of them probably dead by now in the war. And Derek somewhere on the sidelines of the dance, cross, superior, and more handsome than anyone.
Sniffing the air, with a tone of discovery Cynthia told Harry, “You know what? I smell gardenias—”
He sniffed too. “So do I, but I don’t see any around. What are you wearing?”
“Shalimar, of course. But you know what? I’ll bet Dolly’s sprayed that tacky Jungle Gardenia all over, it’s her favorite.”
“Oh, really?”
“It must be, just smell.”
Harry said, “Shalimar, the only true scent.” He smiled, and as though they were about to dance he said, “About Georgetown, what I mean is, you have to come back and live with me. And be my love.”
They both laughed, but then turned to each other and exchanged a quick hard kiss. Assenting.
Watching them from the kitchen door, joyfully, Dolly told Odessa, who was just behind her, “They’re renewing their vows! Oh, I just knew it.”
But Odessa, though smiling politely, only remarked, “You reckon?”
Books by Alice Adams
Careless Love
Families and Survivors
Listening to Billie
Beautiful Girl (stories)
Rich Rewards
To See You Again (stories)
Superior Women
Return Trips (stories)
After You’ve Gone (stories)
Caroline’s Daughters
Mexico: Some Travels and Travelers There
Almost Perfect
A Southern Exposure
Medicine Men
The Last Lovely City (stories)
After the War
The Stories of Alice Adams
A Note About the Author
Alice Adams was born in Virginia and graduated from Radcliffe College. She was the recipient of an Award in Literature from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation. She lived in San Francisco until her death in 1999.