Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  Patricia struggled to sit up in the dirt. She was damp with sweat, panting, and streaked with dust, but she knew she was more stunned than hurt. Midnight pranced away and was heading out of the gate when Geraldine came hurrying up. She grabbed the reins and gave them a sharp tug before securing the horse to a hitching post. Then she turned to Patricia.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I think so.” Patricia got to her feet.

  “You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

  “No, I broke the fall with my hands.” Patricia extended them now; they were grimy with dirt.

  “He’s never done that before,” said Geraldine. “But there’s been a lot of construction on one of the houses nearby; he doesn’t like the noise, and he’s been edgy lately.” She had Patricia loop her arm around her neck as they walked slowly back to the house; Margaux hovered anxiously alongside, touching Patricia’s shoulder and reaching for her hand. Inside, Patricia went into the bathroom to wash up. Despite Geraldine’s concern, she did not feel she needed to see a doctor. Her wrists hurt, but not excruciatingly so; she could bend them and nothing seemed swollen or distended. But to appease Geraldine she agreed to stay for lunch.

  It was almost four o’clock when they got back in the car. The day had grown appreciably hotter and Patricia felt sticky in her riding clothes. She was looking forward to a long, cool shower and a drink. Wynn would not be here for dinner; he was in town and not due back up until tomorrow night. And she did not think Tom would be back either. Just as well; they could have a little hen party, maybe play checkers, which Margaux liked, or even a hand of cards.

  “You were right,” Margaux said as they drove along the quiet country road. When Patricia gave her a puzzled look, she added, “About Clover. I did miss her and I’m glad I saw her.”

  “I had a feeling you would be,” Patricia said. “Sometimes a mother knows.” She would have reached over to touch her but she couldn’t take her hands from the wheel.

  “It was scary seeing you get thrown,” Margaux continued. “But you’re all right now. It was just a tumble.”

  “Just a tumble,” Patricia repeated. Margaux seemed to be talking more to herself than to her mother. Patricia was quiet, waiting to hear what she would say next. A bee flew in through the open window, buzzed for a few seconds, and then flew out.

  “So many bad things could have happened,” Margaux said. “But they didn’t.”

  For some reason, Margaux’s remark made Patricia want to weep; she turned her face away. “Daddy said he’d take you sailing this weekend,” she said. “How would you like that?”

  “I’d love it,” Margaux said. “We haven’t been since—”

  “You got sick,” Patricia said. “But that’s all over now. Daddy says if Henryka packs lunch, you two can stay out on the boat all day.” How dear of Wynn to have suggested it.

  “Can Eleanor go with us?” Margaux asked.

  “We’ll see,” Patricia said, knowing that this would be a terrible plan. The sailboats were rented through the club, a place where it was clear Eleanor was uncomfortable. And Wynn had continued to grumble sporadically about having one of them under their roof for so long. “She wants something from you, can’t you see that?” he’d said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Patricia had said. But that was before she’d realized the extent of Eleanor’s infatuation with Tom. And though it pained her to consider the situation in this light, now she had to wonder if Wynn had been right after all. Maybe Eleanor did have designs on Tom, though what exactly those designs were Patricia could not say. Surely she couldn’t be thinking he’d marry her. Or could she? Suddenly, she was in a hurry to get back to the house and she pressed down on the gas pedal.

  But now the road was clogged with cars; the traffic slowed, and then stopped. “What’s wrong?” Margaux asked. Patricia couldn’t answer until a policeman came along to explain; there was emergency roadwork up ahead and traffic was being diverted through Nottingham.

  “That’s way out of our way,” Margaux said.

  “I know,” said Patricia. “But it seems we have no choice.”

  By the time they pulled into their own driveway, it was almost seven o’clock. Patricia’s wrists had begun to throb. God, but that first drink would taste good. The second one too; this was definitely a two-drink evening.

  “Eleanor!” Margaux called, getting out of the car and hobbling down the path on her walking stick. “Eleanor, where are you? We’ve had such an adventure!”

  Patricia got out as well and stretched her sore limbs, her aching wrists. The relief she felt at being home turned brittle when she saw that Tom’s car was already in the driveway. She could bet, then, that wherever Tom was, Eleanor was sure to be with him. She got out of the car and walked toward the house so quickly that she overtook Margaux, who said, “Wait for me!” But Patricia kept on going.

  The screen door was unlocked and she moved from room to room, in search of them. Not in the dining room, living room, sunporch, or kitchen. Surely they weren’t upstairs in Tom’s bedroom. “Where are they?” Her voice was sharp when she spoke to Henryka, who was at the table, rolling out dough for biscuits.

  “Mr. Tom and Miss Eleanor?” As if she didn’t know who Patricia meant.

  “Yes.”

  “They in cottage.”

  Of course. Patricia started walking out the kitchen door just as Margaux walked in.

  “Mother, where did you go? You rushed off so quickly,” she said accusingly.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I was looking for Tom and Eleanor.” Her wrists continued to throb, her white blouse, now smudged and stained, was sticking to her skin, her boots squeezed her swollen feet, and she really wanted a drink. But it was imperative that she find them immediately.

  “I’ll come with you,” Margaux said.

  When they reached the cottage door, Patricia knocked and then opened it before she had a reply. There, as she suspected, sat her brother and her daughter’s tutor, side by side on the love seat, drinks in hand. Their positions were chaste enough, but Patricia’s shrewd gaze caught the fact that fastidious Eleanor’s blouse was not buttoned properly. Was that because she’d taken it off and had to button it back up in a hurry?

  “Hello, you two beauties,” said ever unflappable Tom. “How was your ride?”

  “I didn’t go but Mother did and Midnight threw her—she could have been hurt!”

  “Oh no!” cried Eleanor with real concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” said Patricia. “Just a little shaken and in desperate need of a shower.”

  “And a drink,” said Tom. “I’ll go back to the house and make you one right now.”

  “Don’t let me break up your little—party,” Patricia said. “I can make my own drink.”

  “Maybe so. But why should you?” Tom stood and so did Eleanor. Patricia noticed that she looked flustered. Not Tom though.

  As the sun dipped gracefully behind the trees, the four of them walked back across the lush and sweet-smelling grass. The trees were lush too, and some of the boughs dipped low, almost to the ground. Everything seemed to be in full bloom, bursting urgently with life. Why, Patricia wondered, did she find this quite so unsettling?

  Eleven

  A few nights later, Margaux came into the living room proffering Patricia’s crystal atomizer filled with Chanel No. 5. “Want me to spray you?” Eleanor wavered; she did love the scent, which Margaux had already applied to herself quite liberally. But Eleanor was afraid that Patricia would think she had helped herself without asking. She shook her head. “Why not? It smells so good,” Margaux said.

  “Your dress is enchanting,” Eleanor said, changing the subject.

  Margaux looked down at her high-waisted organdy frock. “Do you really think so? It’s not too babyish?”

  “Not at all,” Eleanor said. “It’s perfect.”

  Margaux beamed. “Well, if you’re sure about the perfume . . .”

  “I�
��m sure,” Eleanor told her. “Now I should get dressed too. It’s almost eight.”

  Eleanor left Margaux in her room and hurried back to the guest cottage. It was Friday night and the Bellamys were having a party; they’d asked Eleanor to join them. She really would have preferred not to, but Margaux had been quite insistent and it was for Margaux’s sake that Eleanor had agreed.

  The guest list included the Talbots, John and Dottie, from across the road; they didn’t seem so bad, but some of the others—the Maitlands, for instance, and the Olsens—she had met either in town or at the club and their response had been discernibly frosty. What was it they perceived about her that made them so hostile? Was she so different, so alien?

  But Tom would be there, and that would make everything better. Since that first kiss, they had not been able to find many opportunities to be alone. But they had shared two more such moments, including one two days ago, before Patricia had barged into the cottage. Each kiss had been more intoxicating than the last. Maybe there would be an opportunity for another tonight.

  It was this thought that buoyed her as she quickly stepped into her black taffeta skirt and pale pink silk blouse. The skirt was a bit faded and, because she had bought it during the war, short and skimpy and therefore out of style; the blouse was slightly limp from frequent wearing. But she’d worn her new summer dress several times already and wanted to choose something different. And she did have a darling silk fascinator her mother had made, pink with black trim along the crown and a saucy black tassel at the back. It would, she knew, revitalize her rather wan outfit.

  In the bathroom, she reached for the round box of Djer-Kiss to powder her nose and thought longingly of the Chanel. One day soon she would buy a bottle for herself. Then she carefully applied her new lipstick: Dorothy Gray’s Portrait Pink. She seldom wore lipstick but the color was subtle and pretty; she hoped Tom would like it.

  When Eleanor went back over to the house, several of the guests had already arrived. Tom was not among them though. She stood stiffly near the window, wishing he would hurry and get here. Mr. Bellamy was busy pouring drinks; Patricia was dispensing hugs to the Maitlands. “What can I get you, Miss Moss?” asked Mr. Bellamy. It seemed that he was mocking her slightly, but then, she always felt he was mocking her.

  “A glass of ginger ale, please,” she said.

  “Ginger ale? I’ve seen you drink before. With Tom. Have you gone on the wagon?” He took a long sip of his own drink; Eleanor was quite sure it was not the first of the evening.

  “No,” she said. “I like to pace myself, that’s all.”

  But when he returned with the ginger ale, he seemed more affable. “I added a cherry,” he said. “To pep it up. It’s summer, and you’re young. You have to enjoy yourself. Gather ye rosebuds and all that.”

  Eleanor reached for the glass but at the last second, he pulled it away, moving his hand here and there, always managing to stay just ahead of her reach. She began to get frustrated and was ready to walk away without the drink when he suddenly stopped and gave it to her.

  “I was just teasing,” he said. “No hard feelings?”

  “Of course not.” The cherry bobbed on the fizzy drink, and she pulled it out and popped it in her mouth.

  “Now the cherry’s gone,” he said, lowering his voice suggestively. “And it will never come back.” He was practically leering. “No more cherry for Eleanor.”

  His crude insinuation was clear and she didn’t answer; why should she? Instead, she turned away, and as she did, she felt his hand glance off her backside, a light, insolent smack. She was instantly furious and whirled back around. Over the rim of his glass, his expression was both predatory and challenging. What are you going to do? his eyes seemed to say. But then her fury was replaced by something equally primal—fear. She wanted to get away from him, as quickly as she could. And suddenly there was Tom, tall and rangy in his seersucker jacket and bow tie. Just in time. Not caring how it might look, she rushed right over.

  “Hello, Eleanor,” was all he said. But to Eleanor, it sounded like music. She had to restrain herself from reaching out to stroke the smooth polished cotton of his shirtfront. Then that odious Olsen woman—she was the one who’d been incredulous to learn that anyone actually lived on Second Avenue—pounced on him and Eleanor moved away. She turned to look for Margaux instead and when she caught sight of her, sitting by herself with a drink on the sunporch, she walked right over to join her.

  “It’s a Shirley Temple,” Margaux said when she saw Eleanor eyeing it. “But Uncle Tommy promised me a taste of his Manhattan later. You can’t tell Daddy though!”

  “I promise.” The memory of his hand on her body made her feel slightly sick and she sat down on the chintz-covered wicker sofa next to Margaux. “Are you having a good time?” An overstuffed, fringed pillow prevented her from leaning back; it felt like the pillow wanted to push her from her seat. She reached behind and moved it out of her way.

  “All right, I guess,” Margaux said. “I don’t like how people try to look at my leg though. Spying almost. They look because they can’t help themselves; they really do want to see it. Then they look away. Because they’re ashamed. Or worse—because they don’t want me to see how relieved they are.”

  “Relieved?”

  “That it’s my leg that’s withered. Not theirs.”

  Eleanor thought, as she often did, of how precocious Margaux could be. Was it because of her illness, or would she have been that way even if she hadn’t been stricken? She looked up to see Patricia standing in front of them; she wore a wine-colored dress of watered silk and a tight, manufactured smile.

  “Margaux, darling, why don’t you play something for our guests?” she said, gesturing toward the walnut upright that stood in a far corner of the living room.

  “I don’t want to,” Margaux said. She reached over toward a silver bowl filled with nuts and took a large handful. A few nuts slipped from her fingers and into her lap. She did not appear to notice, though Eleanor was sure her mother did.

  “Why not, darling? You play so well.” Patricia stood there, expectantly, hands clasped tightly in front of her. In actuality, Margaux was an indifferent music student possessed of only a moderately accomplished technique.

  “I just don’t.” Margaux crunched loudly on the nuts. Eleanor knew how this behavior irritated Patricia. She also knew that Patricia was determined to prove to her friends that despite Margaux’s illness, the girl was still intact, still capable of performing parlor tricks and taking her rightful place in her mother’s world. Eleanor knew Patricia genuinely loved her daughter; why would she put the approval of her guests before Margaux’s feelings?

  “Eleanor, would you ask her? She seems to be in your thrall,” Patricia said.

  There was an edge to the remark and Eleanor felt it immediately. What to do? She hated being drawn into this contest of wills, but there was no graceful way to refuse her employer’s request. “Margaux,” she began, “I’d like to hear you play something too. Would you please play for me?”

  “If you’ll sit with me while I play,” Margaux answered, and when Eleanor nodded, Margaux hoisted herself onto her walking stick, scattering nuts to the floor. Eleanor followed her out of the sunporch, into the living room and toward the piano. Patricia clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’re going to be treated to a little concert tonight,” she said. “Margaux asked if she could play something for all of you.”

  Eleanor looked down at the ivory-and-black keys. She did not like hearing Patricia lie; she thought it demeaned her. But Margaux did not protest. She slid onto the bench, Eleanor beside her, where she proceeded to play a serviceable—if dull—rendition of “Für Elise.” Polite applause followed the performance and then, mercifully, Patricia turned to one of the other guests.

  “What about you, Freddy? Isn’t it your turn?” He must have had a following among the company because everyone began to urge him to play. Freddy—thinning hair; wide, flat face
; bright blue eyes—seemed happy to oblige. He made a great show of flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles before bursting into a rousing, syncopated version of “The Whiffenpoof Song.”

  Margaux used her walking stick to go back to the sunporch, and Eleanor followed. “Why does she do that?” Margaux asked when they were safely out of earshot.

  Eleanor didn’t pretend not to understand. “She worries about you. She thinks you’re too isolated. She wants you to feel comfortable with people.” Eleanor sat down on the wicker sofa again, but not before placing the offending pillow on the floor. Margaux flopped down next to her; the little sofa quivered in response.

  “She can’t know what it feels like to be me,” Margaux said. “And she can’t know what it feels like to have this.” She looked down.

  “Say, what are the two prettiest gals in the room doing way over here by themselves?” Tom strode up and yanked over a footstool so he could sit.

  “We’re having a little talk,” Eleanor said.

  “It looks very serious. Too serious, if you ask me.” He turned to Margaux. “Have you seen this one before?” His long, aristocratic fingers made a few graceful gestures near the side of his head and voilà! he’d pulled a quarter from his ear and presented it with a flourish to Margaux.

  “Uncle Tommy, you’re so corny,” she said, taking the quarter and holding it tightly. But she was smiling, her gloomy mood of a moment ago seemingly dispelled by his sunny presence.

  “Corny? For producing money out of thin air? Today it’s a quarter, but tomorrow it could be a silver dollar. Or a gold doubloon. Nothing silly about that. No, ma’am.”

  Freddy was still regaling the other guests with his piano playing; he had moved on to “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Several people began to dance to the music and Tom, after glancing over in their direction, turned to Eleanor. “May I have the honor?” he said. And to Margaux, “Can I borrow her for a little while? I promise to give her back.”

  Eleanor got up and handed Margaux her evening purse. “My new lipstick is in there, along with a mirror. Try it if you want.”