by Alice Adams
Digesting the terribleness of these facts: Bill returned from Nicaragua safe and sound, and Sara dead and buried there (Celeste: “No, I am not going to have that poor child dug up and ‘re-interred.’ I am not interested in bodies”)—taking in as best they can that dreadful, preposterous unfairness, the three of them are quiet for a time, all breathing hard. However, they are all of an age to have witnessed worse instances of injustice. Life itself is very unfair, they all know that.
“But look, what an incredible day this is,” exclaims Celeste, and she points toward the hazily golden west, where soon the sun will set. Now, in late afternoon, the blue air has begun to chill, though still perfectly clear. From where they stand, on their green hill, they can see all their houses.
And they can see much of the town. San Sebastian, their town. Only, it isn’t our town at all, Dudley is thinking. We’ve quite consciously kept ourselves out of it, back from it (all of us except Polly, that is). Dudley finds this frightening, not in any specific way: she does not imagine that those particular townspeople will rise against them, three relatively innocuous elderly people—but rather in a general way that those long ignored, those dealt with most unfairly, if dealt with at all, must eventually challenge the ruling complacency. Terrifying. She imagines cataclysms.
“Well,” Celeste announces. “My house for tea. It’s time. But I have to stop off on the way to feed Polly’s cats.”
“I’ll just stop by my house to check the mail,” Edward tells them. “I’ll be there in a jiff.”
In his mailbox Edward finds exactly what he would have most hoped for, a card from Freddy—and Freddy on a trip to Oaxaca, where his sister lives. (Edward remembers this fact about Freddy instantly, as he remembers everything connected to Freddy.) The picture is from the Tamayo Museum, a green pottery jar of exceptional beauty, to Edward’s greedy eyes. “This week I am visiting here,” Freddy writes. “A place that I love. We have perfect weather. I wish that you could be here too. All love from Freddy.”
Edward seizes on these words, which he will continue for days to ponder. Famished, he scrutinizes constructions, he searches out possible signals.
The first and most obvious meaning is that Freddy is feeling better, he was able to make this small trip—although Edward knows that the reprieve may be temporary. But: “I wish that you could be here too.” Well, of course Edward could be there, in a flash. In less than a day. But is that what, literally, it means?
In any case, something to think about. Happily. By the time he gets to Celeste’s, his face is out of control, Edward feels. He can’t not smile.
Celeste and Dudley too have a card to show him. From Polly, in Barcelona. “My favorite city,” Polly writes. “I’ll hate to leave. But back Jan. 25. See you then. Love, Polly.” On the other side is a picture of the Maritime Museum, a great vaulted interior of glass and stone, in the foreground the bare wooden ribs of a ship. And the picture has a caption, a motto: Navegar es necesario. Vivir no es necesario.
“ ‘It is not necessary to live.’ How very Spanish, and how very like Polly, don’t you think?” Edward, who is still smiling, asks them this.
They agree.
“The twenty-fifth is next week, though,” Celeste exclaims, in some alarm.
“Well, isn’t that all right? You sound as if Polly isn’t supposed to come home so soon,” Dudley gently chides.
“No, of course that’s not what I mean. I just meant, what do we do now? About, uh, them?”
“You mean, the fact that they are together?” Dudley teases. “Polly and, uh, Victor?”
“I suppose I do mean that. But you must admit, it is odd? We haven’t exactly known him before.”
“Do you mean, do we have a dinner for them?” asks Edward. And he adds, “Why not?”
“I think so too,” agrees Dudley. “It’s what we always do, isn’t it? Someone coming back from a trip?”
“Well, fine then. But who else will we have?” asks Celeste. And then she answers herself, “Maybe, just ourselves? In fact, I think that will be perfect. A little celebration.”
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.