Quinn

by Sally Mandel

  “Damned if I know, honeypot,” Will bellowed.

  “Shh!” Quinn protested.

  As the car pulled away from the curb she leaned forward to wave at the neighbors’ animated parlor-window curtains, attempting the familiar stiff gesture of Queen Elizabeth the second. She turned to grin at Will.

  He wore a white turtleneck sweater, a navy blazer, and gray slacks. His hair, freshly washed, had dried in a soft wave across his forehead. The sunstreaks made him look as if he had just dropped into town from Acapulco.

  “You don’t look out of your element in this heap,” Quinn said. “You’re a natural profligate.”

  He yanked on a lock of her hair. “Some of the greatest English monarchs were redheads, you know.”

  “If you value your life, don’t mention it to Jake.” She hooked a strand behind her ear and listened hard for the engine’s purr. “I wish I’d had the chance to take a look under that hood. Maybe I can sneak down to the garage after dinner.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not abandoning me to the Yankee Establishment.”

  “You’re nervous.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No. What for?”

  “Well, I’m just a hick from Idaho. I don’t know about this Boston Brahmin stuff.”

  “Neither do I. But that makes me curious, not nervous. Besides, Ingraham, you’re so loaded with class you’ll dazzle ’em. Mark my words.”

  He leaned over to kiss her on the mouth. “They’re marked. And I don’t care to dazzle. I just don’t want to screw things up for Van and Stanley.”

  The Rolls turned up a cobblestone street that was lined with town houses, mostly brick with white trim. Decorative lanterns shone on graceful wrought-iron railings. Cars were parked along the curb where there should have been horse-drawn carriages; otherwise the street was a portrait of another time. There was a feeling of safety here, of the preservation of valuable things, not just possessions but orderliness, a respect for history, and a kind of stolid optimism.

  “There ain’t nothin’ like it in Red Falls,” Will said.

  “Not in Medham either.”

  A butler met them at the front door and reached for their nonexistent coats. Without missing a beat he smoothly withdrew his hands, as if the gesture had been an adjustment of his cuffs. He led Quinn and Will to a high-ceilinged, paneled room that managed to be elegant and cozy simultaneously. Stanley and Van were sitting on an exquisite Louis the Fifteenth sofa. Dr. and Mrs. Huntington faced them on its mate. A glass cocktail table between the two couples held a silver tray of decanters and crystal tumblers, wineglasses, and goblets. Stanley and Vanessa leapt up as if the springs had suddenly burst through the brocade upholstery to hurl them toward the ceiling.

  “So glad you’re here,” they said, bumping noses to kiss Quinn. The butler did not depart exactly; he seemed to fade and become gradually invisible.

  Stanley wrung Will’s hand until his fingers were white from the compression of blood vessels. Dr. and Mrs. Huntington had risen as well, but stood by the fireplace, waiting and smiling remotely. Quinn regarded them with curiosity over Vanessa’s cashmere shoulder. They had beautiful teeth.

  “We’re so pleased you could come,” Mrs. Huntington said. She had Van’s long-boned face, but more chiseled so that she was handsome rather than pretty. Dr. Huntington’s was fleshy. Quinn decided that he must have been handsome in a standard kind of way when he was young but his small features had not aged well. If it weren’t for his height and grace, the man would be quite indistinguished. Van was fortunate to have inherited her mother’s looks.

  Quinn addressed her attention to Dr. Huntington. “I want to thank you for sending me to Dr. Loomis,” she said. “He was very kind to me.”

  “How was the old man?” the doctor asked.

  “He said to tell you for him that you’re a son of a bitch,” Quinn said.

  Mrs. Huntington looked startled, but her husband laughed and propelled Quinn over to the sofa. While they drank cocktails, Dr. Huntington regaled them with reminiscences of macabre pranks from medical-school days. Meanwhile, Stanley practiced drinking martinis, and by nine o’clock his eyes had a certain unfocused glaze. Quinn’s stomach had begun to growl loudly enough for Will to raise his eyebrows at her. The butler became visible again beside a paneled section of the wall and ushered them into the dining room.

  The seating arrangements were accomplished in an atmosphere as formal and hushed as the room. Quinn made note of the wallpaper above the mahogany wainscoting. It was a reproduction of a pattern she had seen in an exhibit at the Gardner Museum. Will would be interested. No doubt he would also ask her in that deadpan hick voice of his if the Huntingtons were reproductions as well. She caught sight of Van’s panicked expression. While Quinn was absorbing the decor, a vast silence had settled over the dinner table. “What lovely silver, Mrs. Huntington. It’s antique, isn’t it?” Quinn asked.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Huntington. “Yes, it belonged to my great-grandmother, who was a friend of Abigail Adams.”

  “Isn’t that thrilling?” Quinn said to Will. She held up a teaspoon. “Maybe Abigail drank untaxed tea from this very spoon.”

  “Actually,” Dr. Huntington interjected, “Myra’s father swiped the entire set from the Copley Plaza in 1946.”

  The general laughter was more uproarious than was warranted. Quinn noticed that Dr. Huntington’s face had lost the relaxed aura of geniality she had seen in the other room. The eyes were bloodshot, and there was something fraudulent about the smile. Hadn’t Van once told her something about her father’s being terribly impressed with his wife’s social prominence? Apparently he resented it, too; that was a nasty crack about the silverware. Mrs. Huntington had laughed a stiff decorous death rattle, but was patently wounded. She didn’t look at her husband. And neither of them ever seemed to look at Stanley. Quinn wondered if they knew that Stanley once had an audience with the queen in Buckingham Palace. It was the sort of thing that would impress them. Her mind began to whir. She saw that Will had already started on Mrs. Huntington. Lord, he could charm the peel off a banana if he only set his mind to it.

  “For a westerner, the history of New England is maybe even more precious,” Will was saying. “A place like this, Beacon Hill, for example. It hurts to see even one old town house cut up into apartments. It must be like the death of a friend.”

  Go get ’em, Uriah Heep, Quinn thought. But Mrs. Huntington was leaning toward him with a flushed face.

  “Isn’t that amazing?” she gushed. “I was just feeling that very same way recently when the Stanfords next door sold their house. Apparently some real estate person bought it for speculation, and heaven knows what will become of it in the end. Probably it’ll be razed and made into a parking lot. Imagine, it was built in 1791. I don’t know if I can bear to look Amanda Stanford in the eye again.”

  That end of the table accounted for, Quinn concentrated on prodding Dr. Huntington into a conversation with Stanley. The doctor sat at the head of the table with Quinn on his right and Stanley on his left, a perfect configuration for her purposes. The challenge plus four ounces of expensive wine brought an attractive blush to her cheeks.

  “Van tells me you’ve been doing volunteer work with the clinic,” Quinn said.

  “A couple of hours a week, yes,” Dr. Huntington answered.

  “I never think of doctors as rating very high in the altruism department. Aren’t you pretty exceptional?” Quinn’s face was all admiration. She kept glancing at Stanley to include him. She didn’t want him sidetracked into another conversation.

  Apparently the subject put a hairline fracture in Dr. Huntington’s crust of bemused detachment. He went so far as to shake his forefinger at Quinn for emphasis. “I keep trying to persuade my colleagues that it’s not only a humanitarian gesture. If every physician would only donate a few hours a week, we wouldn’t be facing the specter of socialized medicine.”

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nbsp; Ah, bless you, she thought. Unwittingly he had precipitated the arrival of Quinn’s conversational destination.

  “Do you think socialized medical care would be so disastrous?” she asked.

  “Unquestionably. You’d see such a decline in quality, patients would be dropping like flies. Thank you, Evelyn.” He helped himself to a slab of roast beef from a heavy silver platter. Evelyn had well-developed biceps, Quinn noticed.

  “I wonder how it’s working out in England,” Quinn said. Dr. Huntington began to reply, but Quinn quickly rushed on. “Stan? What was your feeling about socialized medicine when you were in London? You know, if it’s working out.” Almost home.

  Stanley swallowed an enormous lump of beef un-chewed. “As a matter of fact, I had an opportunity to sample the system firsthand. The emergency room was slow and inefficient, but once they finally got around to fixing me up, they did a good job of it.”

  “What was the problem?” Dr. Huntington asked him.

  “Food poisoning.”

  “Must have been the crumpets from your visit with the queen.” Quinn dropped it ever so casually. Stanley smiled at her, and she read his eyes: You devious little thing, they said.

  Myra Huntington’s face snapped around from the foot of the table, bringing to an abrupt halt her lamentations regarding historical preservation in Newport, Rhode Island.

  “You’re kidding,” Will said, fully aware that she was not.

  “Stanley had tea at Buckingham Palace,” Quinn reiterated firmly.

  “How interesting, Stanley,” Myra Huntington said. She kept her voice mild, but her curiosity showed in the eager arch of her torso. She was eight feet away from Stanley, but somehow seemed to be leaning close enough to touch noses with him.

  “It’s not all that interesting,” Stanley said with just the right touch of modesty. But by Myra Huntington’s standards there was plenty to tell, not so much his being chosen to participate in a summer drama apprenticeship at the Royal Academy, but rather the list of notables present at the palace reception. Stanley recalled the names of nearly every lord and lady, embellishing the list with only one imaginary luminary named Randolph Higgenbotham-Ramsey.

  “You never told us Stanley was so active in the drama,” Mrs. Huntington accused Van.

  “No,” Van said. She restrained herself from adding Would it have helped?

  The conversation had loosened now. When Stanley spoke, he was granted the courtesy of full attention from the Huntingtons rather than the cool gaze usually reserved for other people’s ill-mannered children.

  After dinner Dr. and Mrs. Huntington said good night and left the young people by the fireside to evaluate the evening.

  “An abundance of snow in the area tonight,” Stanley remarked.

  “A blizzard was just what we needed,” Van said. “Thank you, both of you.”

  “If we could only install you here permanently,” Stanley continued.

  Quinn adopted a heavy brogue. “In the words of my aged father, the queen sits on the pot just like everybody else.”

  There was a burst of laughter. “It would have been comforting if you’d mentioned that while we were on the subject of Buckingham Palace,” Stanley said.

  “I was too busy imagining Vanessa’s father on the toilet.”

  “Very crass,” Will said. He draped an arm around Quinn’s shoulder and pulled her next to him. “Look at the way that decanter shatters the light from the fire. Prisms all over the ceiling.”

  Van snuggled against Stanley. “Will,” she said, “how’d you know Mother was such a Henry James fanatic?”

  “Intuition,” he answered. “And the bookcase.”

  “If she could have eaten her chocolate souffle out of your hand, she would have.”

  “The good doctor is taking us to his club for dinner tomorrow night,” Stanley said. “The membership’s all turning out to see what a Jew looks like.”

  “Just be yourself and try to look biblical,” Van suggested.

  “They’ve all got kids with names like Hilary and Darcy and Muffin,” Stanley said. “I like John Mallory’s advice better. In my mind’s eye every Queen Anne chair shall become a commode.”

  They sat drinking wine and talking until there was nothing left in the fireplace except soft red coals. In the car on the way home Quinn asked Will if he had noticed the exquisite wallpaper reproductions.

  “No,” he answered. “Are the Huntingtons reproductions too?” Quinn’s delight baffled him, but he endured her enthusiastic kiss without complaint.

  Chapter 22

  Will and Quinn heaved their luggage onto the trolley and climbed gratefully out of the piercing cold of Commonwealth Avenue. The car clicked and rocked, slowing as the traffic became more congested near Boston University.

  “Place looks more like a factory than a college,” Will said.

  “That tower’s the law school,” Quinn told him. “So how come you never told me what you thought of Tommy Flanagan?”

  “Will you explain to me someday how your synapses transport you from one subject to the next?”

  “If you tell me what you thought of Tommy Flanagan.”

  “He has nice teeth.”

  “I wish you’d try to be a little jealous.”

  “Find me a worthy opponent and I will be.”

  “I always said you were an arrogant bastard,” Quinn remarked. “You know, it’s amazing,” she continued slowly. “I have this sort of mild curiosity about him now. I wish him well, but there’s no … passion.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She leaned against his shoulder. “It’s kind of scary.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to get too too involved with you.”

  Will laughed.

  “Don’t laugh. I think I’m getting clutched.”

  He wished she hadn’t said it. He depended on Quinn for optimism. From the very beginning she had always insisted that everything would work out, she’d make it work out. Now, as the trolley drove into the tunnel below Kenmore Square, Will’s stomach took a plunge as well. When Quinn admitted fear, a chasm opened up under him.

  “I’m scared about Ann, too. I keep willing her to go into remission and she’s not cooperating.”

  “How realistic is that?”

  “It’s possible. Lupus isn’t cancer.” She laced her arm through his and held on tight. “Jesus, it’s dark in here.” Will leaned his cheek against the top of her head. Her hair was smooth and warm.

  She drew away and stared up at him, her face an ashen moon in the sepulchral light of the underground. “If you ever take off on me, I’ll kill you. I swear, I’ll come after you with a pickax and stab you through the heart.”

  Will put his hand behind her neck and pulled her against him again. They sat in silence until they reached their stop and boarded the bus for Springfield.

  Back at school a strain began to develop between them. The jokes about life in New York City versus the wilds of Idaho grew forced and were soon eliminated from their conversations altogether. An accidental mention of the future precipitated long silences. Quinn received a letter from Mr. Ted Manning himself, granting her an interview. She didn’t tell Will about it for two days.

  They survived by avoidance. Quinn was inundated with work in the garage, and Will was struggling with Harvey, trying to find a way to ease the separation that would come with graduation. February arrived, and with it a thaw that produced record mild temperatures and the inability for anyone to tend to business. Will and Quinn decided to take Harvey fishing.

  That Thursday was particularly mild. The ground was covered with a soft mist, and everything smelled fresh and damp. Quinn was nervous. She hadn’t seen Harvey since that initial trip to the bowling alley, and did not look forward to his expression when she showed up with Will at school. Will had prepared him, but Quinn suspected that he had prayed all week for her to contract the flu or break her foot.
r />   “H’lo,” Harvey said dutifully, eyes downcast. Will handed Quinn the fishing rods, wrapped an arm around each of them, and headed for the bus stop.

  The seats in the front half of the Forestport bus were built to hold two people each. Harvey slipped quickly into a window seat. Will reached for a small brown hand and hauled Harvey to the long row of empty seats at the back of the bus. They waited until Harvey chose a spot so that he and Quinn could sit on either side of him. Harvey kept his face turned rigidly toward Will.

  “It’s hot back here, man.”

  “Yup,” Will agreed.

  “Gotta put the niggers in the back of the bus.”

  “Oh, shut up, Harve,” Will said.

  Quinn was staring at Harvey’s sneaker. It had come untied. “Better fix that shoelace or you’ll trip,” she commented.

  Harvey glanced down at his right foot. “Can’t,” he said.

  “I’ll tie it, then,” Quinn said quickly and reached down.

  “No!” Harvey jerked his legs out of her reach. “I like it that way, man.”

  Suddenly she understood. Harvey had outgrown his sneakers, and kept the laces undone to allow maximum space for his cramped toes.

  “Oh.” Her voice was stricken.

  “One of these days we’ll have to get you a new pair,” Will said.

  “I don’t need anything from you,” Harvey murmured.

  “It would give me pleasure to buy you a present, you little creep,” Will said. “You’ll just have to put up with it.”

  Harvey’s eyelashes were spiky with unshed tears. Quinn was nearly overcome with the urge to grab the little body and hold on tight, but she sat on her hands and looked out the window. The bus had carried them past the ghetto streets and out into farm country. Finally it stopped with a hiss and let them off by the Forestport post office. There was a short walk past half a dozen shoebox-style houses, and then they turned down a dirt road that wound through the woods. The ground was squishy beneath their feet from patches of melting snow and ice. They inhaled the clean, sharp smell of wet earth. Quinn began jumping over intermittent puddles in a kind of hopscotch game. Harvey watched her curiously.