Autobiography of Us (17 page)

I can only think now that Holly Stevens did what she could. She was brilliant, as I said, and it must have killed her to see the rest of us make our clumsy mistakes. She must have examined the lineup of students that first day and dismissed us immediately, even Eugene Price; we were all of us deadweight, mortals with faulty minds and slow fingers, scratching out our answers in pencil we promptly smudged. But now I’m just being cruel. No doubt Holly Stevens understood all along what it took me until that meeting with Professor Potts to discover: Both of us were working on borrowed time, a narrow window of years in which we were permitted to believe we might be allowed to do as we pleased. To be
great,
as Eleanor had said. Holly Stevens had simply chosen to use that time as best she could, to snap up knowledge so long as it was made available to her and tuck it away in her exquisite mind, before it was too late.

* * *

What else can I tell you about the rest of that long year? I spent most of it by myself, shut up in my room or out by the football fields, where I brought my lunch on the days I had to stay on campus for afternoon classes. I ate on the grass, one of my old novels spread open on the ground in front of me in case anyone happened to walk by. It was purely for show. I found I was no longer able to read—strange, because books had always been such a comfort to me, but at a certain point that year I became too easily distracted, the concentration required to follow one sentence to the next proving elusive, beyond my grasp. Classes proved a similar challenge, my notebooks remaining more or less empty well into the semester, my pencils often not so much as removed from their case by the end of the hour. Of course, I was taking hardly anything of interest by that point, but I’m afraid I can’t blame my listlessness entirely on the subject matter—home ec or the history of Aesop’s Fables. It was something far more simple: It had all just come to feel like too much effort.

I spent a certain amount of time driving. As the months passed, my mother lost interest in my whereabouts. She seemed hardly to notice whether I stayed or went, giving me a nod when I came through the front door or a distracted wave from the armchair where she had begun spending most of her time, embroidering stacks of pillowcases, none of which I recall ever seeing finished, let alone put into use. She appeared for all intents and purposes to have given up, to have—like Bobby Pierce’s father—washed her hands of me. I’m afraid I took advantage of what I now understand must have been a great sadness on her part, spending most of my free afternoons out driving the Ford aimlessly along the back roads. It was a relief just to be out of the house and away from school, away from the sight of Alex or any of the rest of them cutting across the quad—enough so that I was happy to spend hours going nowhere, driving in circles, really. Winter brought rainstorms that sent water rushing down the gutters along El Molino, my father carefully folding that morning’s newspaper into his shoes before he left for work, to keep his feet dry. The rain gave my drives a welcome feeling of urgency, as though I had no choice but to be out there navigating the roads in the downpour, my hands steadying the wheel.

What else? As the weather grew warmer, every day on campus brought some small reminder of our approaching graduation—a poster for a party or a sign reminding seniors to double-check the information for their diplomas. I tried not to think about how different those final weeks might have felt. Each dormitory arranged its own special celebration for the night before graduation, and occasionally I found my mind drifting to what minor task I might have offered to take charge of for Cullers—balloons, say, or refreshments, Betsy and I driving clear out to Santa Monica to track down some exotic ingredient for a punch. I might have baked a cake, something Mother would have clapped her hands over and declared
divine
. It hurt especially to think of how much she’d been looking forward to this time. She would have been in fine form—fretting over my selection of dresses for the dances, allotting a special column in her first-of-the-month finances to what she likely would have dubbed
Et Cetera: R—
a new lipstick, a compact, a pair of heels she would have taken me to Neiman’s half a dozen times to deliberate over before purchasing, the triumph of the final selection enough to leave her in high spirits for days.

* * *

As it was, there was little talk of the upcoming festivities. My father asked one night at dinner if I knew the date for our commencement, and when I told him he drew out his calendar and marked it on the appropriate page. Mother said nothing in particular until she appeared in my doorway with my graduation dress the week before the ceremony, the heavy white muslin zipped carefully into its special bag. The dress she’d sewn herself the spring before, both of us unduly pleased with how it came out, her smile—as I turned to make the skirt flare—triumphant. “I thought we might need a final fitting,” she said now. “If you have a minute?”

I stood in front of my bed while she pinned, her face pensive as she knelt in front of me. “You’ve lost more weight,” she said.

“I haven’t had much of an appetite.”

She sighed. “You’re just like your father, I swear. The slightest touch of nerves…” She reached into the pocket of her housecoat and drew out a handful of pins. “Hold still.” She pinched the material at my waist with her fingers, and I held my breath as she stuck the pin in. “You’re looking forward to it?”

“Graduation? I guess.”

“Any word from the other girls?” I looked down at her, but she was frowning at one of her pins. “They must be planning something.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She wriggled the pin through. “Rebecca—” I waited. “I don’t suppose you’ve given the summer any thought.”

“Summer?” I pretended to think. “No, not especially.”

“I saw a sign advertising for volunteers at the Ladies’ Auxiliary downtown the other day, that’s all. I’ve been meaning to mention it. Careful.” She held the pin beside my hip. “Two more on this side and then one on the other.” She frowned, using both thumbs to push the pin through the thick material. “Well? What do you think?”

I looked at my reflection. The dress had wide shoulder straps and a sweetheart neckline, which had gone in and out of style but was at the present decidedly out. A year earlier I’d admired the neckline, considered it elegant, even, but now I thought it made the whole thing look girlish, too young. “It’ll do.”

“Not the
dress
,” she said, impatient. “The Ladies’ Auxiliary. It’s not our neighborhood, which I thought might be nice. New faces. A fresh start. Not to mention it would show everyone you’re doing your best to make amends. And who knows? You might end up working on a few events with the Pasadena chapter. The Rose Parade, for instance. I happen to know that’s a collaborative affair.” She held her breath as she pushed the final pin in. “All done.” I turned and she unhooked the back for me, turning modestly away as I stepped out of the dress and into my skirt and blouse.

“I suppose that sounds alright.”

She sat down rather suddenly on the bed. “This hasn’t been easy on any of us.”

“I know that.”

“It all came as the most enormous shock.” She pressed the tips of her fingers together, the gesture oddly prayerful. “You were always such a good girl, Rebecca. Dreamy, maybe. Easily distracted. But I never thought for a minute I’d have to worry about you.”

“I wish I could take it back. I really do—”

But she kept going. “I don’t know where I went wrong. I honestly don’t.” She held up her hand. “Please let me finish. Your father and I worked diligently to make ourselves valuable members of this community. I’m not sure you fully understand the sacrifices involved, but you can imagine how painful it’s been to watch our years of hard work come to nothing. Nevertheless—” She cleared her throat lightly. “Excuse me. What I mean to say is that I do realize this must have been difficult for you as well. I am not a monster. I am simply trying to do what’s best for this family. I have only ever tried to do what is best for all of us.”

I sat down beside her, laying the dress across my knees. “I’d give anything to make it up to you and Daddy.”

“Then tell me you’ll make an effort.” She turned to me eagerly, her expression pleading. “That’s all people need to see.”

“I don’t know what difference it would make—”

“But I do.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s been nearly a year, after all.” She gave me a small smile. “I think it’s worth a try. Don’t you?”

But I could hardly bear to look at her. I had already decided, you see: I would leave for San Francisco the night of graduation, my suitcase packed and stowed under my bed, what little money I’d saved from the odd babysitting job here and there over the years tucked into an envelope and knotted with a piece of string. “Ladies’ Auxiliary sounds like a wonderful idea,” I said at last.

“Do you mean it?” She looked genuinely happy for the first time in months.

I gave her my best smile. “Why not?”

“Then that’s that.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze as she stood, draping the dress over her arm. “I’ll just run this through the Singer and we’ll be done in a flash.”

She was out in the hallway when I called to her. “What is it?” She turned, her face bright in a way that made me feel terrible.

“I really am so sorry,” I said, my chest tight.

She came back into my room then and embraced me where I sat, her cheek cool against mine. “I know,” she said. “Dear girl.”

GRADUATION day dawned hot and humid. I stood on the platform with the other
summa
students, one row down from Holly Stevens, needle-thin in a dress that hung off her like a sail. Alex and the others stood together in a cluster on the opposite side, Betsy catching my eye at one point and giving a little wave, though I’m sorry to say I pretended not to see. I was so desperate to step down off the platform I could hardly stand still, the sun too hot, the muslin sticking to my back. I found my parents standing off to one side after the ceremony, the lawn jammed with families and the faculty still lined up in front of the platform in their robes, the waiters making their way through with trays of champagne.

“To the graduate,” my father said formally, raising his glass. “The second Madden graduate in a long line of Madden graduates.”

“Isn’t this nice?” My mother looked around, smiling at no one in particular.

“It’s nice to have it over with.”

“Hush, you,” she said reproachfully. Her hair gleamed in its chignon, her ears—as usual—left bare; her only jewelry was the thin gold of her wedding band. I thought for the thousandth time how much prettier she was than all the other mothers, how elegant she looked in her plain navy shift next to all of them decked out in their jewels. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?” She turned her appealing look on me, then my father. “Shall we just have a moment where we simply enjoy—oh, look.” She nodded. “Doesn’t Alexandra look nice!”

I watched as she made her way toward the stage. “She’s making a speech?”

“Special Performance.”

“What?”

“It says right here.” My father pointed at the program. Sure enough:
Special Performance,
it read.
Alexandra Carrington, ’66.

“I ran into Eleanor earlier. Mentioned she hadn’t seen me at the club.” Mother put a hand to her hair, smoothing back the strays. “She said it had been ages now.”

“She’s speaking to you again?”

She gave me a little smile. “Looks like it.”

“Here goes.” My father gestured at the stage and I stood up very straight, as though preparing to salute.

* * *

But I haven’t even told you yet what it was like to hear her sing. The best I can say is that it was like being told a secret, the thrill of it vaguely illicit. There was a small, precise tension to each note, the sense of something live contained within each phrase; on the few occasions I’d heard her sing, I felt her voice run through me as though that live thing had been released. It was unusual in those days to be a girl who sang in public like that, just her and a microphone; it was the sort of thing only a certain kind of woman did.
Common
, we would have said, had it been anyone but Alex, and even so, the whole performance carried an element of the daring. She might as well have stood up in front of us and begun to unbutton her blouse, stepped out of her skirt, twirled one shoe on the end of a finger. I’m surprised, looking back, that anyone allowed it.

I have since heard singers with what must be far more beautiful voices perform many of those old songs she was fond of—Gershwin and Cole Porter, the show tunes of our parents’ days—but I don’t believe I’ve heard anyone match her for sheer intensity. She sang as though it was the only way she had of breathing, as though at any moment she might die. That day there was an added sense of ceremony to the way she looked out into the waiting crowd, the gold necklace looped around her throat catching the sun as she poured herself into each note like honey into a glass. I believe we all felt that those words were being sung directly to us, the cord of each line spun out like a fisherman’s reel and catching us where we stood. The world gone to pieces for all we cared.

“Wasn’t that lovely,” my mother said, clapping enthusiastically.

“Lovely,” my father echoed.

I murmured something about the ladies’ room and my mother nodded distractedly, turning to ask my father about Mrs. Cromwell, did he think it was true about the house in Palm Springs—it must have cost a fortune, didn’t he think? My father as he listened lifting his face to the sky, where a few clouds scudded back and forth across the blue. I made my way through the crowd, threading between families, the girls I’d passed on the paths between classes waving their diplomas high. I caught sight of Lindsey and her parents, the three of them planted in the middle of the crowd; I hurried on. I needed to be alone, away from the crush of people and the flashing camera bulbs, away from the families happily chattering about dinner plans, the newly engaged showing off their rings—away, away.