Autobiography of Us (8 page)

We must have driven at least two hours before pulling into a long, winding driveway guarded on either side by date palms, their trunks dusted over so thickly with that yellow dirt the bark looked shaggy, like the coat of a wild dog. I’d been out to the property once before, years earlier when Robin and I were very young and our mothers had briefly become friendly. I’d forgotten how big the house was, though my mother had leapt to remind me of it the moment I told her about the wedding.
Stunning,
she’d called it. I never did find out when it had been built, but everything about it spoke to a kind of history missing from our house, its structure massive but oddly haphazard—
rambling
, maybe, is the better word.

“What’s that funny thing?” Lindsey held a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes as we walked up the path toward the house. She pointed to where a balcony jutted out on the third floor, the railing looped around and around with roses.

“Widow’s walk,” I said automatically.

“Gosh, how cheery,” Alex snorted.

“You know the strangest things, Rebecca.” Betsy tugged at the hem of her dress. “I swear.”

“They’re more common on the East Coast, I think. Robin told me her grandmother had it built after Mr. Pringle—Senior, obviously—died last year. She came from Boston, remember?” I looked up at the flowers strung along the white rail, the deep-pink blossoms falling open like mouths. “They were meant for sailors, in any case. Or, rather, the wives they left at home. They stood on the walk and watched the horizon, waiting.”

“Not too morbid or anything,” Lindsey said.

“They lived in this house together for twenty-five years.” I squinted into the sun. “Maybe she likes to stand out there and think of him coming back.”

“Or maybe she gets up there with a shotgun in case he does,” Alex said, shading her eyes with her hand. “I bet she kicked up her heels once the old man was gone. I mean, I bet she runs around this place happy as a pig in—”

“Look who beat us here,” Betsy interrupted, pointing across the lawn to where the boys were crowded around a table set with ice buckets and tumblers, a row of tall bottles standing guard over an enormous bowl of limes. Off to the side of that little circle stood Bertrand Lowell, wearing a pale-pink shirt and a woven hat, holding a glass of something iced.

“Hello, hello.” Charlie Thornton was the first to call out. Most of the boys standing in that group waved. The shyer ones nodded in our direction or stared down at their shoes—freshly shined, the leather gleaming. They wore suits, navy and light gray and dark gray and black; a few had on jackets pin-striped with blue. They looked different than they did at school in their everyday clothes, and they stood as though they knew—their shoulders thrown back, spines ramrod straight. These were nice boys, all of them, the kind with whom any of our mothers would have been glad to see us paired off. There was Doc Rhiner, dark and bushy-browed, and tall Larry Templeton with his cowlick of blond hair; there was Charlie Thornton, the star of the track team; Oliver Hinden, who’d grown up next door to me and whose widowed father and little brother had on occasion spent Easter Sunday at our house, Mother saying it was the neighborly thing to do. There was Buzz Fletcher, reed-thin and elegant as a professor in his small wire glasses.

When Alex got close enough, Charlie Thornton took her by the elbow and kissed her on the cheek. He’d been in love with her forever and had given up trying to hide it years ago.

“Charles, you prince,” she said, accepting the yellow rose he presented with a flourish. “Let it never be said that you lacked persistence.”

“I call it dedication.” He beamed at her. “And you’re worth every bit.”

She twirled the rose between her fingers. “Looks like you boys have kept yourselves busy guarding the bar.”

“Well, maybe.” The rest of the boys nodded. In front of me and to the right, Bertrand Lowell raised his glass to his lips and a few drops of condensation rolled down the side, dripping onto his pale pink shirt.

“You made it.” Oliver Hinden handed me a drink. “And in one piece, even.”

“Barely.” I was glad to see him, his round, familiar face, and I smiled to let him know.

“When’s the big solo?” Charlie picked up a pitcher and started pouring.

Alex shrugged. “After the cake, I guess.”

“Is there even a piano?” Betsy peered around.

Alex took a glass from Charlie. “Last time I checked, Marlene didn’t need any help when she sang ‘Falling in Love Again.’” She threw the drink back in one long swallow, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and held out her empty glass. “Besides, I don’t plan on feeling much of anything by the time I get up in front of the crowd.
In vino veritas,
correct?”

“Correcto!” cried Buzz.

“Marlene?” Betsy whispered in my ear.

“Dietrich,” I said. “Never mind.”

“We were about to head on over into the shade. It’s hot as anything in this sun.” Charlie gestured at the edge of the lawn, where a cluster of avocado trees bent over a few chairs. “Shall we?” We moved together then, Charlie leading and the boys jostling one another, us girls trying to navigate that grass in our heels.

“Careful.” From somewhere behind me, Bertrand Lowell appeared and caught Lindsey’s arm just in time.

“Gosh, thanks,” she said, steadying herself against him.

I saw what was happening right away: the smile that slid across her face as she looked up at him from behind her curls, a smile Bertrand Lowell returned, holding her elbow with his other hand as they walked across to the circle of chairs and sat down. I followed Alex through the grass and sat down in the chair Larry Templeton was holding. I took a long sip from my glass. I didn’t have much of a taste for alcohol in those days, but for all my mother’s efforts—the cocktail parties she pressed me to attend around the holidays, reminding me to speak to everyone, anyone, the dancing lessons I understand in retrospect we could ill afford—I never did learn to feel at ease around groups. Besides Oliver, there wasn’t a boy there I felt close to comfortable with.

“It’s over.” Buzz looked around the circle. “Our boy’s gone and done it now.”

“There but for the grace of God…” Doc grinned, shaking his head. Someone whistled; Larry gave an exaggerated shudder. They were boys, when you got right down to it—twenty, twenty-one, round in the face but still too skinny through the arms and legs, happy to sit with a cold drink in one hand, pretending to loosen their collars at the thought of marriage.

And I—I stayed where I was, my drink sweating lightly against my palms. I stayed and watched Alex shred the petals of her yellow rose to pieces as she leaned in toward poor Charlie, deliberately letting the front of her dress dip down, letting the straps slide to the edges of her slender shoulders. Lindsey laughing a little too loudly, her head thrown back.

And then there was Bertrand Lowell. Sitting across the circle with his strange pale eyes staring straight at me.

* * *

At a certain point I excused myself, telling Betsy I’d catch up with them by the tent. The car ride had given me a headache, I said. I needed to walk. I headed back through the trees toward the main house, where I made my way to one of the bathrooms on the first floor. I’d spent the night before at the house on El Molino, Mother insisting on helping me do my hair up that morning in an elaborate arrangement.

“There!” she’d declared as she slid the final pin into place. “Look at you.” Her voice had held an almost negligible vibrato. “You’ve gotten so pretty.”

And we’d looked together—both of us, I believe, surprised to find that in that moment it was true.

The day had turned uncomfortably hot, however, the air heavy. The heat was causing the whole thing to slide down my neck, working little tendrils loose here and there around my ears. I was standing at the sink, doing my best to pin everything back in place, when Alex walked in, pushing the door open without so much as a knock.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” She looked as though she was doing her best not to burst out laughing. “Well, all hail the queen, I guess.” She lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the floor, grinding it under her heel; I saw that what I’d taken for laughter was anger. “I’ll say this for Linds, she doesn’t waste any time.”

I busied myself with my purse right away, fiddling with the clasp. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Snap out of it, please. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” She waved me off. “Look, I can hardly blame her—the man’s brilliant. Filthy rich. He’s got Kennedy’s nose, don’t you think? The dead one. Bobby’s a touch beaky for my taste. Not to mention, he’s already got his own place—down on Melrose, did you hear? Gosh, there’s no need to look so morbid.” She peered at me through the smoke. “You didn’t think he was my first, did you?”

I could feel myself blushing furiously. “Of course not.”

“It was that agent at that summer program, if you must know.” She frowned. “Fred. Freddy. Bled all over his hotel sheets like a stuck pig.
Call me Lady Macbeth
, I told him, but he didn’t think that was funny. I thought it was pretty goddamn witty, considering.”

“You never told me.”

“I didn’t tell a soul, silly. The whole thing was mortifying.” She used her pinky to remove a bit of tobacco clinging to her bottom lip. “I fell for the oldest trick in the book. The auditions that
happened
to be switched at the last minute? The director who was dying to meet me but
happened
to have been called out of town? The emergency strategizing lunches—which, incidentally, I ended up paying for more often than not.” She shook her head. “Makes me sick just thinking about it.”

“But that’s awful.”

“What’s awful is the man stank of onions. Positively reeked,” she declared. “And don’t get me started on his hands. Christ, his
hands
. Ham-fisted or whatever, and he moved them like a goddamn—but, look, now I’m embarrassing you again.” I started to protest and she wagged her finger, shushing me. “So you’re last. So what? Most men find the whole vestal virgin thing quite charming.”

“Since when am I last?”

“As of
tonight
, fine, if you insist on getting technical. You and Robin were the only contenders, and one assumes conjugal rights. Lindsey confessed to me ages ago. Some stiff in the philosophy department, poor thing. Sounded like a complete snore.”

“And Betsy?”

“Betsy
est verboten
.” She frowned. “I’ve got that wrong, haven’t I. Doesn’t count, that’s my point.”

“I don’t know why not.”

“Book of Ruth? Sappho? Freud’s theory of childhood trauma? Christ, Rebecca—Isle of Lesbos?”

“Betsy? I don’t see that.”

“No, I don’t expect you would.” Her voice was amused.

I took my time fishing out an extra pin from my bag, guiding it into my hair. “I’m not completely ignorant about sex,” I said finally. “I just haven’t found the right person.”

“Poor Oliver.”

“It’s certainly not
Oliver
.”

“He’s not so bad. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the room, but he’d do in a pinch. Not to mention the dead mother was some sort of heiress—isn’t that right? Coal, I think. Unless it was diamonds. Filthy rich, in any case.” She eyed me. “You could do worse.”

I shook my head. “It’d be like kissing my brother.”

“Zero sparkle.” She nodded. “You’re like me—you’d take a rat over a jellyfish any day. They’re all rats or jellyfish. The trick is finding one who’s just rat enough.”

“Someone like Bertrand Lowell,” I said carefully.

“Someone who thinks for himself, yes. Someone who hasn’t memorized the goddamn handbook.”

“So you’ve forgiven him. Him
and
this Freddy person.”

“Grow up, darling.” Her face looked drawn, her eyes big and round as a child’s. “This is only the beginning. Robin won’t even graduate—did you hear? Benji’s getting shipped off to France next week for naval duty. Daddy dearest finagled him out of any real slogging through the Orient, but still: Off he goes to save the motherland. Meanwhile, poor old Robin’ll be knocked up before the summer’s over.” She shook her head, disgusted. “Twenty bucks says we never hear from the girl again. Good riddance, I say. We need another wet blanket around here like we need a goddamn hole in the head.”

“She seems so happy.”

“There but for the grace of God…” she sniffed. “Those idiots actually got it right for once.”

It was quiet for a moment or two. “Look, about Lindsey—” I began.

“Last time I checked, Lindsey was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.” It was hot in the bathroom, and I’d begun to feel faint. “I happen to think it’s unforgivable, what he did. Both of them, Bertrand and your Freddy.”

“I don’t remember asking—”

“I’m entitled to my opinions,” I interrupted, the loudness of my voice in that small space startling.

She leaned into the wall; she looked so small standing there with her head tipped back against the painted wood, her shoulders rounded to balance the arm holding the cigarette against the opposite elbow, her legs crossed. “How bold of you,” she said, smiling a little. “How
un-
Rebecca.”

“We should go,” I said wearily. “We’ll miss the beginning.”

“Hang on. So long as we’re baring our souls and all.” A small bluish vein on the side of her forehead had begun to throb. “I’d like to ask a question. Am I allowed one goddamn question?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Good deduction.” She peered at me through the smoke. “Why haven’t you ever come to one of my plays? Three years, and you haven’t so much as showed up for the first act. And, please.” She held up her hand. “Don’t make up some ridiculous excuse. I can’t bear being patronized.” She lit a fresh cigarette and flicked the old one to the ground, where it burned a moment longer before turning to ash. “You might as well come out and say it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She held her chin up then, angling her face as though she wore her big glasses and was peering out at me through their enormous lenses. “You think I’ll never make it. That I’m lacking a certain something:
Panache
. Freddy’s word.
Not a whole lotta panache, kiddo, but you’re going to make some man very happy.
” She was trembling now, the hand that held her cigarette shaking visibly. “He actually said that the other night.”