Fortunate Lives (9 page)

She stood splashing the greens about absentmindedly, gazing once again out the window at David, who was standing among his
plants, his thumbs looped in the waistband of his jeans, his feet apart, almost in a caricature, Dinah thought, of the stance
of a man who is master of all he surveys. She had a flash of memory of some movie from her youth—starring Troy Donahue or
Gardner McCay—set in Hawaii. The hero standing just so, while behind him his whole sugar plantation is going up in flames,
improbably unbeknownst to him. But the memory gave Dinah a little frisson of satisfaction.

She dried her hands and moved over to inspect all the trinkets and surprises that Sarah had so carefully embellished and spread
out on the table to dry. But Dinah simply could not fend off a melancholy which was very much like the inevitable dolefulness
that always accompanies a celebration of New Year’s Eve. She had fallen absurdly into a mild state of mourning for this whole
occasion that was yet to happen. She browsed over the table, picking up this item or that to inspect and admire, turning it
to see how it refracted the light; but this morning the prizes no longer seemed inherently magical as they had in previous
years.

This past Halloween Dinah had bought nine elaborate, shiny gold, sequined cardboard crowns at the drugstore. Sarah had used
Elmer’s Glue All to write each child’s name on one of the crowns and then sprinkled red glitter over the tracery, carefully
shaking off the excess into a paper bag. Now Dinah lifted each sequined, glittery crown to test it for dryness before she
cautiously placed it in a carton along with the dozen artificial white doves that she had bought at the florist and that Sarah
had also gilded with glitter so that they shimmered with gold. The tips of their fanned wings were burnished with metallic
gold paint from
a kit of children’s art supplies that Sarah had unearthed in her closet. She had used a nearly exhausted set of acrylic paints
and a tiny eyeliner brush to decorate matchbox cars from the supermarket with elaborate little scrolls and flourishes after
she had sprayed them gold and let them dry overnight, and there was a tangle of gaudy but impressive dime store jewelry that
Dinah had bought over the past year whenever she noticed a particularly remarkable piece at Newberry or Kmart.

Dinah sorted through the garish medallions, the brilliant beads, the rings and bracelets, and saw them as they really were.
She could not remember now how those small children would perceive them—she had lost the feeling of fluttery anticipation
that had kept her awake the night before. She knew she was reacting to David as if he had been the one to tell
her
that there was no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no tooth fairy. She set the carton containing all the trinkets and decorations
out in the garage where no wandering child would discover it by mistake, and she wondered if, indeed, she had become foolish
even in the eyes of her guests. She wondered if David was right, if the whole party was viewed as too much bother and was
tolerated only on her behalf.

But she continued to rehearse the rest of the day in her mind while she took a tomato from the basket she had brought up from
the garden and rinsed it off under the tap. She was hungry, and she merely bent over the kitchen sink, where the lettuces
still soaked, salting and eating the tomato out of hand. For a moment she gave up thinking about David; she gave up wondering
what she had done that was not to be forgiven and gave herself over to sating her appetite. She was so involved in the pleasure
of her lunch of that sun-warmed tomato that she didn’t notice anyone at the door. When she looked up, a wistful-looking young
woman was observing her carefully through the screen.

Tomato juice dripped down Dinah’s chin and ran down her wrist beneath her watchband as she straightened from the sink in surprise,
and she was at once embarrassed and irritated. A little girl who couldn’t have been more than four sagged into the woman’s
side as though the two of them had been standing there for some time, and it occurred to Dinah with dread that they were probably
Seventh-day Adventists. Weren’t they always the ones who brought some child along with them? She thought so. She took her
time rinsing her hands under the tap and drying them on a paper towel. She had given up random kindness over the past few
years, and she frowned slightly as she went to the door.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I have guests arriving this afternoon, and I really don’t have time to talk with you now. Why
don’t you leave some literature for me? If I’m interested I’ll send a donation.”

The little girl didn’t look at Dinah, but the woman smiled gently at her. Dinah was sure that smile bespoke persistence. “I
ought to tell you,” she continued more firmly, “that I’m really not interested in discussing my religious beliefs with you.
To tell you the truth, I think any sort of proselytizing is a real intrusion on my privacy.”

Dinah was becoming quite passionate, and she hadn’t meant to give even that much emotion away to this woman. She was disappointed
in herself; it was pointless ever to explain anything to these people. In one more minute, this woman would launch into her
spiel, and Dinah would be forced either to stand there and hear her out or to shut the kitchen door in her face. That must
be why they brought children with them, Dinah thought. It’s hard to shut the door in a child’s face, although not this particular
child, perhaps, whose face was still half buried in her mother’s skirt, but whose expression at the moment was unusually truculent.

“Dinah,” the young woman said a little breathlessly,
“I’m Netta Breckenridge and this is my daughter, Anna Tyson.”

“Oh… Of course!” Dinah said, realizing that she was supposed to know who these people were but having no memory of anyone
having mentioned them to her. And she still wondered what they were doing at the door in the middle of this of all days. “I’m
so sorry,” she said as she unlatched and held open the screen. “We get all sorts of people… I thought that…”

“I guess we must be early,” Netta said. She was a small woman, but she moved into the room with the kind of languid drift
of someone much taller and longer-limbed. Her ankle-length skirt rippled with each step, her sleeves fluttered gently, and
her daughter dragged like an anchor in her mother’s wake as Netta crossed to the table and sat down. She settled slowly while
all her clothes seemed to billow around her and finally come to rest. “Oh, I hope we’re not the first to get here. Martin
said the party started in the afternoon.” While Anna Tyson tugged at her arm, Netta sighed and arranged her skirt around herself
until at last she was comfortable. She leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand while Anna Tyson sprawled
halfway across her lap. Netta seemed perfectly at ease.

“Well… but it isn’t even
noon
,” Dinah said before she could stop herself, but she hadn’t offended Netta, who turned a sweet smile on Dinah once again.

“Oh, yes. I understand,” she said kindly, as if Dinah had confessed some failing of her own and was being pardoned for it.
Netta’s voice was dreamy and whispery, like a sleepy child’s.

Dinah stood there stranded in the kitchen and studied Netta. She was one of those women who were considered attractive in
academic circles. She had a thin, distracted look of disorganization, as though she had too many things on her mind. Her hair
was light brown and cut short and had
once been permed, but today it straggled around her face in a limp frizz, giving her a woebegone look. And just as Dinah had
this uncharitable thought, Netta swept her hand through her hair, as though it were shoulder length, and shook her head backward
in that characteristic gesture of women with very long hair who are settling it behind their shoulders.

“Do you have some chocolate milk by any chance?” Netta asked, with a glance down at her daughter. “There’s so little she likes
to eat, and I know chocolate milk isn’t good for her. I mean, it’s like a bribe. But she’ll be so tired later if she doesn’t
have something now. I
do
make it with whole milk, though. I don’t really believe it could possibly be healthy to deprive children of
every
sort of animal fat.” And she shrugged elaborately in a conscious gesture of bewilderment. “But none of them agree. All those
experts. I’ve learned to trust my own judgment, pretty much.”

Dinah looked at Netta more closely. With her down-slanted pale eyes and too long, pointed face, she was almost elfin. We don’t
have chocolate milk,” Dinah said apologetically in spite of herself, “but we have just plain milk.” She paused for a moment.
“Oh, but it’s low-fat, I’m afraid.”

“Well…” Netta drew this word out a bit so that it encompassed a tiny sigh of disappointment, “if you have cocoa powder or
baking chocolate and sugar I can make her some chocolate milk. It’s the only thing she’ll accept in the middle of the day.”

“I’m not sure….” Dinah was nonplussed, and she turned to the sink and began lifting the lettuce, head by head, and setting
it to drain in a huge colander, leaving behind brackish, gritty water floating with tiny insects and several curled slugs.
She opened the drain and made sure that the water was emptying before she looked back at Netta.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to look.” As she began searching the cupboards, Duchess came rushing up the back steps, back from
her walk, whimpering gutturally and wagging all over, as though she had been abandoned for days and had finally found her
home again. Martin always let her off her leash when he reached the corner of the yard, and she made a dash for the door while
he followed more sedately. Dinah was relieved. Martin would know how to dislodge this woman from the kitchen table and get
her to go home.

By now, Netta and Anna Tyson had established a kind of determinedly huddled, martyred presence at the corner of the table—like
refugees—and Duchess was busily greeting them with enthusiasm. Martin didn’t even notice them right away, though, when he
came into the room.

“I’ll go on and get the ice,” he said, “and if there’s anything else we need just write it down.” He coiled Duchess’s leash
and dropped it into the basket on the windowsill, and then he saw Netta, still resting her chin dreamily in the palm of her
hand while Anna Tyson moved in even closer to avoid Duchess.

“Oh, Netta! You didn’t have any trouble finding the house?” As he moved toward the table, she straightened up and smiled and
extended her hand. Martin was oddly awkward all at once, Dinah thought. He took Netta’s hand in a regular handshake and then
covered it with his other hand in a sort of avuncular pat. His shoulders hunched forward in a protective manner that Dinah
had never seen before, although Netta was so small that Dinah imagined Martin felt as outsized as she did. Netta’s minimal
presence made one want to take up less space in the room.

He turned to Dinah. “So you’ve met Netta? And Anna Tyson? Anna Tyson is four years old, and I’ve told her all about Moonflower.
Netta’s a visitor this year in the Philosophy
Department. She’s a Fennel Doyle Scholar. We’re publishing one of her articles in
The Review
.”

“Oh… that’s wonderful!” Dinah said. “Yes, we’ve met.” She smiled fiercely at Martin, who looked pleased with himself. “And
they can stay for the party this evening?” Dinah asked in as neutral a voice as she could muster.

“Absolutely!” Martin said. “Everyone should have one visit with Moonflower.” Meanwhile, Anna Tyson had flipped over against
her mother’s knees and was arching backward across Netta’s lap, staring blankly back at Martin.

“Well, I’m not sure how late we can stay,” Netta said, lifting her hand in a slight gesture of demurral, but Dinah interrupted
her.

“It’ll be just wonderful for Anna Tyson,” Dinah said with the same note of cheer that had alerted David earlier in the morning
to his mother’s mood. “In fact, Martin, Anna Tyson needs some chocolate milk. It’s the only thing she’ll have for lunch, but
we don’t have any. Netta offered to make it out of baking chocolate. I’m in such a rush, why don’t I let you help her. There’s
bound to be some somewhere in the cupboards.”

Dinah dropped the uneaten half of her tomato into the garbage disposal and turned it on under rushing water and said loudly
over the noise it made, “You’ll need sugar and vanilla. We probably have some vanilla, but I don’t have any idea where. I
never
bake,” she confessed to Netta, with dissembling warmth. “It might be with the spices. And you’ll need the double boiler.
It’s behind the big skillets in the corner cupboard next to the stove. I think I’ll go up and shower and get dressed, since
I don’t know if Ellen is going to get here or not, and I may have a lot to do. But before you go out for ice, please check
with me in case I remember anything else I forgot to buy. We might need more white wine. It’s on the
counter. See what you think!” And with a brilliant smile at them all, she walked out of the room through the swinging door,
while the disposal still churned loudly under the running faucet.

Upstairs Dinah waited tactfully outside Sarah’s door while her daughter ended a somber and murmured conversation on the phone.
After she had hung up, Dinah entreated her to make some sort of crown for Anna Tyson.

“Oh, great!” Sarah said. “With what?”

“Just use poster board and aluminum foil. Anything. Lots of glitter. The prizes are wonderful, Sarah. They’re so
intricate
! You’re really gifted at that sort of thing, sweetie… ,” but Sarah shot her a baleful look, and Dinah let the enthusiasm
drop out of her voice. “Sarah. Just get it done!
Before
your friends come over! This whole fucking day is falling apart,” she said in an exasperated undertone, feeling her control
begin to unravel as she turned away from her daughter. “And be
sure
to put her name on it!” She was halfway down the hall toward the bathroom before Sarah said a word.

“God, Mom! She can’t
read
!” But Sarah only muttered her reply, and Dinah felt a momentary relief at her own tiny rebellion. The use of the brutal,
short, now meaningless obscenities or vulgarities that her younger friends or her East or West Coast friends and her own children
tossed into the air without a thought gave her enormous satisfaction. Dinah had absorbed bits and pieces of her mother’s upper-middle-class
Southern upbringing and her father’s snobbish aversion even to slang, so when she spoke any of those words—fuck, shit, crap—they
made a surprising chunk in the rhythm of her sentence. She flung them out into a room with relish—she enjoyed the explosion,
the furious crunch and hiss of their sound, the surprising release of tension to be had from their utterance.