Mating Rituals of the North American WASP (33 page)

He supposed he’d learned this from Peggy.

Peggy’s appearance on weekends might have lifted his spirits, but he couldn’t enjoy her company. Avoiding her was difficult—the
freezing cold meant she, too, stayed at home, leaving only to accompany his great-aunt to the Stop & Shop or to church. “You
don’t need to take us places anymore,” she told him. “I can drive Miss Abigail myself.”

On a Friday in mid-February, he stepped out for a rare excursion to the post office. To his astonishment, the cold had disappeared.
It was unseasonably, unreasonably warm. On the town green, the picketers were back, protesting in shirt-sleeves. A few birds
chirped, as if it were spring. When Luke stepped up to the post office counter—refusing to capitulate to the dishonest weather,
steadfastly wrapped in hat, gloves, and scarf—Jeff, the postmaster, crowed, “Nice day, huh?”

Sure—for May,
Luke wanted to say.

“And I’m sure that’ll all blow over soon.” Jeff pointed in the direction of the green.

Luke nodded, not knowing what the postmaster was referring to.

“How’s Peggy?” Jeff set Luke’s roll of stamps on the counter. “I see her in church but not during the week. You keep her locked
up in the house?” He chuckled, a big, hearty rumble that shook his burly chest. “Great girl, Peggy. But you knew that.”

“I did. Do,” Luke corrected himself.

Back on the green, he stood in the sun, sweating in his February clothing, idly watching the demonstrators. Norma Garrison
and her husband, Mike, had moved to New Nineveh from New York after the terrorist attacks, seeking a safer life. They held
“Protect Our Town” signs. The woman in the black cowboy boots was a writer, originally from Los Angeles, Luke thought. She
held up a copy of the
Litchfield County Times
. And the owner of the Cheese Shoppe had an octagonal-shaped sign. When she marched back around so that the sign faced Luke,
he almost exclaimed out loud. There, in five-inch-high white letters on a red background, was “STOP the Sedgwicks.”

At home, Abigail was having tea with Annette Fiorentino. “… hasn’t snowed all winter, and now this, and I don’t like it one
bit,” his great-aunt was saying. “It’s unnatural.”

“I agree. How some people still doubt global warming is beyond me.” Annette looked up. “Luke, what’s the matter?”

Moments later, Luke and Annette were on Charity’s Porch.

“I had no idea they were out there.” Annette put her hands in the pockets of her faded jeans. “I guess they got excited, what
with the warm day today and the article in the paper.”

A spider was spinning its web in the corner of the screened-in porch. It was a futile exercise; the spider would die out here
when the cold returned. “What article?”

“You didn’t see the
County Times
?”

Luke hadn’t. He rushed into the kitchen. The local weekly, which always arrived on Friday, lay unopened on the drain-board,
with his own name looking up at him: Sedgwick Leases Land to Budget Club.

Luke had spent his whole life listening to his family tell him the only three times it was accceptable to have one’s name
in print were at birth, at marriage, and at death. He picked up the paper and read standing up:

NEW NINEVEH—Four decades ago, plagued with financial woes and facing bankruptcy, William Elias “Bink” Sedgwick sold off all
but 20 acres of his venerable family’s real estate holdings, a stretch of farmland a mile west of the town green. Now, pending
almost certain approval by the Planning and Zoning Commission, the remaining Sedgwick acreage will become home to a new superstore.
Luke Silas Sedgwick IV has agreed to lease the land for 99 years to Budget Club, International…

If all the flues hadn’t been sealed, Luke would have started a fire with this article, to ensure neither Peggy nor, worse,
Abigail happened upon it. He made do with tearing the entire front page into confetti-size bits. He asked Annette, “Has Abby
seen this? Does she know I’ve made this deal?”

“You haven’t told her?”

“Did you say anything?” Luke persisted, and when it became clear Annette hadn’t, he let himself relax slightly. “You have
to stop the picketers,” he told her.

“I’ll go down there right away. How long do you need to break the news to your great-aunt? I’m sure they’ll stop for a week
or two.”

“A week or two? I need you not to picket at all! You know me, Annette. Those people know me. I’m not some evil force out to
destroy New Nineveh.”

Annette touched his shoulder. “But that’s what most of us think will happen if you put a Budget Club on your land.”

“Luke? Annette?” It was Abby, wondering where they were. Luke threw the torn newspaper into the garbage. “So you’re going
to keep picketing?”

“I’m sorry, Luke. I can’t censor them. Please understand it’s nothing personal. I hope we can still be good neighbors.”

Luke nodded. In a small town like this, there was no sense in starting a feud.

“Oh, it’s just…” Sharon Clovis leaned against a column for support and groped for the word.

“Spectacular.” The saleswoman patted Sharon on the arm. “Now, don’t cry. Watch the mascara.”

Sharon blinked and smoothed her gold-buttoned knit jacket. Peggy was fascinated. She’d not realized how skinny Brock’s stepmother’s
neck was. Sharon had the skinniest neck she had ever seen.

Peggy stood at the three-way mirror, unsure of what to do with her hands. Clasping them together, prayerlike, seemed wrong,
as did crossing them over her chest. They dangled at her sides as if unconnected to the rest of her. Outside the reflected
floor-to-ceiling windows, multitudes of New Yorkers shoved past one another in their rush to enjoy the nineteen-degrees-warmer-than-average
Friday afternoon. Peggy seemed to be the only person in the world unsettled by the temperature.

The saleswoman joined Peggy on her gray-carpeted pedestal. “The fabric is exquisite. Eighteen yards of silk peau de soie,
imported from France, not China, and light as a feather.” She lifted Peggy’s train and gave it an expert snap. It billowed
up and settled back to earth. “And it’s versatile. You could do cathedral wedding, garden wedding, downtown wedding, princess
wedding.”

In the mirror, Peggy watched the saleswoman and Sharon share a proprietary smile in triplicate and tried not to think about
how hungry she was. Across the hushed room, another, younger bride preened in a beaded gown with a plunging neckline that
ruled out any option besides strip club wedding. Peggy’s dress was nice enough, she supposed, not too ornate, and she was
weary of bridal boutiques. And time was ticking. As it was, she’d have to pay a rush fee to have the dress ready for June.
She tugged the bodice farther up onto her chest and pressed her arms against her sides to keep it from slipping.

The saleswoman produced a silver clamp and used it to section off a few inches of fabric at the middle of Peggy’s back. The
bodice stretched taut across Peggy’s chest. “There,” she said. “How does that feel?”

Peggy wanted to ask if it was normal to feel nothing.

On the telephone a few hours after his talk with Annette Fiorentino, Luke received assurance from Wesley Buckle, the town’s
zoning commissioner, that ground breaking for the new store could begin after mud season, which was usually around April or
May but this year seemed likely to happen early, Luke thought. He’d noticed that a number of trees had started to bud, and
crocuses had pushed up through the soil. It was as if nature was fast-forwarding through winter.

Luke deposited his first check from Budget Club. The fact that the deal would go a long way toward shoring up the Sedgwick
coffers failed to cheer him. He was only grateful the picketers had gone home. He could only hope that Angelo and Annette
would talk sense into the demonstrators. With luck, Abby wouldn’t find out there had been a group of people on the town green
with “STOP the Sedgwicks” placards and he could break the news to her when the time was right.

His hope was short-lived. When he returned home from the bank, Ernestine Riga was speaking gravely to Abigail in the ladies’
parlor. When he stopped in to greet the neighbor, he saw Abigail held a copy of the
County Times
with the article he’d destroyed; Ernestine must have brought it over. Abby was smiling, but her eyes were terrible. They
said,
We’ll discuss this in private, young man.

Luke should have known better than to think Abby wouldn’t find out on her own. The only surprise was that it had taken a few
hours, not a few minutes.

On Saturday in New Nineveh, Peggy took Miss Abigail on their weekly grocery outing. Cal Seymour Jr., the third-generation
owner of Seymour’s, was leaving the Stop & Shop as the two came in. He looked right past Peggy as they passed. In the soup
aisle, Peggy greeted a woman she recognized from church, who uttered a brief hello and excused herself. But at checkout, the
cashier seemed thrilled to see her. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sedgwick. Lots of us who grew up here think it’s time this town finally
moved into the twenty-first century.”

“What’s going on?” Peggy asked Miss Abigail in the parking lot.

“You mean Luke didn’t tell you, dear?”

When she got home, Peggy took the stairs two at a time, burst into the ballroom, and yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Luke looked nothing short of cornered.

“The green is already a ghost town, thanks to Pilgrim Plaza. And if that Budget Club goes in, it’ll be the end of everything.
Why shop at the Toggery when you can get cheap polo shirts at Budget Club? Why go to Luigi’s when you can bring home frozen
Budget Club pizza? Can’t you understand? It’s going on all across America, Luke—these big retailers marching into towns and
cities and destroying them.”

Luke had on a yellow oxford shirt. It was the first time in months she’d seen him without a sweater. With the freakish temperature,
there was no need. “There’s such a thing as progress,” he said. He pushed up his sleeves as if he were too hot.

“It’s not progress, it’s greed. It’s you trying to make a buck at the expense of an entire town. And it’s exactly what’s happening
to my shop!” She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror against the wall, surprised at how furious she looked. “Don’t you
care at all who you are and where you come from? Don’t you realize there are almost no places like this left in America—places
not overrun with chain stores? Don’t you realize how lucky you are to live here?”

He looked unwell. His skin was dry, and there were hollows under his eyes, as if he’d been staying up all hours in front of
his computer, not getting enough to eat, losing contact with the outside world. She was furious at herself for caring.

“The deal is done,” he said. “Ground breaking begins in late spring. Or sooner.”

“Do Annette and Angelo know this?”

“People were picketing yesterday afternoon. Annette got them to stop, but soon they’ll be back out in full force. You should
be prepared. They carry ‘STOP the Sedgwicks’ signs.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to react, but she had nothing left to offer.

“I’m doing what’s best for my family,” he said eventually.

“Then I’m glad I won’t be part of your family much longer.”

She ran back down the stairs, the creaky third step screeching as she landed in the foyer. She left through the front door,
running through the front gate and down the granite sidewalk to the Fiorentinos’ black-shuttered white house next door, hammering
their door with both fists until it swung open with Annette Fiorentino on the other side, her braid askew, her compassionate
blue eyes scrunched with worry.

“I’m ready to join you,” Peggy said, panting. “I’m ready to join the demonstration. Just tell me when you need me and I’ll
be there.”

False Spring

W
inter never returned. After a while, even those who’d been fretting about it soon gave in to unabashed pleasure at having
dodged two more months of cold weather. In New York City, the daffodils bloomed in February instead of March, the tulips bloomed
in March instead of April, and the city dwellers cheerfully put their snow boots and parkas in storage and brought out the
spring coats and shoes that didn’t usually emerge until after Easter. Peggy felt like the morose guest at a party.

“I feel like a traitor for saying this, but right now I don’t mind.” Bex stuffed her down coat into a bag for the dry cleaners.
“I can’t button this around me anymore, and I didn’t want to have to buy a whole new one. Not that I need a coat anyway. Your
father has the right idea, Peggy. I’m so hot I’d wear shorts if I didn’t think people would faint from horror at my elephant
ankles.”

Bex had passed the first trimester, and the twins by all benchmarks were developing normally. At fourteen weeks, brimming
with joy, Bex was announcing her pregnancy to customers, to the UPS guy, to anyone who would listen. She was already in maternity
clothes, two or three sizes bigger than other women at her stage of pregnancy—publicly, definitively, proudly fertile. But
she tired easily, and as she and Peggy traipsed from empty retail space to empty retail space, trying to find a new home for
their shop before the lease ran out, she had to rest every few minutes.

“I don’t know why I’m dragging you all around,” Peggy said, sighing, as they rejected yet another hole-in-the-wall with outrageous
rent. “There isn’t a single place on the Upper West Side we can afford, and it’s all my fault.” She couldn’t help feeling
she had killed their business by backing out of her deal with Luke. The ACME Cleaning Supply lease was set to expire the last
day of May, and Peggy and Bex had yet to renew it. Without that Sedgwick House money, and with the competition from Bath,
it was impossible to justify staying where they were, paying twice as much for the same space.

“It’s not your fault. This city is too expensive. We working people can’t afford it.” Bex reached both hands behind her lower
back to give herself a massage. “It’s too bad you’re not around weekends to go apartment shopping with Josh and me. Talk about
depressing.”