The Sixteenth of June (16 page)

Stephen is aware of a shift of bodies as Leo stalks away. He looks down at the plates in his hands. He is surprised by the sight of so much food, surprised to find himself holding all this.

He sits down on the window seat, setting the other plate across from him. It'll look like someone's with me, he thinks.

The party is reflected in the glass of the bay windows. He can't see out into the street, can only see the dresses and the bodies, the wash of warm light. His thoughts drift to his grandmother. This is where they would have put her—by the window, so that she would be out of the way. She would have watched the whole scene, and then Stephen would have talked with her about it on Tuesday.

He bites miserably into a piece of dry bread. Dinner with a ghost, he thinks, feeling the cool air through the window's glass. For just a moment, closing his eyes, he can feel her there beside him, keeping him quiet company.

Sixteen

N
ora stands beside her friend, not wanting to disrupt his moment. He had closed his eyes just as she approached. She wonders if he might be trying to atone for the party, muttering a mourning prayer under his breath, but then his eyes blink open.

“That didn't go so great, I see.” She gestures toward the second plate.

“I thought the surest way to his heart would be his stomach.”

Nora smiles and sits beside Stephen. “That way might be blocked by a few martinis.”

“I'm just glad someone's willing to sit next to me.”

“Oh, I'm not the only one.” Nora had watched the women turn their heads when Stephen passed. She picks up a piece of cake, flecked with poppy seeds. “Give him time. He'll come around.”

“I'm not so sure he should.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Stephen sighs. “I don't blame him for being mad. I need to learn how to shut my mouth.”

“Oh, Stephen.” Nora looks at him, hanging his head. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I didn't hear you say anything too bad.”

“How much did you hear, exactly?”

“Enough to know you were just being a friend.”

Stephen takes this in and reaches for a sandwich. “I hope Stuart didn't talk your ear off. It looked like you were cornered there.”

“I didn't mind.” She had been happy to listen to him, especially because he seemed so eager for company. The real issue had been her shoes.

Stuart had started talking to her smack in the middle of the room. There was nothing to lean against, no table or pillar, and she stood listening to him with a smile plastered on her face, wishing desperately for a chair. She shifted her weight back and forth, left to right, right to left, in silent counts of ten.

She remembered the magazine article suggesting that the trick at parties is to circulate.
Talk to each guest for ten minutes and then move on,
it advised. This struck her as so obvious at the time, in the purgatorial calm of the dentist's waiting room, that she made an impatient noise. Why did magazines specialize in the obvious? Later, in the dentist's chair, under the comforting weight of the lead apron, Nora imagined herself finally nailing the party this year and proving herself to be a worthy future in-law. This year, she would show them.

In practice, though, it felt impossible. How was she supposed to turn Stuart away when he was chattering on so happily? If she excused herself, where was she supposed to go? She didn't recognize anyone in her vicinity. This was not the conversational do-si-do she had imagined, gliding from one partner to the next. She was about to mumble that she needed to use the bathroom when Stephen appeared, saving her. And what did it mean that she felt more at ease at a dentist's office than at a cocktail party?

“I saw you talking to June and Friends,” Stephen notes. “How'd that go?”

Nora makes a face in response and takes a huge bite of cake. Stephen bursts out laughing.

“That bad?”

It started so innocently. Nora relays to Stephen how June had gestured for her to come join her circle, introducing her to Catherine and Sissy. “You're the singer!” Catherine exclaimed. Catherine was tall and willowy, in a shimmery dress that accentuated her tan. She looked like the type who played tennis. Nora could picture her with a visor on, a white tennis skirt accentuating her long legs. “I've always wished I could sing. Do you perform?”

“Um, there's a café where I sing. Jazz? On Manning?” Nora's statements became questions as though she were fifteen. “And I just started singing with a gospel choir.”

“Gospel?” Sissy stirred. Sissy was petite, her hair the color of autumn, wearing a navy dress.

“Nora studied opera at Yale,” June interrupted.

“Gospel is wonderful,” Catherine said, waving June off. “I've always loved it.”

“Really?” Nora asked.

“We tried to get the Harlem Boys Choir for the last Komen event, actually.” Behind Catherine, June rolled her eyes. “What an amazing thing that would be, don't you think? Pink ribbons on their black robes. They were booked, but we've got our eye on them for next year.”

“Have you done gospel before?” Sissy wanted to know.

“Me? Oh, no. I mean, I didn't grow up going to church or anything like that.”

“So what prompted you to join?” Catherine was so tall, but she had a gentleness about her, a permanent mildness in her expression. Nora decided to answer earnestly.

“I've always loved different forms of music, the challenge of trying something new. After being trained classically, it tests you to break those rules.”

“That's wonderful,” Catherine said warmly. “I'd love to come see you perform sometime.”

“Oh! That would be great,” Nora said, feeling pleased.

“We've been meaning to come hear the choir,” June remarked. “Especially with Carol participating all these years.”

“Carol?” Sissy asked.

“The maid,” June said. “Though I should say
housekeeper
, which is the term we prefer. She and Nora are quite chummy, giggling down in the laundry room like a couple of sisters.”

June smiled at her, and Nora felt the heat rise to her face.

“Ugh! Leave it to June,” Stephen says, shaking his head. “That's awful.”

It
was
awful. Nora had stood there, her cheeks advertising her shame while June sipped her wine. Nora felt like an exhibit at the zoo, the three of them white-coated scientists making notes on their clipboards.
Hangs out with black people. Flusters easily
.

“I, for one, have no talent in the arts,” Catherine observed. “Though Bruce and I are thinking about dance lessons.” June and Sissy cooed over this, but Nora's thoughts were still behind as, dazed, she felt the sting of June's words. What a fool she was, expounding on jazz and gospel, mentioning the club as though they would care.

“I should have been prepared for it,” Nora says glumly. “I hate that feeling, you know? Being caught off guard is the worst.”

“That's how my mom works, though. The minute there's a threat, she goes in for one of her jabs.”

Nora gazes at her across the room, her chandelier earrings catching the light. June is wearing an emerald blouse with iridescent threads and long, cuffed sleeves. Surely that kind of sleeve has a name. The blouse is tucked into a satin skirt that falls to the floor. The collar, turned up, frames her face aristocratically.

It is a display Nora cannot keep up with, like the ever-changing windows at Saks. And it isn't just June's beauty, her perfectly assembled wardrobe. She also has a sort of polish, a refinement that Nora knows she will never achieve. When Nora complimented her on her shoes, satin peep-toes that sent her soaring into another stratosphere, June smiled indulgently. “D'Orsay heels,” she said, and Nora felt the stab of her ignorance. This was the constant reminder, that Nora inhabits a world with objects whose names she does not know, blouses and shoes and furniture, a vocabulary she never learned.

“I don't feel like much of a threat,” she confesses.

The women had continued on, mercifully ignoring her, talking about the latest gossip: alleged misconduct by a certain professional golfer, as reported to Sissy by the friend of a
very
good
friend. “People just want to take him down because he's the very best,” Catherine said dismissively. “I don't know about that,” Sissy replied. “Men like that are never loyal.”

“Who do you mean?” Nora wanted to ask loudly. “And if you prefer the term
housekeeper
, June, then why not use it?”

What a relief it would be to talk back! To voice her thoughts and be the uncultured loudmouth. Maybe it's how her dad feels, proud of his obnoxiousness. Maybe there is pride in the absence of manners.

“It's the worst feeling,” she remarks to Stephen.

He raises a brow.

“Those comments. You're right that they're jabs. It would be better if she just came out and said something. But instead it's always in this sneaky way that makes you think you've imagined it.”

Stephen nods. “People can put up with being bitten by a wolf. What riles them is a bite from a sheep.”

Nora looks down at her plate of food. She probably has poppy seeds stuck in her teeth. The cocktail napkin in her hand is stuffed into the shape of a ball, and without thinking about it, she's slumped into her usual terrible posture, the shape of a
C
.

“I'm an impostor,” she says.

“Nora! What do you mean?”

“I'm always trying so hard to fit in, to play the part. Every year I tell myself that the party will finally feel normal, that this will come naturally to me. But it's not who I am. All of this—it's never going to be second nature.”

Each year, the party looms on the calendar. The hunt begins in spring for the perfect dress. She had overdressed her first year, trying too hard in red, then overcompensated the next in a casual floral wrap (“How very bohemian,” June had murmured, surveying her). Every year since she has recalibrated, trying to get the look just right. The ivory dress on the hanger struck her as the perfect balance, slightly understated in the fabric and length, making up for it in the details. “It looks great on you,” the salesgirl confirmed in the fitting room.

But June still managed to make her feel like a peasant, like someone who had wandered in from the shore, dirty and in rags, trailing seaweed.

“But don't you see? That's the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mom doesn't want you to feel comfortable. That's how
you
would want someone to feel. She has none of that concern. She can only feel secure by putting others down.”

“You really think that?”

“She doesn't just do it to you. Surely you've seen it in action.”

Nora considers this. At one moment June had suddenly nudged Catherine and Sissy. “Look at Anne!” she hissed when a stunning woman entered the room. “Wearing a mink stole as if it's fall!” Sissy smirked, but Catherine shrugged. “Well, it was a chilly day,” she pointed out, and Nora thought to herself that perhaps Catherine wasn't so bad.

No dress will ever cut it. This is what Stephen has been trying to tell her. June's game was predicated on undermining people. She came up behind you and settled her spectacular shoe on your end of the seesaw. She never wanted you to feel as if you'd gotten the balance right.

“Maybe,” Nora admits. “But what am I supposed to do about it?”

“You could stop trying to please her. You could think about how you bring something else to the table.”

“Which would be what? My charming Jersey roots? My heartwarming friendship with the help?”

Stephen regards her, his face thoughtful. “Think of all the people in our family as cocktails,” he says finally. “Like what sort of drink would you say my dad is?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Nora thinks it over. “Something high-­powered. Scotch, I guess?”

“Scotch it is. Leo?”

“Leo's more of a beer.”

“He's such a beer. And June?”

Nora looks at her, tall and elegant. “A glass of white wine.”

“Chilly and tart.”

Nora laughs. “I like this. And you?”

“Pick something good.”

“A glass of red. Smooth and elegant.”

“A pinot,” Stephen says with dignity. “One day the masses will wake up from their love affair with merlot.”

“And Carol would be like a rum and Coke.”

“Carol?”

“You know, kind of spicy but sweet. Though maybe I'm just thinking of island drinks.” Nora frowns, wondering if it's a racist choice.

“No, I was surprised you mentioned her. I thought the next candidate would be you.”

“Oh.” Nora bites her lip. “I'll bite, I guess.” Her pulse quickens as she watches Stephen's face.

He leans forward. “Water.”

“Water? Stephen, that's awful!”

“No, no! You're virtue instead of vice. A source of clarity in our corrupt household. That's the whole point!”

“Ugh! I can't believe you think I'm water. Municipal tap, right?”

“Nope. Fresh from a mountain spring.”

“Uh-huh. Speaking of which”—she dangles her empty glass—“shall we?”

“Sure.”

“No one ever asks for water, you'll notice.”

Stephen smiles and picks up the plates. “I'll get rid of these and meet you. Something tells me our cold chardonnay wouldn't be pleased to see these at the front of the room.”

“Okay.” Nora feels lighter when she stands. It felt good to sit, and probably the champagne was kicking in. Being tipsy usually helps with heels.

But it's more than that. Stephen always has the ability to make her feel better. Leo would have batted her concerns away. “Nah, she didn't mean anything by it,” he would have said if she told him about June. “She's probably been wanting to hear Carol sing.” Nora, exasperated, would regret having brought it up.

Stephen was right. Nora is suddenly glad she hadn't shrugged off Stuart, making up some excuse the way that silly magazine suggested. She didn't have it in her to act that way, even when her feet have grown numb beneath her. She may not always know what to say, what to wear, how to handle guests—but at least she knows how to listen.

She makes her way to the bar, glancing around for Leo. He is talking to a group of people with yet another drink in hand. He catches her eye and winks, then makes a lewd gesture with his tongue. “Leo!” she almost chastises aloud, horrified. She shakes her head at him. He grins.

Drunk. Normally he can hold his liquor, but she's seen him down several of those horrible green martinis.

“Two glasses of champagne, please,” she says to the bartender, who nods.