Electric City: A Novel (24 page)

“Goodbye, Nobody,” Henry called out, then took Sophie’s elbow and guided her down the recently shoveled walkway.

At first the MG seemed as cold inside as the air outside; Sophie’s wool coat and tights weren’t doing enough to keep her warm. Henry reached into the back well and yanked out a faded quilt he had stashed there, tossing it onto her lap.

“I think I’m more nervous than cold,” Sophie admitted.

“You’re brave to say that,” Henry said. “Most people would rather pretend. At least most people I know.”

Sophie hugged herself with the quilt. “That’s what I mean. As in, I’m not the people you know.”

“I’m getting to know you right now,” Henry said, turning to grin at her. “Lucky me.”

As they drove, heavy mist made haloes around the streetlamps, and in a surprisingly short distance they were turning into the Van Curlers’ driveway. Curving up and around a snowy hill, Sophie thought the property looked different in winter, with the now-naked trees revealing much more of the house than she recalled.
Not these branches
, she reminded herself.
Not this house
.

Arthur Van Curler was graying at the temples; he was dressed in a three-piece suit that looked more expensive than anything Sophie had seen in her father’s entire wardrobe. Gloria Van Curler was wearing an off-white cashmere sweater with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings; her pale blue skirt draped itself impeccably. Sophie could easily imagine feeling underdressed around this woman no matter what she was wearing. At least her own unpolished fingernails were trimmed. She surreptitiously
rubbed her shoes against the backs of her calves, hoping for a dull gleam at least.

With the four of them seated in neat formation around the rectangular dining table, Henry felt as blank as the tablecloth. He tried to guess how his parents looked from Sophie’s point of view, as if they were strangers to him too, focusing on their classic profiles and posture, the way they held themselves upright so precisely. Even he couldn’t help straightening his own spine when standing or sitting near them. It was weirdly comforting to concede that they might have that effect on everyone.

Once the napkins were unfolded, Louise in her gray-and-white uniform pushed through the swinging door to deliver the soup for inspection before serving.

“Lobster bisque with saffron,” Mrs. Van Curler said approvingly. “I love the color, don’t you?”

“It’s very pretty,” Sophie agreed and gave herself permission to taste lobster for the first time in her life. She waited inside the collective pause before they all picked up their spoons in unison. Henry was suddenly grateful that no one in his family said grace.

As promised, champagne was carefully uncorked and served in delicate flutes.

“I hear it’s our chance to say Happy Birthday,” Henry’s mother smiled, her sky-blue eyes twinkling. She tapped the edge of her glass against Sophie’s so that together they made a resonant note. “Please don’t tell your parents we serve alcohol to minors around here!”

We are glittering now
, Sophie thought, briefly catching Henry’s gaze. He had his mother’s eyes exactly.

“Cheers,” he said.

There was a chandelier with more crystals than she could count hovering above the oblong table, casting refracted light everywhere. The silver shone as if it had never tarnished, and there were ancestral-looking oil paintings on every wall. Henry stole discreet glances at Sophie, who seemed to be studying everything as though she were visiting a museum.

She doubted she took a full breath throughout the entire meal, convinced she would break an irreplaceable goblet, or spill something onto the Oriental carpet. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin just as often as everyone else did, keeping half her attention on the taste of things and the other half on tracking the protocols.

The conversation was polite and almost entirely lacking in intrusiveness except for the inquiry about where her family came from.

“Do you speak any Dutch, then?” Arthur wanted to know.

“I’m afraid not,” Sophie said.

“Not exactly a useful language here in the States,” Henry said.

“English is certainly useful all over the world,” Gloria added. “Aren’t we fortunate?”

It was more and more disturbing to imagine bringing Henry to meet
her
parents. The very idea was enough to make Sophie twist her monogrammed napkin into knots in her lap.

“He’s out of the question,” her father would say. “We don’t even need to discuss the reasons.”

“An extremely handsome boy,” her mother would say. “But still.” No matter what kind of temporary support Miriam might offer, she would in the end side with her husband.

Glancing at Mrs. Van Curler, Sophie was surprised to find a tender expression on the woman’s face instead of the disapproval she had been imagining. “Enjoy being seventeen, my dear,” Gloria said. “I hope you’ll remember this as the best year of your life.”

After angel food cake and whipped cream, after tea and coffee and
thanks so much for the delicious meal
, Henry and Sophie were excused from the table.

“Come upstairs for a minute,” he said, leading the way. Ascending the wide staircase, she did battle with the static electricity making her skirt cling to her tights. Below, muffled piano music began to play on a stereo, and she pictured Henry’s parents gliding into the living room, lighting up their cigarettes, holding brandy snifters. She imagined them contemplating their opinions of her.

“Here’s the library,” Henry said, pointing through an open doorway into a dimly lit room full of wall-to-ceiling bookshelves.

A vase of perfectly formed white roses was centered on a square glass table. Their fragrance made Sophie think of the Central Park rose garden, and then about the anemic bushes at the corner of her own front lawn. Her family could never quite seem to maintain them, though they didn’t expire fully either, just hung on bravely through the casual negligence.

Except for minor variables like patterns on the living room rug or the art on the walls, Sophie’s parents’ furnishings weren’t very different from the furnishings of all of their Jewish friends. Everyone had a couch and a coffee table, a few upholstered chairs and side tables, a magazine rack, lamps, the dining table with expandable leaves, the chairs arranged neatly in case of company.

“We’re going up one more flight,” Henry said.

His bedroom was on the top floor of the house; a hallway separated his from his parents’, which he referred to as the Suite. Sophie suddenly remembered that she hadn’t seen any martinis or gin and tonics being
served at the dinner table, and wondered if all of that happened behind the closed doors of the Suite before she arrived. It never occurred to her to notice whether Henry’s parents might have been drunk or at least tipsy by the time dinner was served.

All she knew was that the champagne made her feel like someone special, and she wished she could have another glass in her hand. She couldn’t help smiling to herself at the contrast between the Friday night Manischewitz bottle and all of the crystal on the Van Curler dining room table. What a martini tasted like, she had no idea.

Unlike the bedrooms at the Lake George estate, Henry’s room here was spare and unadorned. Above a substantial mahogany bureau there was a painting of a clipper ship on a storm-tossed sea, and a simple arrangement of felt college pennants covered one of the walls.
HARVARD
was what they all said, white on crimson, like flags from a small but important nation.

“Guess where I’m going to college,” he said.

Pulling the leather swivel chair from its place beside his desk, he offered it to Sophie, while he took a seat on the bed. The surface of the desk was neatly protected by a large green blotter, and a massive dictionary was lying wide open on a cushioned window seat. The clock on his nightstand said it was 8:00, which meant they had stayed at the dinner table for almost two hours. No wonder he was exhausted. He leaned back against his pillows and exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You too?” she said.

“It’s like there’s never quite enough oxygen to go around,” he said.

Sophie laughed and took the chair for a little spin.

“Nice ride,” she said.

“Speaking of which,” Henry said, sliding off the bed with a burst of optimism. “Let’s get out of here.”

He took Sophie by the hand and propelled her through the doorway. It was a smart move: spending any time in the bedroom down the hall from the Suite was never going to be anything but ridiculous.

They were down the stairs, grabbing coats and closing the door before anyone could stop them, or ask where they were going.

Spaces between the houses became wider, opening to snowfields hiding fenced pastures and hibernating crops. Sophie felt as though the MG was riding the current of the invisible river; at every curve, she leaned toward or away from Henry, both held separately by the straps across their bodies. Dips in the road brought them gradually lower, yet still the Mohawk remained obscured. The air temperature dropped even further as they pulled into the parking lot at Lock 7.

Sophie was well aware that this was where couples went to make out. Henry’s gloved hands on the steering wheel looked like a stranger’s, and Sophie felt guilty for huddling under the blanket on her own. Trying not to tremble, she borrowed his right hand from the wheel and clasped it between her two hands, sharing the little body heat she could offer.

“Personal heating,” she said. “Okay?”

“Better than that,” Henry said, smiling. He parked but left the engine running, so the heater could stay on and the radio too. Tuning in to a jazz station from the college campus downtown, they heard Billie Holiday’s blurry, sexy voice.