Strangers at the Feast (4 page)

“Denise wanted red instead. I aim to make my wife happy.”

“Two SUVs!” sneered Denise. “Fat chance.” She made straight for the trunk, and Ginny froze for a moment, registering the tension. Fortunately for Douglas, the twins, who had just turned nine, exploded from the backseat.

“Well, look how enormous you’ve gotten!” said Ginny. “How will you ever fit in my house? Dougie, what are you feeding these kids? Camel cannelloni? Hippopotamus burgers?”

“Our favorite new food is Worcestershire sauce.”

“Oh, good, ’cause I’ve got a barrelful inside!” They charged the door, and Ginny leaned into Douglas. “What’s that?”

Denise was unloading a pile of foil-covered plates.

“Hummus and Wheat Thins,” said Denise. “For the twins. They always get hummus and Wheat Thins before dinner.”

Ginny sulked at her flip-flops. “Great. Excellent.”

Douglas lifted Laura out of the car, careful not to separate her from her tablecloth. This was a red and green tablecloth, from Christmas three years earlier, that his daughter had grown attached to. Now, at age five, if anyone tried to take it from her, she screamed. Douglas thought the glittery gold thread attracted her. Sometimes, Laura begged the twins to mummify her in the tablecloth and parade her through the house. Which Douglas found impossibly cute.

One of the shocks of fatherhood had been how much more enamored he was of his daughter than of his sons. He played catch with his boys and took them to action films, but he was so absurdly mesmerized by Laura that he could sit on the lawn with her for hours just picking blades of grass. She was happy and magical and the way she whispered “Daddy” with her licorice breath made him feel like a king. The high-wire act of his domestic life was masking this favoritism.

Ginny swept her arm into a purple foyer, which smelled of incense.

“You like?”

“Nice casa, Sis.”

The foyer, despite the purple, had a pleasant arch that made it seem more spacious than it was. It flowed nicely into the living room, which had been painted mauve with white baseboard. As they all started in, Ginny raised her palm: “Shoes, guys!”

Douglas set Laura down, heeled off his shoes. The oak floorboards needed refinishing. He gave a good knock to the foyer wall. “Plaster, huh. When was the place built?”

“Oh, 1950, or maybe 1960. Pre—civil rights.”

“Basement?”

“A messy one.”

“Then it was probably the forties or the fifties. By the sixties it was all concrete-slab foundation.”

Denise marched the kids into the living room and began unloading bags. Douglas could see her rapidly scan the space like an auctioneer, trying to figure out how to erect a play area for Laura in what was barely a quarter of their own living room. He figured the ground floor was about twenty-six by twenty-four feet, the upstairs half that. On a full acre, most people would have bought the place for a teardown.

Douglas knocked another spot and heard the hollow thud of drywall. “Someone’s done renovations. Does it still have the original fusebox?”

“Probably.”

“Gin, you need to know these things. You at least had an inspection?”

Between her chaotic romantic life and her teaching and writing, his sister had little interest in life’s necessities. She paid bills months late, forgot to file taxes. She could explain, in tireless detail, the medical-insurance practices of seventeenth-century Dutch immigrants in Pennsylvania but forgot to pay her own premiums. Adopting a child and buying a house within a three-month period was a lot to bite off, especially for Ginny.

“Yes, yes, yes, Doug.” Her chin dipped with affectionate pity, always sorry for her businessman brother’s obsession with paperwork. “I have a tome on this house and you’re welcome to read through it if that’s your idea of a fun Thanksgiving.”

“I’ll say two things and then I’ll stop: if they found even a hint of Radon you need to get an abatement system in here pronto, and for the love of Allah, make sure the electrical system is up-to-date. You’ve got two-prong outlets. I don’t want you turning on a light and going up in a bonfire.”

“What about meteorites?” She shook his shoulder in mock terror. “Have you seen my roof?”

“I’m not kidding, Gin. Look, I have an Estonian guy who’ll rewire this house for fifteen hundred dollars.”

“How much for meteorite proofing?”

“You got ibuprofen? I’m starting to feel a big pain in my ass.”

“Aw, Dougie, I’m just being careful.”

“You know, Ginny, if you do some rewiring and fix the roof, maybe get a paint job on the outside, you could probably flip this place in a year and make good money.”

“No flipping!” Denise called from the living-room floor, flanked by the children. “Do not get your sister started on flipping.”

He wished his wife wouldn’t act like as if his ventures had all been failures. Negative energy, too much negative energy. He wanted to remind her that she hadn’t complained when flipping made them a hundred grand in two years, or when he used the cash to fly them to Acapulco and to Disney World. She certainly hadn’t complained when he bought her a double-strand diamond bracelet. But he wasn’t going to argue; no, today was all about recharging his battery.

“Now, Ginny, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming that I don’t need to explain the dangers of lead paint.”

Ginny threaded her arm through his. “How about a drink, Dougie?”

“First things first. Where’s my new niece?”

ELEANOR

Eleanor stood alone in the kitchen, examining the mess her daughter had made: potatoes and parsnips splayed all over the counter. Soiled cutting boards, balled-up plastic bags, and—well, Eleanor would have to rinse this out—a mug of coffee that appeared to be hours old.

Eleanor was not surprised. For years Ginny had bristled at the idea of women in the kitchen, as though roasting a pork loin and baking raisin bread were acts of degradation. Also, Ginny had never much
liked
Thanksgiving, offering an almost undetectable rolling of the eyes each year as she arrived, which Eleanor thought stemmed from her daughter’s experience in Westport Elementary’s Thanksgiving play. Cast as the turkey at age nine (through no fault of Eleanor’s, Ginny was a plump child), Ginny wore a brown leotard with feathers and a red paper beak, and was required to squat onstage for the play’s full second act as the little Pilgrims and Indians circled her, singing “Oh, What a Harvest, What a Friendship!” As the curtain fell, several mischievous Pilgrim girls plucked the feathers Eleanor had spent hours gluing. Tucking her in that night, she braced for Ginny’s tearful query as to why
she
hadn’t been cast as a Pilgrim, preparing a full explanation of the inevitable misdeeds of ill-bred children and the importance of forgiveness. But Ginny merely lay beneath her blanket, working something through her head; finally she declared that during her time onstage she had thought long and hard about what it was like to be a turkey, to think turkey thoughts, to feel turkey feelings,
and that henceforth (this was the year Ginny used “henceforth”), she would no longer eat animals.

It delighted Eleanor that now her daughter was at least
trying
to cook.

For there had been a time—years ago, admittedly—when Eleanor had thought Ginny would grow up to be exactly like her.

The young Ginny would patter into Eleanor’s room, storm her closets, and then parade about, lost in the fabric of Eleanor’s beige housedresses and seersucker suits. For her grand finale, Ginny stepped into Eleanor’s sequined black dress, and tottered around in her high heels, her neck hung with pearls.

“How on earth do you doooo?” Ginny exclaimed. “I’m Mrs. Olson, and the pleasure is all mine.”

At the grocery store, if Eleanor smelled a melon, Ginny would sniff it, too, and at the checkout register, she demanded to put the items on the counter herself and to hand over the coupons. As a treat, Eleanor would sometimes hand Ginny her wallet and let her count out the money.

At school, her daughter made her cards with drawings of a small bunny rabbit—Eleanor called Ginny “Bunny”—beside a mommy bunny rabbit; inside they said:
I miss you, Mama Rabbit
.

Ginny studied photo albums of Eleanor and said, “Mama Rabbit was so pretty.”

Once, in Bloomingdales, Ginny wanted to look at the Hello Kitty section. But Eleanor’s attention had been caught by an end-of-season outerwear sale. That year, with Gavin’s promotion to junior sales broker, he had raised her allowance, which meant she could afford a new winter coat. She slipped excitedly into a green cashmere double-breasted one, fastened her purse on her shoulder, and spun around.

“Does Mommy look elegant?”

But Ginny was nowhere in sight. Tearing through the coat racks, Eleanor shouted her name. Finally she spotted a young woman riding the escalator down toward her, Ginny at her side.

“Good God. Where was she?”

The woman shook her head slowly, remembering something awful. “I saw her with a man. He was holding her hand and something didn’t feel right, you get that queasy feeling in your gut.”

“What man?!”

“That creep is probably in Poughkeepsie by now. I asked your daughter, ‘Do you know that man?’ and he ran like the cops were coming.”

Eleanor tugged off the green coat and threw it on the floor.

That afternoon, on the train back to Westport, Eleanor felt a headache coming on. Her brain seemed to be pressing into her eyeballs. She had lost her father and her mother, as well as her younger sister; Eleanor was no stranger to grief. But to lose her own child? She felt she had glimpsed a black chasm. She had seen, for a moment, how merciless the world might be; there were no limits to what could be taken from you. Yes, she could return to her white clapboard house, but on the periphery, on buses and subways, on sidewalks and in cinemas, in deep and distant forests, dark forces lurked. A strong passion stirred within her: She would defend her children with sticks and stones; with her fingernails, her naked fists.

“I have never been so furious with you,” she said, climbing into bed with Ginny. “How could you have gone off with that man? It is simply not the behavior of a child who cares one iota about her mother.”

Ginny’s eyes were red. “I just wanted the Hello Kitty. All the girls have it.”

“And do all the girls wander off with strange men?”

Eleanor patted her hair, the heat of her daughter’s scalp rising through her fingers. She kissed Ginny’s forehead, more forcefully than she intended.

“Ouch. I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Now this headache won’t go away. I’ll have to take an aspirin, I think. Maybe two. Do you think I should take two?”

“If it hurts bad.”

“Yes, I think so.” Eleanor laid her head on her daughter’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, Ginny, don’t tell your father or Douglas about this. They simply will not understand and it will upset them. You won’t tell them, right?”

And her daughter, who even as a child understood loyalty, never told.

They shared other secrets. One afternoon, years later, Ginny left a note on her mother’s dresser.

Dear Mom,

Maybe you think it’s too soon, and maybe you’ll say no, but I think the time is absolutely right for me to start wearing a brassiere. Many other girls in school are wearing them, as I am made to see every day in the locker room. And I am one of the only girls without one. Do not get the wrong idea please because I do not think I have big boobs. But sometimes when I wear a t-shirt now and there are boys around, I am uncomfortable. If you do not think I am ready I will understand but I do think I am ready and it would be sad if you didn’t think so too. Also, I read in a magazine that there are health benefits to wearing a brassiere for your spine. I lost the magazine but I could go to the library and see if they have it. Anyway, I will be in my room, waiting for your answer.

Love,

Ginny

Eleanor arranged a shopping expedition for the next day. She set her hair and put on her best dress and plaid coat. She dressed Ginny in her burgundy gingham smock, and when the saleslady asked, “Is this your lovely daughter? So grown-up!” Eleanor beamed with pride.

Lavender, pink, ivory, white—they bought four brassieres with adjustable straps. That night, Ginny locked herself in her room for hours, finally emerging as Eleanor was preparing dinner.

“Do I look like Dolly Parton?” Ginny giggled, twirling into the kitchen.

“You look positively lovely.”

At dinner, Ginny eyed her chest, shifting the shoulder straps and scratching at the clasp. She entirely ignored the casserole on her plate, an act for which Eleanor normally would have admonished her, except that Eleanor felt herself the guardian of a magnificent secret. Her daughter was becoming a woman.

A month later, when Ginny’s menstruation began, they locked themselves in the upstairs bathroom while Eleanor explained the various sanitary options, and the responsibilities of a woman to store these well out of sight, and to dispose of them discreetly.

This would be the last time Ginny sought her advice.

If only Eleanor could have pinpointed the day Ginny slid away from her. But no unpleasant incident prompted the change. It was merely, as the parenting books had warned, an adolescent withdrawal.

“Ginny, would you like to come to the store?”

Her daughter was busy, she was tired, she found the glare of the store’s white lights oppressive.

If Eleanor happened to mention (and naturally one had to make conversation) that she wanted to buy fresh-cut flowers for a party, or pick up Mr. Brinkmeyer’s favorite gin so that he would feel at home, she’d say, “Mom, Emily Post runs your whole life.”

Usually, Ginny was locked away in her room, reading, emerging only to sink into the sofa and observe Eleanor like some kind of scientist. She’d point out that Eleanor spent three full hours each day in the kitchen, that she read magazines but not actual books, that she hand washed items that could easily go in the machine.