Rebecca sighed and said, “No.”
“Well, it was next door to the Saddlers’ place. You remember the Saddlers’ place, the one with all the chimneys.”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“You must! It had two chimneys in the middle, and one more at each—”
“I remember.”
“You just finished saying you didn’t.”
“Mother. What difference does it make?” Rebecca asked. “This is a house next to another house that I don’t remember either, where somebody I never met used to live before her husband died.”
“I’m sure you did meet her, dear. She must surely have been at the Allenbys’ many a time when you were visiting.”
“All right,” Rebecca said, “I met her. What did she say?”
“What did she say about what?”
“About anything. When you ran into her at the Kmart.”
“Oh, we didn’t actually speak. I was afraid she wouldn’t know me. I just swiveled my eyes in another direction and made like I didn’t see her.”
Rebecca began massaging her left temple.
“So who did he marry?” her mother asked.
“Who did who marry?” Rebecca asked, contrarily.
“Will, of course. My goodness! Who have we been talking about, here?”
“He married an ex-student of his.”
“Was the divorce his idea, or hers?”
“Hers, I believe,” Rebecca said.
“Oh, dear. Well, never mind. We’ll just hope for the best.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Rebecca asked.
“Never mind! What are you planning to wear, do you know?”
“I hadn’t thought,” Rebecca said.
“I was reading somewhere just the other day that the color brown is the most flattering to any type of figure.”
“I don’t own anything brown,” Rebecca said.
“You still have time to go shopping!”
“I have to hang up,” Rebecca said. “Talk to you later, Mother.”
* * *
It wasn’t true that she’d given no thought as to what she would wear. Throughout the night — even in her sleep, it seemed — she had mentally reviewed her wardrobe, and she had settled, finally, on the eggplant-colored caftan. By midafternoon Wednesday, she had already put it on. She had already set the table, placed candles around the dining room, and added the finishing touches to the food — everything cold, so that she wouldn’t have to be off in the kitchen for any length of time. In the front parlor, the cushions were plumped and more candles stood about in groups. She had opened all the windows, even those on the street side, to whisk away any trace of cooking smells.
Absurd to make such a to-do. Absurd.
Promptly at five-thirty, Zeb arrived to pick up Poppy. He had promised to keep him occupied for the evening. “I thought we’d try that new steakhouse,” he told Rebecca, “and then maybe go to a movie. That would put us back here at, oh, nine-thirty or ten. Is that okay with you?”
In fact, it seemed a bit early. What if she and Will were to linger over coffee? What if they returned to the parlor after supper and started… Well, not that they’d be doing anything very private, of course, but what if they just wanted to talk without other people listening? She couldn’t say this to Zeb, though, because he’d already rearranged his schedule to help her out. “That’ll be fine,” she told him. “It’s good of you to take him, Zeb.”
He said, “Jesus, it’s the least I can do. So. Is this a… what. Is this an actual date you’re having?”
“No, no! Mercy,” she said. “I’m much too old to be dating.”
“Is that right,” he said mildly, and then he called, “Poppy? You ready?”
Poppy emerged from the rear of the house, patting all his pockets with the hand that wasn’t holding his cane. Every pocket rustled. He had taken to insisting, lately, on bringing a supply of candy bars on his outings. Evidently he feared being caught in some emergency situation with no source of sweets. “I’m all set,” he announced. “Going to have a boys’ night out,” he told Rebecca.
“Good, Poppy. Enjoy yourselves, you two.”
As soon as she had closed the door behind them, she raced up the stairs to her bedroom. She had decided that the caftan was too informal. It might even be mistaken for sleepwear. She changed into a silk blouse and a floor-length hostess skirt, and she switched her clunky leather sandals to daintier ones, high-heeled.
Her room looked ransacked. Cast-off clothes littered the bed, and half a dozen pairs of shoes were strewn across the floor. In the mirror, her face had the bright-eyed, hectic expression of someone who’d been nipping at the sherry.
Well before six, the doorbell rang. It was so early that she feared a drop-in family visitor. But no, when she opened the door, there stood Will, practically invisible behind a gigantic plant of some kind. “Oh! You shouldn’t have,” she said.
“I know I’m early,” he told her. “I allowed a little extra time in case I got lost.”
“That’s all right! Let’s see, maybe you could set that here on the floor by the… Isn’t it unusual!”
In fact, the plant was bizarre. Three feet tall, at least, with monstrous, lumpy, dark-green leaves speckled a sulphur yellow, it loomed from a red-rimmed white bowl that reminded her of a chamber pot. Once Will had set it down, it blocked nearly all the light from the foyer window. “What is it called?” she asked.
Will spread his arms helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said. “They told me it was impossible to kill, was all.”
“Oh, good.”
His white curls and lined forehead shocked her all over again. (In her mind, she seemed to keep returning him to his youth.) His palms were dusted with potting soil. He was wearing faded jeans with a short-sleeved, gray plaid shirt, and on his feet were mammoth jogging shoes. He must have seen her glance at the shoes, because he said, “I guess I should have dressed up more.”
“Nonsense! I’m not dressed up.”
She led him into the parlor, walking as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t notice her heels. “Have a seat,” she said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He sat down on the sofa, first carefully tweaking the knees of his jeans as if they had a crease, which they didn’t. Then he gazed around him at the crystal chandelier, the damask draperies, the Oriental carpet. “This is really very… This is quite a place,” he said.
“Yes, well, don’t let it fool you,” she told him. She chose to settle not on the sofa beside him but in the wing chair to his left, to her own surprise. Then she tugged her skirt up a bit so it wouldn’t seem floor-length, but when she remembered she was wearing knee-high nylons she lowered it again. “Any minute now,” she said, “I expect the roof to fall in.”
“Is that picture above the mantel an ancestor of your husband’s?”
He was referring to a portrait of a woman in a hoopskirt, with an obstinate, thick-necked look to her. “No,” Rebecca said, “I think they bought it at a garage sale.”
“Well, still, it’s… the whole place is very impressive.”
“Tell me, Will,” she said. “Have you kept in touch with any of our old college friends?”
She had thought up this topic ahead of time. It seemed a neutral one, and certain to fill several minutes, at least. But he just said, “No, not really.”
“Your roommate, for instance? Don Grant? Or Horace what’s-his-name?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, me neither,” she said. “But I was assuming that in my case, it was because of… you know. Because of dropping out and getting married and all.”