But the label wasn’t necessary. She wouldn’t forget. The bureau was cluttered with boxes, odds and ends of ribbon and colored bits of wool, two robins’ eggs (hardboiled, as a preservative), pressed flowers and waxed maple leaves, and empty match folders. Each of these meant something to her, each was a patch of brightness, a thread of color from her life. She didn’t want to cast any of them aside; she couldn’t see the necessity for it. It was such a big house, there was so much room, why should it not be used?
“But it’s so untidy,” Martha had said.
Her mother hadn’t replied because the only reply she could think of was the truth, that untidiness didn’t bother her, she rather enjoyed it.
She closed the bureau drawer and moved toward her lounge. She was already settled on it before she remembered that she hadn’t put the diamond clip away. She should, of course, get up and do it right away. But she felt no interest in it. The clip was hers, Martha had given it to her, but it didn’t belong to her in the sense that the tangerine pits did. It even pleased her to see it lying there neglected on the table, while the pits lay snugly in the red velvet box.
But imagine trying to explain that to Martha! Dear me. Imagine, for that matter, trying to make Martha understand that she didn’t want expensive gifts from her, that she felt guilty about accepting them because the money was not Martha’s, but Charles’s.
She remembered the day Martha had given her the pearl earrings. She’d never owned or wanted to own earrings, but Martha insisted that she wear them down to dinner to show Charles, and to save trouble, she did.
She didn’t wait for Charles to notice them. She said at once, “Well, Charley, how do you like the earrings you just gave me?”
Charles smiled. “Fine. I have good taste, haven’t I?”
She was reassured by his smile. It was a little ironic but friendly, too, as if he couldn’t help the irony — that was for the whole world — but the friendliness was for her alone.
He caught her eye now and then throughout the evening. He seemed to know that the earrings pinched like the devil and gave her a headache. He always knew things like that. At first, she couldn’t understand how he did it but when she became better acquainted with him she realized that it was because he was extraordinarily sensitive. He was continually putting himself in someone else’s place. He understood other people’s triumphs and weaknesses and humiliations because they were his, too. He knew how she felt about the earrings because he knew how he, himself, would have felt under the circumstances.
Yes, Charles was a good man. It was easy to see why so many people were devoted to him. Yet it was easy, too, to see Martha’s side of the problem. Charles’s introspections bewildered her, his charm of manner made her feel graceless and awkward. She was impatient with his poor health and annoyed by his humor, because she believed that it was directed — and it usually was — against her.
There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Shaw slid off the couch with desperate agility, grabbed the diamond clip and said, “Come in.”
When Martha entered she was pleasantly surprised to find her mother taking an interest in things again, actually trying on the clip in front of the mirror.
“Do you really like it?” Martha said.
“It’s beautiful,” her mother replied, with truth.
“I’ll keep it for you in my wall safe. Where’s the box?”
“I thought we could wrap it in a silk handkerchief instead. I read somewhere that that was better.”
“Did you?”
“In a magazine.” Oh, dear me, she thought, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
She hoped that Martha wouldn’t pursue the subject, and Martha, for a change, didn’t.
She said instead, “Do we know anyone with young men in the family?”
“Young men?”
“Besides the Randolphs, I mean. The Randolph boy has buck teeth. Besides, he’s only fifteen. Laura wouldn’t be interested. It’s time she met some young men.”
“She does, doesn’t she? At school and places like that?”
“That’s different. We would give a party for her here if we knew whom to invite.”
“A party?”
“Don’t look so astonished. Other people give parties. There’s room in the drawing room for a small orchestra.”
“But...” Mrs. Shaw said, and stopped right there. No use saying “But” to Martha. If she decided on a party, a party was inevitable. It was also inevitable that in some way or other the party would go wrong. Martha would bustle around for days, shopping, cleaning, harrying the servants, coaxing the flowers, and then at the last minute, something essential would be missing.
“It would do Laura good,” Martha said. “It would take her mind off — things.”
“What things?”
“She’s been studying too hard.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Shaw said, surprised that Martha was taking the trouble to lie to her. It must be serious, she thought. What’s Laura been doing? Smoking on the sly? Drinking? Falling in love? That must be it, or Martha wouldn’t have talked about “young men.”
“A party would be nice,” she said.
“I think so, too. It’s such an ideal time to have it, when Charles is away. The noise might bother him.”
“I’m sure it would,” said Mrs. Shaw, knowing perfectly well that Charles didn’t mind noise.
“We could have Hunter’s do the catering. And what’s the name of those people who engrave invitations? Franklin’s, I think. I’ll have to ask Brown about orchestras.”
“Why don’t you ask Laura? She’d know more than Brown would.”
“I suppose so.”
Laura was, however, the last one in the house to hear about the party. Her mother told her when she went in to say good night.
“Martha’s giving you a party.”
Laura was at the vanity doing her hair up in pin curls. She held a bobby pin clenched between her teeth and it made her voice sound tight.
“Why?”
“She thought you’d like one. She’s going to a lot of trouble — an orchestra and engraved invitations...”
“Engraved invitations?” Laura turned violently. “I’d sooner die!”
“Well, my goodness!”
“I’d sooner plunge a knife into my heart! Is she trying to make a fool of me? That kind of party — my friends would howl. It’s a goon trap.”
“Oh.”
“When you’re an absolute goon, when you’re utterly, completely drippish, that’s the kind of party your family has to give for you because it’s the only way you’ll ever get anybody to dance with you. And I’m not a goon, I’m not!”
She turned back to the mirror to seek confirmation. Her image was not reassuring. Her hair was half up and half down, and the special anti-wrinkle cream she had spread around her eyes to stave off the onslaughts of old age was oozing down her cheeks like tears of oil.
She spoke again, more uncertainly. “I mean, when I’m all fixed up I’m not. And my new blue suit on.”
“My goodness, of course you’re not a goon.”
“She doesn’t have to catch any boys for me! Lots of boys think I’m a — pretty solid dish.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Not that I’m interested in boys. They’re too young for me. I was only proving a point.” She grabbed a strand of hair and twisted it viciously into a pin curl. “What’s more, Charley said I’m going to be just as good-looking as she is when I get older.”