Then she snapped out of it, and they laughed about it, and she came to understand that this recognition of otherness would occur over and over until death they did part, that she couldn’t despair every time it occurred, and that anyway, Paul wasn’t a dictator like her mother… yet it was clear that your choice of mate would shape the rest of your life in ways you couldn’t begin to know. One by one, things he didn’t like would be jettisoned. First squirrels, then turkey meatballs, then corn, then — what next? Marriage could be a continuing exercise in disappearances.
• • •
NO TIME TO THINK about this now, for they had reached the long driveway of Veblen’s childhood home, the handle of the hammer, flanked by elephant-sized hummocks of blackberry vines, where Veblen used to pick berries by the gallon to make pies and cobblers and jam. She’d sell them at a table by the road, and help her mother make ends meet. In the fall she put on leather gloves to her elbows to hack the vines back off the driveway, uncovering snakes and lizards and voles. In the spring the vines would start to come back, the green canes growing noticeably by the day, rising straight like spindles before gravity caused them to arc. They grew on the surface the way roots grow underground, in all directions, overlapping, intertwined. The blackberries defined her life in those days — their encroaching threat, their abundant yield. All her old chores came to mind as they rolled up the drive to the familiar crunching of the tires on gravel.
“I never would’ve imagined you growing up somewhere like this,” Paul announced.
“Really?”
“Really.”
No time to think about this either, for Veblen saw her mother advancing out of the house in her best pantsuit, an aqua-colored Thai silk number beneath which new (as in twenty-five years old but saved in the original box for special occasions) Dr. Scholl’s white sandals flashed. She wore them with wool socks. Linus too came out coiffed and ironed, in a blue oxford shirt. They appeared normal, attractive, almost vigorous.
Yet how stiff and formal Veblen’s mother’s posture was, and how tall she stood! She had nearly six inches on her daughter.
Maybe everything would be fine!
“You must be Dr. Paul Vreeland,” her mother said, in a formal style of elocution heard mostly on stage. “Melanie Duffy.”
“Linus Duffy,” said Linus, joining in the hand-grasping ritual.
“We have prepared a nice light lunch to eat outside. Paul, if you would be so kind as to help Linus move the table into the sunshine, we’ll sit right away.”
The men took off behind the house, as the women went inside.
Veblen smiled. “Mom, you look pretty.”
“I’m absolutely miserable,” her mother said, with the men out of earshot. “My shoulders are buckling under the straps of this bra, and my neck is already ruined. I never wear a bra anymore. I despise my breasts. They’re boulders. The nerve of god to do this to women! I’m going to be flat on my back with ice as soon as you leave.”
“You don’t have to wear a bra for our benefit. Take it off. Be yourself.”
“No man wants to see a woman with her breasts hanging down to her navel.”
“Take the straps off your shoulders, then.”
“I’ll try that.”
“I love your suit.”
“Paul’s very good-looking,” her mother said. “But I haven’t sensed the chemistry yet.”
“We’ve been here for five minutes.”
“I hope he’s not in love with himself,” Melanie said. “Oh, good lord.”
Melanie was looking at the ring. They both started to laugh.
“Don’t hold it against me,” Veblen said.
“What was he thinking?” Melanie said. “It’s not you at all.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to get used to it.”
“It’s the ring of a kept woman. Come in the kitchen, I need your help.”
The oatmeal-colored tiles, the chicken-headed canisters, the wall-mounted hand-crank can opener over the sink, gears and magnet always mysteriously greasy, all were in place as they had been for years, and Veblen was proud of her mother’s artwork on the walls around the table — the abstracts in oil and pastels, of landforms and waterways and rocks, sure-handed and dreamy. She sniffed the scent of linseed oil, and from the cupboards a trace of molasses.
Her mother removed a casserole dish from the oven, her hot mitts clenched around it. “This is a delicious recipe I discovered recently using artichoke hearts and bread crusts and just a little Asiago cheese and butter,” her mother said. “Very special.”
“Nice.” Veblen cracked open a head of red leaf lettuce. Her favorite part was the center of baby leaves, and she removed it quickly before her mother could see and ate it.
“Before I forget, I have a strange lump on the back of my neck. Will you look at it, please? Linus doesn’t have an eye for this sort of thing.”
“How about later after we’re out of the kitchen?”
“Now!” her mother said.
Veblen placed the lettuce on the counter, and parted her mother’s hair with her wet hands. She saw a dime-sized swelling. “Yes, you have a little bump here, does it itch?”
“No. Is it red?”
“Pinkish.”
“Is it indurated?”
“What’s that?”
“Is it hard, with clearly defined margins?” asked her mother.
Veblen squinted at the bump. “You tell me.”
“Is the texture peau d’orange?”
“What’s that!” Veblen asked, exasperated.
“The texture of orange peel.”
Veblen squinted again. “I’d say it’s more like the skin of an apple, or maybe a pear. Maybe Paul can look at it,” she said, sighing.
“As long as he doesn’t talk down to me, that’s all I ask,” her mother said.
Veblen finished making the salad and brought it out like a victim. Linus had furnished Paul with a beer.
“Local brew, one of those designer jobs,” said Linus.
“I taste some lemon,” Paul said, nodding.
“We make our own blackberry wine on good years.”
“How is it?”
“Sweet, nice for a dessert wine. We end up with thirty bottles or so, give them to friends. I’ll send one home with you.”
“Great,” Paul said. “Love dessert wine, especially with some nice Gruyère.”
“I like it with pie.”
“Luncheon is served,” called Melanie, bringing out the casserole and placing it on a woven Samoan mat on the table. “Paul, I want you here. Veblen, at the head. Linus, would you open that special bottle of champagne?”
“Right,” said Linus, returning to the kitchen.
“No, out here!” Melanie yelled. “Watching the cork fly is festive.”
Linus shuffled back with the bottle, untwisting the wires around the cork.
“Don’t aim it at us!” Melanie cried.
“It’s not ready yet.”
“You’re aiming it at us!”
Linus turned toward the house.
“Not at the wall! We want to watch the cork fly! Turn around.”
Linus turned and began to wiggle the cork.
“Wait, you need a cloth.”
Veblen handed him a napkin to put under the neck of the bottle. Paul tapped his fork on the table. The cork popped, and shot all of about three feet.
“Bravo!” Melanie cried. “Now, let’s make a toast to your visit. May there be many more!”
Glasses clinked and Paul and Veblen smiled at each other across the table. If Paul were gracious about this day, she’d love him forever.
“Paul, we’re certainly impressed by your research project,” Melanie said. “I imagine you’re already heavily involved, preparing to dig in?”
“Absolutely,” Paul said. “I’m getting a lot of support from Hutmacher, basically anything I want. We’re going to get off to a good start.”