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Authors: Gillian Roberts
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the teacup on the end table. “In fact, would you like one? Where are my manners?”
GILLIAN ROBERTS
52
I demurred, thanking her, reminding her that I’d barged in on her and that, in any case, I wasn’t staying long. I hoped that would speed up her memories and get us to the night Phoebe died, but not all hopes are realized.
“Tea, I thought. A cup. How would I know different? But she meant the whole shebang. Like the Queen of England might have in the afternoon, with the little sandwiches and cookies.
And pretty china, I have to admit. And she talked about having inherited the set, which was quite grand, but it wasn’t clear if that was from the mister who just died, or an earlier husband, or her own family. And afterward, when we talked, we all had noticed that the silver service was monogrammed, but it wasn’t clear whose initials they were, unless the big ‘B’ in the middle of a lot of curlicues was one of her husbands’ initial and it was a souvenir from that marriage. Of course, you know she was married more than once, don’t you?”
I nodded. I also knew who the “B” in the alphabet of mates had been, although I would have said that Charlie Berg, Sasha’s father, would be more likely to want plastic implements. Dispos-ability was high on his list of priorites, certainly when it came to wives.
“So one of those marriages, maybe. It seemed rude and in-sensitive, given her recent widowhood, to ask why I knew her as Phoebe Ennis, and her silver had the wrong monogram. I mean what if she bought it secondhand somewhere?” She paused to light another cigarette, this time not bothering to ask if I minded.
“The thing was,” she continued after a deep drag, “she suggested that she was descended from royalty. That was the very way she put it. Royal blood flowing in the veins, the whole thing.
She said it as if it was a joke: Haha, look what it’s all come down to. And she said it was something her grandmother—who wasn’t all the way right in the head by then—had told her, but you know, she also sounded like she wanted us to believe it. Like she did, anyway, and like it mattered. I mean this is the United States of America. We don’t have royals here and we don’t want them, 53
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
either, so what was that all about? That’s when I noticed the eagle with the flag, and commented on it, kind of a small reminder of what makes this country great. It was almost a relief, seeing something patriotic in her house after that la-di-dah talk.”
I mentally noted that the giving away had been relatively recent, since the tea party was after Phoebe was widowed.
“Unfortunately,” Ramona said, “the other two women she invited, Sally Molinari and Neva Sheffler, they tend to be judg-mental, something I try never to be. Nice women but dreadful talkers. Not mean, not really, not on purpose, but they do like a bit of gossip, so they told everybody she was hoity-toity, putting on airs or maybe a little crazy. I mean, what royalty would live on this block? That’s the kind of thing they said. It wasn’t right, if you ask me, because we had been drinking her tea and eating her little cakes. Not right to bite the hand that feeds you, as they say.
If you can’t say something nice, keep your mouth shut. And also, royal blood doesn’t mean you are still rich. It’s about the past. It doesn’t have anything to do with now. I’ve seen the movies, the ones showing how after the Russian Revolution, all those big-shot aristocrats were down and out in Paris.”
I tried not to smile, not so much at Ramona’s insistence on her charitable heart, but at the image of those émigrés. It was an image I remember Phoebe invoking all those years ago, when she was married to Sasha’s dad. Not that she said she was the missing czarina, but she identified with the threadbare former rulers of the universe. The wheel goes round, she’d say—too often—and where you wind up, nobody knows, and life
GILLIAN ROBERTS
52
I demurred, thanking her, reminding her that I’d barged in on her and that, in any case, I wasn’t staying long. I hoped that would speed up her memories and get us to the night Phoebe died, but not all hopes are realized.
“Tea, I thought. A cup. How would I know different? But she meant the whole shebang. Like the Queen of England might have in the afternoon, with the little sandwiches and cookies.
And pretty china, I have to admit. And she talked about having inherited the set, which was quite grand, but it wasn’t clear if that was from the mister who just died, or an earlier husband, or her own family. And afterward, when we talked, we all had noticed that the silver service was monogrammed, but it wasn’t clear whose initials they were, unless the big ‘B’ in the middle of a lot of curlicues was one of her husbands’ initial and it was a souvenir from that marriage. Of course, you know she was married more than once, don’t you?”
I nodded. I also knew who the “B” in the alphabet of mates had been, although I would have said that Charlie Berg, Sasha’s father, would be more likely to want plastic implements. Dispos-ability was high on his list of priorites, certainly when it came to wives.
“So one of those marriages, maybe. It seemed rude and in-sensitive, given her recent widowhood, to ask why I knew her as Phoebe Ennis, and her silver had the wrong monogram. I mean what if she bought it secondhand somewhere?” She paused to light another cigarette, this time not bothering to ask if I minded.
“The thing was,” she continued after a deep drag, “she suggested that she was descended from royalty. That was the very way she put it. Royal blood flowing in the veins, the whole thing.
She said it as if it was a joke: Haha, look what it’s all come down to. And she said it was something her grandmother—who wasn’t all the way right in the head by then—had told her, but you know, she also sounded like she wanted us to believe it. Like she did, anyway, and like it mattered. I mean this is the United States of America. We don’t have royals here and we don’t want them, 53
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
either, so what was that all about? That’s when I noticed the eagle with the flag, and commented on it, kind of a small reminder of what makes this country great. It was almost a relief, seeing something patriotic in her house after that la-di-dah talk.”
I mentally noted that the giving away had been relatively recent, since the tea party was after Phoebe was widowed.
“Unfortunately,” Ramona said, “the other two women she invited, Sally Molinari and Neva Sheffler, they tend to be judg-mental, something I try never to be. Nice women but dreadful talkers. Not mean, not really, not on purpose, but they do like a bit of gossip, so they told everybody she was hoity-toity, putting on airs or maybe a little crazy. I mean, what royalty would live on this block? That’s the kind of thing they said. It wasn’t right, if you ask me, because we had been drinking her tea and eating her little cakes. Not right to bite the hand that feeds you, as they say.
If you can’t say something nice, keep your mouth shut. And also, royal blood doesn’t mean you are still rich. It’s about the past. It doesn’t have anything to do with now. I’ve seen the movies, the ones showing how after the Russian Revolution, all those big-shot aristocrats were down and out in Paris.”
I tried not to smile, not so much at Ramona’s insistence on her charitable heart, but at the image of those émigrés. It was an image I remember Phoebe invoking all those years ago, when she was married to Sasha’s dad. Not that she said she was the missing czarina, but she identified with the threadbare former rulers of the universe. The wheel goes round, she’d say—too often—and where you wind up, nobody knows, and life
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