Read Online American Appetites by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page B

“Ian? You aren’t angry with me, are you? Is it too much of a surprise?”
    Ian kisses her, and says, “Of course not; why would I be angry with you? I’m delighted. I am absolutely delighted. It is worth it, almost, after all, to be fifty years old in America.”
    BUT NO ONE will acknowledge the pink roses.
    Glynnis makes inquiries; Glynnis is curious and perplexed and, of course, flattered—for the anonymous sender was thoughtful enough to say Happiness to both —but no one will acknowledge the roses. The Kuhns had had delivered, that afternoon, a rather regal floral display, too large, in fact, for Glynnis to use as a centerpiece; and Glynnis herself had ordered flowers, as she always does for a party, when flowers from her own garden are not available; and Leonard Oppenheim and Paul Owen brought, in hand, an assortment of red roses and carnations. “But who sent us these?” Glynnis asks, holding the cut-glass vase aloft. “Who is so sweet, and so teasing?”
    They tell her, “Maybe you have an unknown admirer, Glynnis,” but Glynnis says, “No, the card says ‘Happiness to both.’ It must be one of you,” she says, looking at them half pleadingly—at Denis and Roberta, at Malcolm and June, at the Kuhns, at the Cassitys, at the Hawleys, at Leonard and Paul. But no: no one will acknowledge the pink roses.
    Later in the evening Glynnis whispers, in Denis’s ear, “ Did you send them? Please tell me if you did.” And Denis says, guiltily, “Darling, I wish I had .”
    THE SURPRISE PART of the party is an unqualified success, Glynnis sees. Her husband is in as high spirits, as boyish, as flush-faced, as eloquent and witty and tender, as she has seen him in a very long time. And the appetizers are excellent, as Glynnis McCullough’s appetizers invariably are; Beluga caviar, and two kinds of pâté, and a fastidiously prepared vegetable platter. “But don’t serve them too much,” Glynnis instructs Marvis. “After all, there is dinner yet to come.”
    Leonard Oppenheim and Paul Owen, who have lived together in one of the old “historic” houses in Hazelton for nearly twenty years, have brought the McCulloughs a half dozen bottles of champagne, and a stunning champagne it is—Taittinger Blanc de Blancs 1976. (“Is this as good as it tastes?” Malcolm Oliver asks the room, holding his champagne glass aloft.) Others have brought bottles of Scotch, brandy, liqueur, candied fruits, chocolates; Ian’s fellow squash players—Denis, Malcolm, Vaughn, Vincent—have chipped in to buy him a “custom-sculpted” milk chocolate squash racquet, from the Hazelton Gourmet. There are birthday cards, most of them comical, one or two quite blackly comic, turning upon the theme of being fifty years old. (“I was really quite surprised, browsing through gift shops,” Roberta Grinnell confides in Glynnis. “The extraordinary number of joke cards, in very bad taste, that have to do with men turning fifty.” “Men, and not women?” Glynnis asks. “Men, and not women,” Roberta says. “Why, do you suppose?” Glynnis asks, frowning. “Wouldn’t the other kind sell?”) Glynnis had virtually pleaded with their friends not to buy Ian presents, not to be extravagant, but of course they ignored her, for what is a birthday celebration without presents, they protested, and, before dinner, seated in a high-backed chair rather like a throne, Ian McCullough unwraps these gifts, taking care, as Glynnis cautions him, not to rip the beautiful wrapping paper . And some of these presents are indeed more extravagant than Glynnis might have wished: a wheat-colored shetland sweater, for instance, from Meika and Vaughn, bought at Hazelton’s notoriously overpriced scotch Wool shop; an enormous art book, from the Olivers— Treasures of the Etruscans; and, of