perception is always clouded by the memory of angry words, alcoholic scenes, and furious denials.
My father met us at the door, an ever-present gin and tonic in his hand. He pecked my cheek and took Stephen’s hand. Stephen, I knew, tolerated my mother but felt real affection for Dad. Mother, on the other hand, tolerated Stephen only because I had managed to demonstrate to her that I was capable, in her eyes at least, of doing much worse. After all, I’d married a man: named Russell Dubrinski, forcing her to stand shoulder to shoulder in a receiving line with an immigrant tailor and his wife.
We followed Dad into the library where he mixed us drinks. I pounced on a platter of cheese and crackers while Stephen and my father flipped through the channels from baseball to hockey to basketball and back again.
“You know that cheese is full of fat,” said my mother archly from the door.
“Then why do you serve it?” I countered. I couldn’t remember a time when we had been able to speak without sparring.
My mother is a beautiful woman, occupied fully in the job of being Astrid Millholland. She gives tirelessly of herself to philanthropic causes, makes dressing well into an art, and tends the mirror with frightening discipline. After twenty-nine years of marriage she still weighs, to the pound, what she did on her wedding day. Her skin is fine and flawless. Her wide eyes sparkle. Her signature mane of chestnut hair, swept back from her forehead, is still glossy, thick, and infinitely more stylish than mine.
“I know we’re just family, but you might have taken the time to put on a little bit of makeup,” admonished Mother. “I can’t believe you let Stephen see you like that.”
“Can we please go into dinner?” I asked, turning toward my father. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
These family evenings are prone to strange turns, especially since my little sister, Beth, departed for boarding school. It’s as if my mother, the polished veteran of a thousand dinner parties, has no notion of how to converse with someone who is not wearing a tuxedo. So we sit among the silver and the Spode, struggling to fill in the gaps between appetizer and dessert.
Through the soup Mother brought us up to date on her latest decorating project—a complete overhaul of the living room, music room, and solarium.
“I know it will shock people,” she confided, “but I’ve decided to try a new decorator. Mimi Ashford is so done. One of her rooms is like a shirt with ‘Chanel’ on the front. I can tell right away when I walk into a room if Mimi’s had a hand in it. There are certain signatures, things that she does in every room the same way, like those elaborate swags and tails for draperies we have in the music room now. Besides, she’s terribly strict. While we were having lunch together I said that I thought it would be wonderful if we could have someplace in the living room to put a drink down. Mimi just looked me in the eye and said: ‘No coffee tables, period.’ That’s why I’m trying a new decorator—Gordon something or other. Binnie Wadsworth swears by him, and at least he doesn’t seem so bossy. Besides, he should find his schedule a lot freer after today. I know he was set to redo the ballroom at the Hexters’. I can’t believe that Pamela will be going ahead with that now.”
“Have you heard the news?” asked my father, turning to Stephen. “It seems someone’s gone and shot Bart Hexter. Killed him dead at the end of his driveway.”
“Miriam called me this afternoon and told me the news,” replied Mother. “It seems one of her maids has a sister who works for the Hexters—you know, these foreign servants are all related. I think it’s scandalous how bold these thieves are becoming. Miriam is talking about getting an electric fence and calling one of those companies that rents attack dogs.”
“I don’t think he was shot by a burglar,” I said.
“What makes you say that?” demanded
My father met us at the door, an ever-present gin and tonic in his hand. He pecked my cheek and took Stephen’s hand. Stephen, I knew, tolerated my mother but felt real affection for Dad. Mother, on the other hand, tolerated Stephen only because I had managed to demonstrate to her that I was capable, in her eyes at least, of doing much worse. After all, I’d married a man: named Russell Dubrinski, forcing her to stand shoulder to shoulder in a receiving line with an immigrant tailor and his wife.
We followed Dad into the library where he mixed us drinks. I pounced on a platter of cheese and crackers while Stephen and my father flipped through the channels from baseball to hockey to basketball and back again.
“You know that cheese is full of fat,” said my mother archly from the door.
“Then why do you serve it?” I countered. I couldn’t remember a time when we had been able to speak without sparring.
My mother is a beautiful woman, occupied fully in the job of being Astrid Millholland. She gives tirelessly of herself to philanthropic causes, makes dressing well into an art, and tends the mirror with frightening discipline. After twenty-nine years of marriage she still weighs, to the pound, what she did on her wedding day. Her skin is fine and flawless. Her wide eyes sparkle. Her signature mane of chestnut hair, swept back from her forehead, is still glossy, thick, and infinitely more stylish than mine.
“I know we’re just family, but you might have taken the time to put on a little bit of makeup,” admonished Mother. “I can’t believe you let Stephen see you like that.”
“Can we please go into dinner?” I asked, turning toward my father. “I haven’t eaten all day.”
These family evenings are prone to strange turns, especially since my little sister, Beth, departed for boarding school. It’s as if my mother, the polished veteran of a thousand dinner parties, has no notion of how to converse with someone who is not wearing a tuxedo. So we sit among the silver and the Spode, struggling to fill in the gaps between appetizer and dessert.
Through the soup Mother brought us up to date on her latest decorating project—a complete overhaul of the living room, music room, and solarium.
“I know it will shock people,” she confided, “but I’ve decided to try a new decorator. Mimi Ashford is so done. One of her rooms is like a shirt with ‘Chanel’ on the front. I can tell right away when I walk into a room if Mimi’s had a hand in it. There are certain signatures, things that she does in every room the same way, like those elaborate swags and tails for draperies we have in the music room now. Besides, she’s terribly strict. While we were having lunch together I said that I thought it would be wonderful if we could have someplace in the living room to put a drink down. Mimi just looked me in the eye and said: ‘No coffee tables, period.’ That’s why I’m trying a new decorator—Gordon something or other. Binnie Wadsworth swears by him, and at least he doesn’t seem so bossy. Besides, he should find his schedule a lot freer after today. I know he was set to redo the ballroom at the Hexters’. I can’t believe that Pamela will be going ahead with that now.”
“Have you heard the news?” asked my father, turning to Stephen. “It seems someone’s gone and shot Bart Hexter. Killed him dead at the end of his driveway.”
“Miriam called me this afternoon and told me the news,” replied Mother. “It seems one of her maids has a sister who works for the Hexters—you know, these foreign servants are all related. I think it’s scandalous how bold these thieves are becoming. Miriam is talking about getting an electric fence and calling one of those companies that rents attack dogs.”
“I don’t think he was shot by a burglar,” I said.
“What makes you say that?” demanded
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