peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
A complicated garden, she thought. Not unlike Leah’s with its olive trees and butterflies. And she saw the two of them, Leah and famous Lionel, sitting in the shade, cosseted and embittered by their warm and pleasant exile. Lionel withdrawing into drink, retiring to his study to write his memoirs, and dying without a word of them written down. Then Leah sitting on alone in the garden, nursing her grievances, cherishing her anger.
The spear-tip fern could have come from such a place. And turning her gaze from the frost ferns on the window to the fern on her desk, she felt for a second time that subtle nudge, as if things might be leading somewhere.
9
The Phone Call
O n Saturday morning Harriet made trays of Christmas shortbread, even though her cholesterol was so high it could have been the stairway to paradise. The doctor who broke the news was astonished that a woman so thin would have such high cholesterol. What do you eat? he wanted to know. No-namedigestive biscuits, said Harriet. How many a day? he asked. Eight? said Harriet. That’s too many, said the doctor.
Dinah said, “I couldn’t stand doing what you do. Sitting at your desk all day long, trying to invent stuff out of thin air. I have to get out and sniff around the city every day.” Her voice was even huskier than usual from a cold she hadn’t been able to shake.
“That’s because you’re a newshound.”
“A newshound,” repeated Kenny with relish.
“We could be a scriptwriting team,” Harriet said. “Browning and Bloom as the new Comden and Greene. Or a vaudeville act. What were Fred and Judy in
Easter Parade?”
“Hannah and Hewes,” said Kenny, who had a mind like a steel trap.
“Gene Kelly was supposed to have that role,” said Harriet. She was clocking the shortbread in the oven. “But he broke his ankle playing volleyball, so Fred Astaire came out of retirement and stayed on for another decade. Lucky for us.”
“Your mother’s been reading Pauline Kael again.”
“I didn’t learn that from Pauline.”
“Pauline Who?” asked Jane the late riser, wandering into the kitchen in sunglasses and a Guatemalan hat because she felt like summer.
Her mother, deep in her own thoughts, didn’t reply, and so Dinah murmured, “the movie critic,” and Jane sighed, “oh,” while Harriet rolled on. “Was she ever wrong about
Easter Parade
. Sometimes she was just too harsh, too sweeping, she missed the joy of certain movies. But I love her. I really do.”
Kenny had a goofy grin on his face, as he always did when Dinah came over. He strode back and forth with his hands inhis pockets. The night before, during
Pal Joey
, he had nodded his head to the music much too vigorously he was so excited, so anxious that everybody like Frankie as much as he and Dinah did. His mother noticed and understood. She herself had never recovered from the shock of hearing, at fifteen, someone malign Rudolf Nureyev. “Nureyev,” the brutal someone said, “is so full of himself that Margot Fonteyn can’t stand him.” Her world, she remembers well, was rocked to its foundations. She had enough sense to know that this addiction to purity, which her son shared, was neither good for her nor good for him. Therefore, she said, “Shouldn’t my son have a different role model than Frank Sinatra? I mean, not to do Frank an injustice,” as three pairs of frosty-alarmed eyes turned in her direction, “but what’s wrong with Nelson Mandela? Or even Sean Connery?”
Dinah snorted.
“Seen
Connery was a truck driver and not too bright, but Frankie had all the right instincts, no matter what you say.”
“Sean improved with age,” said Harriet. “Frank looks like a sausage in a silver wig.”
“I’m leaving,” Dinah said.
“Forgive me. I won’t say another word. Except that somebody was afraid to go bald and somebody wasn’t. And do
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
A complicated garden, she thought. Not unlike Leah’s with its olive trees and butterflies. And she saw the two of them, Leah and famous Lionel, sitting in the shade, cosseted and embittered by their warm and pleasant exile. Lionel withdrawing into drink, retiring to his study to write his memoirs, and dying without a word of them written down. Then Leah sitting on alone in the garden, nursing her grievances, cherishing her anger.
The spear-tip fern could have come from such a place. And turning her gaze from the frost ferns on the window to the fern on her desk, she felt for a second time that subtle nudge, as if things might be leading somewhere.
9
The Phone Call
O n Saturday morning Harriet made trays of Christmas shortbread, even though her cholesterol was so high it could have been the stairway to paradise. The doctor who broke the news was astonished that a woman so thin would have such high cholesterol. What do you eat? he wanted to know. No-namedigestive biscuits, said Harriet. How many a day? he asked. Eight? said Harriet. That’s too many, said the doctor.
Dinah said, “I couldn’t stand doing what you do. Sitting at your desk all day long, trying to invent stuff out of thin air. I have to get out and sniff around the city every day.” Her voice was even huskier than usual from a cold she hadn’t been able to shake.
“That’s because you’re a newshound.”
“A newshound,” repeated Kenny with relish.
“We could be a scriptwriting team,” Harriet said. “Browning and Bloom as the new Comden and Greene. Or a vaudeville act. What were Fred and Judy in
Easter Parade?”
“Hannah and Hewes,” said Kenny, who had a mind like a steel trap.
“Gene Kelly was supposed to have that role,” said Harriet. She was clocking the shortbread in the oven. “But he broke his ankle playing volleyball, so Fred Astaire came out of retirement and stayed on for another decade. Lucky for us.”
“Your mother’s been reading Pauline Kael again.”
“I didn’t learn that from Pauline.”
“Pauline Who?” asked Jane the late riser, wandering into the kitchen in sunglasses and a Guatemalan hat because she felt like summer.
Her mother, deep in her own thoughts, didn’t reply, and so Dinah murmured, “the movie critic,” and Jane sighed, “oh,” while Harriet rolled on. “Was she ever wrong about
Easter Parade
. Sometimes she was just too harsh, too sweeping, she missed the joy of certain movies. But I love her. I really do.”
Kenny had a goofy grin on his face, as he always did when Dinah came over. He strode back and forth with his hands inhis pockets. The night before, during
Pal Joey
, he had nodded his head to the music much too vigorously he was so excited, so anxious that everybody like Frankie as much as he and Dinah did. His mother noticed and understood. She herself had never recovered from the shock of hearing, at fifteen, someone malign Rudolf Nureyev. “Nureyev,” the brutal someone said, “is so full of himself that Margot Fonteyn can’t stand him.” Her world, she remembers well, was rocked to its foundations. She had enough sense to know that this addiction to purity, which her son shared, was neither good for her nor good for him. Therefore, she said, “Shouldn’t my son have a different role model than Frank Sinatra? I mean, not to do Frank an injustice,” as three pairs of frosty-alarmed eyes turned in her direction, “but what’s wrong with Nelson Mandela? Or even Sean Connery?”
Dinah snorted.
“Seen
Connery was a truck driver and not too bright, but Frankie had all the right instincts, no matter what you say.”
“Sean improved with age,” said Harriet. “Frank looks like a sausage in a silver wig.”
“I’m leaving,” Dinah said.
“Forgive me. I won’t say another word. Except that somebody was afraid to go bald and somebody wasn’t. And do
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