I must be going plumb crazy!” Hattie had confided to Sarah), Hattie and Hugh had agreed to be photographed over local TV on the day of their departure, and that night, on a news program, there they were: big Hattie, in her navy linen travelling suit, her white teeth all revealed in a grin for the camera, as she clutched an overflowing tote bag and tried to pin on a cluster of pink camellias; and tall Hugh, a shy smile as he waved an envelope of airline tickets.
As, watching, Sarah, who never cried, burst into tears.
And then they were gone, the McElroys. Moved out to New Mexico.
Sarah moped around. Indifferent housekeeping, minimal efforts. She made thrifty, ordinary meals, so unlike her usual adventurous, rather splashy culinary style, and she lost all interest in how she looked. Not that she was ever given to extravagance in those matters, but she used to wash and brush her hair a lot, and she did something to her eyes, some color, that Jonathan now recognized as missing, gone.
She often wrote to the McElroys, and Hattie answered, often; Sarah produced the letters for Jonathan to read at dinner. They contained a lot about the scenery, the desert, and fairly amusing gossip about what Hattie referred to as the Locals. “You would not believe the number of painters here, and the galleries. Seems like there’s an opening most every night, and the Local Folk all come out in their fancy silver jewelry and their great big silver belts. Whole lots of the men are fairies, of course, but I just don’t care. They’re a lot of fun, they are indeed gay people.” Funny, longish letters, with the sound of Hattie’s voice, always ending with strong protestations of love and friendship. “Oh, we love you and miss you so much, the both of us!” cried out Hattie, on her thin flowered writing paper.
Jonathan observed all this with dark and ragged emotions—Sarah’s deep sadness and the occasional cheer that Hattie’s letters brought. He cared about Sarah in a permanent and complex way that made her pain his; still, what looked like true mourning for the absent McElroys gave him further pain. He had to wonder: was he jealous of the McElroys? And he had to concede that he was, in a way. He thought, I am not enough for her, and at the same time he recognized the foolishness of that thought. No one is “enough” for anyone,of course not. What Sarah needs is a job, and more friends that she likes; he knew that perfectly well.
And then one night at dinner, near the first of August, came the phone call from Hattie; Jonathan over heard a lot of exclamations and shouts, gasps from Sarah, who carne back to the table all breathless, flushed.
“They’re here! The McElroys are back, and staying at the Inn. Just for a visit. One of their boys suddenly decided to marry his girlfriend. Isn’t that great?”
Well, it turned out not to be great. There was the dinner at Jonathan and Sarah’s house, to which the McElroys came late, from another party (and not hungry; one of Sarah’s most successful efforts wasted), and they left rather early. “You would not believe the day we have ahead of us tomorrow! And we thought marrying off a son was supposed to be easy.” And the luncheon at Popsie Hooker’s.
Jonathan and Sarah were not invited to the wedding, a fact initially excused (maybe overexcused) by Sarah: “We’re not the Old Guard, not old Hiltonians, and besides, it’s the bride’s list, not Hattie’s, and we don’t even know her, or her family.”
And then two weeks of the McElroy visit had passed, accurately calculated by Jonathan. Which calculation led to his fatal remarks, over all that wine, about the priorities of the McElroys.
On the morning after that terrible evening, Jonathan and Sarah have breakfast together as usual, but rather sombrely. Hung over, sipping at tea, nibbling at overripe late-summer fruit, Jonathan wonders what he can say, since he cannot exactly deny the truth of his unfortunate words.
At last
As, watching, Sarah, who never cried, burst into tears.
And then they were gone, the McElroys. Moved out to New Mexico.
Sarah moped around. Indifferent housekeeping, minimal efforts. She made thrifty, ordinary meals, so unlike her usual adventurous, rather splashy culinary style, and she lost all interest in how she looked. Not that she was ever given to extravagance in those matters, but she used to wash and brush her hair a lot, and she did something to her eyes, some color, that Jonathan now recognized as missing, gone.
She often wrote to the McElroys, and Hattie answered, often; Sarah produced the letters for Jonathan to read at dinner. They contained a lot about the scenery, the desert, and fairly amusing gossip about what Hattie referred to as the Locals. “You would not believe the number of painters here, and the galleries. Seems like there’s an opening most every night, and the Local Folk all come out in their fancy silver jewelry and their great big silver belts. Whole lots of the men are fairies, of course, but I just don’t care. They’re a lot of fun, they are indeed gay people.” Funny, longish letters, with the sound of Hattie’s voice, always ending with strong protestations of love and friendship. “Oh, we love you and miss you so much, the both of us!” cried out Hattie, on her thin flowered writing paper.
Jonathan observed all this with dark and ragged emotions—Sarah’s deep sadness and the occasional cheer that Hattie’s letters brought. He cared about Sarah in a permanent and complex way that made her pain his; still, what looked like true mourning for the absent McElroys gave him further pain. He had to wonder: was he jealous of the McElroys? And he had to concede that he was, in a way. He thought, I am not enough for her, and at the same time he recognized the foolishness of that thought. No one is “enough” for anyone,of course not. What Sarah needs is a job, and more friends that she likes; he knew that perfectly well.
And then one night at dinner, near the first of August, came the phone call from Hattie; Jonathan over heard a lot of exclamations and shouts, gasps from Sarah, who carne back to the table all breathless, flushed.
“They’re here! The McElroys are back, and staying at the Inn. Just for a visit. One of their boys suddenly decided to marry his girlfriend. Isn’t that great?”
Well, it turned out not to be great. There was the dinner at Jonathan and Sarah’s house, to which the McElroys came late, from another party (and not hungry; one of Sarah’s most successful efforts wasted), and they left rather early. “You would not believe the day we have ahead of us tomorrow! And we thought marrying off a son was supposed to be easy.” And the luncheon at Popsie Hooker’s.
Jonathan and Sarah were not invited to the wedding, a fact initially excused (maybe overexcused) by Sarah: “We’re not the Old Guard, not old Hiltonians, and besides, it’s the bride’s list, not Hattie’s, and we don’t even know her, or her family.”
And then two weeks of the McElroy visit had passed, accurately calculated by Jonathan. Which calculation led to his fatal remarks, over all that wine, about the priorities of the McElroys.
On the morning after that terrible evening, Jonathan and Sarah have breakfast together as usual, but rather sombrely. Hung over, sipping at tea, nibbling at overripe late-summer fruit, Jonathan wonders what he can say, since he cannot exactly deny the truth of his unfortunate words.
At last
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