Read Online Second Chances by Alice Adams - Free Book Online

remember girls at college who were convinced that going out with Jews would get them instantly pregnant. Or was that Catholics?”
    “Well, maybe.” So ironic: now Celeste can hardly get Dudley off the phone. And all this about sex, really the last subject one would choose, although she has an impression that Dudley thinks about sex considerably, more than one would expect in a woman of her age. “Well,” Celeste attempts. “You’re so good to chat with me like this. Letting me keep you away from dear Sam all this time.”
    “Dear Sam and I have been chatting for almost forty years, dear Celeste. We can stand an occasional break.”
    “Well, darling, of course you can. I guess I just wanted reassurance about Sara, and you know how I get about parties. I worry.”
    “But, Celeste, your last big party was terrific. Lord, it must be ten years ago, is that possible? With all those attractive people.”
    Dudley would clearly like to reminisce in detail about that party, when all Celeste can remember of it is that everything was yellow, the yellow-gold night, and the dress she wore. Was that the night that Dudley, uh, drank too much—something to do with Brooks Burgess? She can’t remember, and in any case does not want to discuss it now. “I might just have a small dinner, after all,” she tells Dudley. “You and Sam, Edward and Freddy. Sara and me. And, uh, Bill.”
    “You could have Polly, make it eight.” Helpful Dudley.
    “Of course Polly would make it eight. But then suppose someone can’t come, or something.…” Celeste hears her own voice trail off unconvincingly. “Well, of course I’ll probably invite Polly, after all. You know I always do.”
    “Besides, Polly’s used to being odd, so to speak.” Dudley meant: When Charles was alive, we were often seven at dinner.
    This unspoken remark is afflicting to Celeste, though; she feels it cruelly, yet she cannot bring herself to blame Dudley, who did not even utter it, actually. But,
Charles
, cries out Celeste, within her heart.
    Sensitive Dudley, however, seems to have heard her own unvoiced remark; her tone is much gentler, is infinitely affectionate as she tells Celeste, “In any case your parties are always fabulous,dearest Celeste. You know that. Sam and I always so look forward—”
    “Well, you’re dear to say so. And now I do believe I should say good night. Good night, and sleep well, dear Dudley.”
    “Oh! the same to you. And much love, Celeste.”
    This note of great affection is natural to all these people. To the occasional outsider, invited into their midst (no one could just wander there), it might have a sound of exaggeration, even of extremity, but to them, this group of almost very old people, it is both genuine and sustaining. What they say to each other is true, and real: they feel great affection for each other. One could call it love. And particularly at partings. Any parting, even the end of a phone conversation. They all need blessings, reassurance. The old have that need in common with small children, seemingly.
    And, though indeed reassured, Celeste observes that it is still too early, really, to go to bed. And so she stalks about her room, a caged lioness, sniffing at shadows.
    The tall, handsome Biedermeier bureau, with its tiny linen runner, holds many (seven or eight, at least) large, heavy silver-framed likenesses of Charles. Of Charles and Celeste together, but mostly just Charles. Attractive Charles, an American classic, with his sad-boyish, sincere blue eyes, his clear wide brow and those eyebrows. His nose is a shade too small for true handsomeness, but his chin is deeply cleft.
    Celeste herself never photographed well at all—interestingly, age has made her more photogenic. Then, in those pictures, her eyes and nose both seemed somewhat too large, and her expression tended, in pictures, to be severe. When she did smile, the smile looked reluctant, forced.
    Celeste does not just now look at any of those