said, “It seemed intolerable when it happened, and it seems intolerable today.”
Ilka resented the Shakespeares’ intolerable loss. She imagined it like a wound in their lives, a flaw in their pleasures that flawed the pleasure she wanted to be at liberty to feel when she was with them. Ilka wished the baby unlost.
Before he left her off at her gate, Leslie invited Ilka to breakfast the following Sunday. Again he called and offered to pick her up. Again Ilka worried about not helping, but what Eliza wanted was for Ilka and Leslie to sit and drink their Bloody Marys in the kitchen and talk where she could hear them. She said, “Winnie’s back. He wanted to come for breakfast, but I said we had other plans.”
“I’ll phone him later,” said Leslie.
“I told him to come get his boxes.”
“What’s Winterneet like?” asked Ilka.
“A Peanuts cartoon,” replied Eliza. “A swelled head walking on his little shoes.”
“You don’t like him?” Ilka asked doubtfully.
Leslie said, “Winterneet and the Bernstines are our oldest American friends.”
“How did you meet him?” asked Ilka.
Leslie said, “When we were graduate students in Chicago, Winnie was an adjunct professor. Everybody was short of money.
Winnie’s marriage with Dorothy was breaking up and he moved in with us—”
“—and having spread his papers over every surface of every room in the apartment,” Eliza said, “he moved out . . .”
Leslie uncrossed and recrossed his legs.
“. . . and moved in with Susanna,” Eliza said. “Leslie collected the papers into a cardboard box that I fell over in our foyer all summer and autumn. Come the first snow I put it out in the driveway.”
“You didn’t!” said Ilka.
“Yes, I did,” said Eliza.
Ilka looked at Leslie, who said, “She did.”
“Leslie brought it in and carried it to his study. When Winnie left Susanna he moved back with his second box of papers.”
“You know what I love?” Ilka said when Leslie presently stood up, handling his car keys inside his jacket pocket. “I like it that you let a person know when you’ve had enough of them.”
“Always the gentleman,” said Eliza.
“No, but it means I can sit and enjoy myself without worrying whether the time has come for me to offer to go home. Eliza and Leslie, I make you a proposition: Will you be my elective cousins? I’m low on the kind one has by blood.”
Leslie and Eliza agreed to be Ilka’s elective cousins, and Eliza invited her to come over after dinner, Saturday. The Bernstines were dropping by for drinks. Leslie said he would pick her up.
Saturday, and Ilka walked into the Shakespeares’ living room. On a chair, with a drink in his hand, sat a man whose graying orange hair was the color, exactly, of the expanse of his cranium. He had a flat face with shallow features—the nose was blunt and short, the eye-sockets lacked shadow. His shoes were child-sized. It was the actual Winterneet regarding Ilka with a smile that revealed a small, charming gap between the two upper front teeth. Ilka lowered
her eyes, raised them, and the actual Winterneet was still smiling at her. Here came the Bernstines. Leslie brought drinks and Eliza a platter of what Winterneet, with his delightful smile, called the “eats.”
Ilka meant to keep looking intelligently engaged in a conversation these old friends must have been having together for the past decades. Once in a while Leslie threw Ilka a scrap of data, a gloss on a name: “It was Frank who introduced Susanna and Winterneet in sixty-three, wasn’t it? Susanna was Dave Foster’s half sister,” Leslie explained.
“Aha!” Ilka kept saying.
The phone rang. Leslie walked out into the hall.
“Sixty-four is when we had the baby . . .” said Eliza—Ilka observed Joe Bernstine plant his hands on the arms of his chair, ready to rise, saw Jenny’s forehead corrugate—“and you removed yourself to Berkeley. In sixty-five,” Eliza said to
Ilka resented the Shakespeares’ intolerable loss. She imagined it like a wound in their lives, a flaw in their pleasures that flawed the pleasure she wanted to be at liberty to feel when she was with them. Ilka wished the baby unlost.
Before he left her off at her gate, Leslie invited Ilka to breakfast the following Sunday. Again he called and offered to pick her up. Again Ilka worried about not helping, but what Eliza wanted was for Ilka and Leslie to sit and drink their Bloody Marys in the kitchen and talk where she could hear them. She said, “Winnie’s back. He wanted to come for breakfast, but I said we had other plans.”
“I’ll phone him later,” said Leslie.
“I told him to come get his boxes.”
“What’s Winterneet like?” asked Ilka.
“A Peanuts cartoon,” replied Eliza. “A swelled head walking on his little shoes.”
“You don’t like him?” Ilka asked doubtfully.
Leslie said, “Winterneet and the Bernstines are our oldest American friends.”
“How did you meet him?” asked Ilka.
Leslie said, “When we were graduate students in Chicago, Winnie was an adjunct professor. Everybody was short of money.
Winnie’s marriage with Dorothy was breaking up and he moved in with us—”
“—and having spread his papers over every surface of every room in the apartment,” Eliza said, “he moved out . . .”
Leslie uncrossed and recrossed his legs.
“. . . and moved in with Susanna,” Eliza said. “Leslie collected the papers into a cardboard box that I fell over in our foyer all summer and autumn. Come the first snow I put it out in the driveway.”
“You didn’t!” said Ilka.
“Yes, I did,” said Eliza.
Ilka looked at Leslie, who said, “She did.”
“Leslie brought it in and carried it to his study. When Winnie left Susanna he moved back with his second box of papers.”
“You know what I love?” Ilka said when Leslie presently stood up, handling his car keys inside his jacket pocket. “I like it that you let a person know when you’ve had enough of them.”
“Always the gentleman,” said Eliza.
“No, but it means I can sit and enjoy myself without worrying whether the time has come for me to offer to go home. Eliza and Leslie, I make you a proposition: Will you be my elective cousins? I’m low on the kind one has by blood.”
Leslie and Eliza agreed to be Ilka’s elective cousins, and Eliza invited her to come over after dinner, Saturday. The Bernstines were dropping by for drinks. Leslie said he would pick her up.
Saturday, and Ilka walked into the Shakespeares’ living room. On a chair, with a drink in his hand, sat a man whose graying orange hair was the color, exactly, of the expanse of his cranium. He had a flat face with shallow features—the nose was blunt and short, the eye-sockets lacked shadow. His shoes were child-sized. It was the actual Winterneet regarding Ilka with a smile that revealed a small, charming gap between the two upper front teeth. Ilka lowered
her eyes, raised them, and the actual Winterneet was still smiling at her. Here came the Bernstines. Leslie brought drinks and Eliza a platter of what Winterneet, with his delightful smile, called the “eats.”
Ilka meant to keep looking intelligently engaged in a conversation these old friends must have been having together for the past decades. Once in a while Leslie threw Ilka a scrap of data, a gloss on a name: “It was Frank who introduced Susanna and Winterneet in sixty-three, wasn’t it? Susanna was Dave Foster’s half sister,” Leslie explained.
“Aha!” Ilka kept saying.
The phone rang. Leslie walked out into the hall.
“Sixty-four is when we had the baby . . .” said Eliza—Ilka observed Joe Bernstine plant his hands on the arms of his chair, ready to rise, saw Jenny’s forehead corrugate—“and you removed yourself to Berkeley. In sixty-five,” Eliza said to
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