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Authors: Hortense Calisher
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nooked windows, there were many worn wicker-and-chintz settees. But, looking further, I saw the dark bookshelves filled with Elbert Hubbard editions, the burnt-leather cushions, of the kind that last a lifetime, scattering the wicker, the ponderous floor lamps, whose parchment umbrella shades were bound with fringe—and I began to recognize the room for what it was. This was a room from which the stags’ heads, the Tiffany glass had been cleared, perhaps, but it was still that room which lurked in albums and memoirs, behind pictures labeled The Family at __. Summer of 1910. Bottom row my son Ned, later to fall in the Ardennes, daughters Julie and Christine, and their school friend, Mary X, now wife of my son George.
“I never did much to this room except put in the pianos,” said Mrs. Hawthorn. “It’s practically the same as when we got married, the year Harry’s mother died, and he came back from France. We had some helluva parties here, though. Wonderful!” And now, as I followed her glance, I fancied that I detected in the room a faint, raffish overglaze of the early twenties, when I was too young to go to parties—here and there a hassock, still loudly black-and-white, a few of those ballerina book ends everyone used to have, and yes, there, hung in a corner, a couple of old batiks. Dozens of people could have sprawled here, the young men with their bell-bottomed trousers, the girls with their Tutankhamen eardrops, pointed pumps, and orange-ice-colored silk knees. The weathered wicker would have absorbed the spilled drinks without comment, and cigarette burns would have been hilariously added to the burnt-leather cushions. Yes, it could have been a hell of a room for a party.
Mrs. Hawthorn led us to the windows and pointed out into the dark, staring through it with the sure, commanding eye of the householder. “You can’t see, of course, but we’re on three bodies of water here—the river, the Sound, and the ocean. There’s the end of the dock—the Coast Guard still ties up there once in a while, although we don’t keep it up any more. When I was a kid, it used to be fitted out like a summer hotel. I used to swim around the point and watch them.” Then, I thought, she would not have been one of the three little girls in the bottom row of the picture—she would never have been in that picture at all.
She closed the curtain. “Let me show you your room, then we’ll be off.” She led us upstairs, into a comfortable, nondescript bedroom. “That’s my door, across the hall. Knock when you’re ready.”
“Oh, it won’t take a minute to change,” I said.
“Change? Dear, you don’t have to change.”
“Oh, but we’ve brought our evening things,” I said. “It’ll only take us a minute.” There was a slight wail to my voice.
“Really it won’t,” said Luke. “We’re awfully sorry if we’ve delayed you, but we’ll rush.”
We continued our protests for a minute, standing there in the hall. She leaned down and patted my shoulder, looking at me with that musing smile older women wore when they leaned over baby carriages. I had encountered that look often that year, among my mother’s friends. “No, run along, and never mind,” she said. “Nobody else is going to be there.”
In front of the mirror in our room, I ran a comb through my curls. “Nobody who is anybody, I suppose she meant. I can’t imagine why else she picked on us. And when I think of those awful shoes!”
“You can wear them at home,” said Luke. “I like women to be flashy around the house. Come on, you look wonderful.”
“I’m going to change to them anyway. They’ll dance better.”
“You’ll only have to dance half the dances.”
“Luke—” I slid my feet into the shoes and twisted to check my stocking seams. “Do you suppose that little man, Dave, will be there? Do you suppose we’re being used as a sort of cover ?”
He laughed. “I don’t know. Come on.”
“Don’t you think it’s
“I never did much to this room except put in the pianos,” said Mrs. Hawthorn. “It’s practically the same as when we got married, the year Harry’s mother died, and he came back from France. We had some helluva parties here, though. Wonderful!” And now, as I followed her glance, I fancied that I detected in the room a faint, raffish overglaze of the early twenties, when I was too young to go to parties—here and there a hassock, still loudly black-and-white, a few of those ballerina book ends everyone used to have, and yes, there, hung in a corner, a couple of old batiks. Dozens of people could have sprawled here, the young men with their bell-bottomed trousers, the girls with their Tutankhamen eardrops, pointed pumps, and orange-ice-colored silk knees. The weathered wicker would have absorbed the spilled drinks without comment, and cigarette burns would have been hilariously added to the burnt-leather cushions. Yes, it could have been a hell of a room for a party.
Mrs. Hawthorn led us to the windows and pointed out into the dark, staring through it with the sure, commanding eye of the householder. “You can’t see, of course, but we’re on three bodies of water here—the river, the Sound, and the ocean. There’s the end of the dock—the Coast Guard still ties up there once in a while, although we don’t keep it up any more. When I was a kid, it used to be fitted out like a summer hotel. I used to swim around the point and watch them.” Then, I thought, she would not have been one of the three little girls in the bottom row of the picture—she would never have been in that picture at all.
She closed the curtain. “Let me show you your room, then we’ll be off.” She led us upstairs, into a comfortable, nondescript bedroom. “That’s my door, across the hall. Knock when you’re ready.”
“Oh, it won’t take a minute to change,” I said.
“Change? Dear, you don’t have to change.”
“Oh, but we’ve brought our evening things,” I said. “It’ll only take us a minute.” There was a slight wail to my voice.
“Really it won’t,” said Luke. “We’re awfully sorry if we’ve delayed you, but we’ll rush.”
We continued our protests for a minute, standing there in the hall. She leaned down and patted my shoulder, looking at me with that musing smile older women wore when they leaned over baby carriages. I had encountered that look often that year, among my mother’s friends. “No, run along, and never mind,” she said. “Nobody else is going to be there.”
In front of the mirror in our room, I ran a comb through my curls. “Nobody who is anybody, I suppose she meant. I can’t imagine why else she picked on us. And when I think of those awful shoes!”
“You can wear them at home,” said Luke. “I like women to be flashy around the house. Come on, you look wonderful.”
“I’m going to change to them anyway. They’ll dance better.”
“You’ll only have to dance half the dances.”
“Luke—” I slid my feet into the shoes and twisted to check my stocking seams. “Do you suppose that little man, Dave, will be there? Do you suppose we’re being used as a sort of cover ?”
He laughed. “I don’t know. Come on.”
“Don’t you think it’s
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