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Authors: Leigh Himes
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escalator, right?”
“I’ve warned her before about those high heels, but she won’t listen to me,” said Alex, shrugging.
“Wives these days never do,” added the old man. Everyone laughed except me.
The conversation turned to the campaign and then life in general. I listened intently, trying to pick up any information that might help me. From what I could gather, this couple was Mr. and Mrs. Brindle of the now defunct Brindle Department Store chain. They lived nearby and were old friends of the van Holts; Alex was even their godson. And perhaps benefactors too: At one point, the old man pulled Alex aside and slipped him an envelope. Alex put it in his coat and stepped back to me, and we all stiffly shook hands good-bye (no one hugged here, not even godparents).
We were almost free of them when Mr. Brindle turned back, suddenly remembering something. “Oh, Abigail, I forgot to ask. How did you like the seats last Sunday? Helluva night, huh?”
Last Sunday? Last Sunday I had been home watching the Eagles get crushed by the Giants as Jimmy threw things at the TV. I guessed he meant the game?
“I know! What a disaster. Heads are definitely going to roll for that one.”
The group turned silent; then Alex jumped in. “Oh, I don’t know, doll. I know it’s not the philharmonic, but I thought the new strings were terrific.”
Huh? “Oh! You meant the symphony! Yes. Terrific.”
Alex laughed. “What did you think we were talking about?”
“I thought you meant the Eagles.”
A confused-looking Mrs. Brindle spoke next. “Who?”
“The Eagles. The Philadelphia Eagles.”
The woman looked at her husband and then back at me. “Excuse me?”
“She means the professional sports team, Edith.”
The old lady and I stared at each other without speaking, she still confused and me stunned. To not know Katy Perry or
Finding Nemo
or Blue Man Group, I understood. But to live in Philadelphia and not know the Eagles? Unbelievable.
The couple smiled and walked off, leaving me a few seconds to take in the room and everyone in it before the next conversation. These people were the last of the great robber barons and society matrons of the Main Line, a group of people so out of touch with reality, so protected in their own tweed- and mahogany-coated world, it was like they were their own species. Or a lost tribe—hidden not by jungle but by high stone walls and curling iron gates. And lots and lots of money.
And here was I—or some symphony-loving, cottage-designing, estate-visiting version of me—living among them.
Or “mucking through,” that is.
After another twenty minutes of “fines,” “greats,” and “uh-huhs,” plus a lot of napkin dropping, drink refreshing, and talking about the weather—so much so you’d have thought a fifty-five-degree day in late October was like a snowstorm in July—I realized I had better get away from Alex. Even though he was so polite it was hard to tell what he was thinking, I had made so many gaffes, he had to be suspicious. Or think I had suddenly turned into a moron. Thank God I could always fall back on my “head injury” if I needed to.
I excused myself and made my way slowly through the crowd, examining the world around me. There were so many people jammed into the large room—more than one hundred guests, all drinking heavily, barking orders at servers, and crowding around two bars (one raw, one wet)—that no one seemed to notice me.Adding to the commotion were three loping Irish wolfhounds, which mingled along with everyone else, knocking into knees and begging for bits of Camembert when not lounging like furry maharajas on the flowered couches.
Across the room, I spied Alex’s sister and mother, both at ease in their natural habitat. There was no sign of a father, and no one mentioned one, so I figured he must be dead or out of town. Not that I was one to question a broken home; I hadn’t heard from my dad in more than twenty years.
I moved into a
“I’ve warned her before about those high heels, but she won’t listen to me,” said Alex, shrugging.
“Wives these days never do,” added the old man. Everyone laughed except me.
The conversation turned to the campaign and then life in general. I listened intently, trying to pick up any information that might help me. From what I could gather, this couple was Mr. and Mrs. Brindle of the now defunct Brindle Department Store chain. They lived nearby and were old friends of the van Holts; Alex was even their godson. And perhaps benefactors too: At one point, the old man pulled Alex aside and slipped him an envelope. Alex put it in his coat and stepped back to me, and we all stiffly shook hands good-bye (no one hugged here, not even godparents).
We were almost free of them when Mr. Brindle turned back, suddenly remembering something. “Oh, Abigail, I forgot to ask. How did you like the seats last Sunday? Helluva night, huh?”
Last Sunday? Last Sunday I had been home watching the Eagles get crushed by the Giants as Jimmy threw things at the TV. I guessed he meant the game?
“I know! What a disaster. Heads are definitely going to roll for that one.”
The group turned silent; then Alex jumped in. “Oh, I don’t know, doll. I know it’s not the philharmonic, but I thought the new strings were terrific.”
Huh? “Oh! You meant the symphony! Yes. Terrific.”
Alex laughed. “What did you think we were talking about?”
“I thought you meant the Eagles.”
A confused-looking Mrs. Brindle spoke next. “Who?”
“The Eagles. The Philadelphia Eagles.”
The woman looked at her husband and then back at me. “Excuse me?”
“She means the professional sports team, Edith.”
The old lady and I stared at each other without speaking, she still confused and me stunned. To not know Katy Perry or
Finding Nemo
or Blue Man Group, I understood. But to live in Philadelphia and not know the Eagles? Unbelievable.
The couple smiled and walked off, leaving me a few seconds to take in the room and everyone in it before the next conversation. These people were the last of the great robber barons and society matrons of the Main Line, a group of people so out of touch with reality, so protected in their own tweed- and mahogany-coated world, it was like they were their own species. Or a lost tribe—hidden not by jungle but by high stone walls and curling iron gates. And lots and lots of money.
And here was I—or some symphony-loving, cottage-designing, estate-visiting version of me—living among them.
Or “mucking through,” that is.
After another twenty minutes of “fines,” “greats,” and “uh-huhs,” plus a lot of napkin dropping, drink refreshing, and talking about the weather—so much so you’d have thought a fifty-five-degree day in late October was like a snowstorm in July—I realized I had better get away from Alex. Even though he was so polite it was hard to tell what he was thinking, I had made so many gaffes, he had to be suspicious. Or think I had suddenly turned into a moron. Thank God I could always fall back on my “head injury” if I needed to.
I excused myself and made my way slowly through the crowd, examining the world around me. There were so many people jammed into the large room—more than one hundred guests, all drinking heavily, barking orders at servers, and crowding around two bars (one raw, one wet)—that no one seemed to notice me.Adding to the commotion were three loping Irish wolfhounds, which mingled along with everyone else, knocking into knees and begging for bits of Camembert when not lounging like furry maharajas on the flowered couches.
Across the room, I spied Alex’s sister and mother, both at ease in their natural habitat. There was no sign of a father, and no one mentioned one, so I figured he must be dead or out of town. Not that I was one to question a broken home; I hadn’t heard from my dad in more than twenty years.
I moved into a
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