Read Online When Madeline Was Young by Jane Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Hamilton
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time admitted to Arthur that she was something of a lapsed Quaker. She must have explained that she no longer attended Meeting because three of the ladies who always spoke, who went on at length about the beauties of this world, distracted her from the inner light. She would have liked them to shut up. That night on the eating porch, Arthur put his arm around her and kissed her cheek, something she submitted to a little stiffly, I thought. "If you really think Kennedy is the hawk, Mrs. Maciver, then vote for your fellow Friend, Richard Milhaus. He may take you back to the faith."
Figgy was indulging me in the kitchen, scooping another lump o f i ce cream onto a second piece of cake. She called out, "You talk as if Kennedy has already been elected and declared war, Julia. What the hell is the matter with you? You seem to forget he's experienced combat. He's not going to be eager to stir up trouble. For once we have the chance to have a sexy president--come on, give in to his handsome mug. I know you're not going to vote for ugly old Nixon, so why haul yourself kicking and screaming into the future? Our man has a sense of destiny not only for himself but for the nation."
My mother had come to the sink with the empty bottles. "If he wins," she said, "it will be because his poppa buys the office for him, just as he bought the Senate seats for his boys."
Figgy flicked the lights. "It's late, love. It's later than it's ever been up here. It's bedtime. Kennedy for president! Good night."
My aunt's womanly intuition told her that her husband was going to Washington, that he was going to be important, and that she, Mrs. Arthur Fuller, would be invited to have tea with Mrs. Kennedy on several occasions. Also, they'd enroll Buddy in a private school along with other White House staff children. Finally, he'd start to make something of himself.
Chapter Four
THERE WERE A FEW STORIES MY AUNT LIKED TO TELL ABOUT Madeline, but none gave her so much pleasure as "the Italian episode," as she called it. Through the years, the Moose Lake house, the broad front porch gave Figgy and me the opportunity to talk about the family, to cloak those conversations, that gossip, in the mantle of history. Because I was the closest of the cousins in age to Buddy, because he and I were nearly brothers for a time, she felt an affinity for me that she did not have with the other boys. Although I've heard the Italian episode on several occasions, I didn't understand her relish in it until fairly recently. I thought she enjoyed it primarily because it was the single complete story from Madeline's life before she was ours. The big event, Figgy would say, in Miss Schiller's record as herself.
"Did I ever tell you about the Italian episode?" she'd say. "Remind me," I always said.
We might be in the dark on the Moose Lake porch, or in a cafe in New York City. "Miss Schiller," she'd muse, as if she could conjure the woman she'd known briefly. "Miss Schiller." Wherever we were, the Italian episode began with Madeline's high-school graduation, Mother Schiller watching the boys parade across the stage as if they were auditioning for the role of her daughter's husband. The day after the ceremony, Mrs. Schiller took Madeline to Italy to shop for clothes, to look at the famous paintings, and, most important, to send pictur e p ostcards to the neighbors: We stood in a swoon in the Bargello. One afternoon in Florence, Madeline managed to escape the hotel, to take a walk across the Piazza Santa Croce alone. She had grown tired of being forced to feel in front of the broken statues, all those lost arms and blank eyes, and the unconvincing marble swirls of pubic hair. In that free quarter-hour, Madeline at last was at liberty to develop her own sensations. The Italian who provoked her had dark curls and, let's say, the famous Florentine smile and the liquid eyes. Although Madeline needed no special effects, it would be tempting to report that she seemed to be lit from
Figgy was indulging me in the kitchen, scooping another lump o f i ce cream onto a second piece of cake. She called out, "You talk as if Kennedy has already been elected and declared war, Julia. What the hell is the matter with you? You seem to forget he's experienced combat. He's not going to be eager to stir up trouble. For once we have the chance to have a sexy president--come on, give in to his handsome mug. I know you're not going to vote for ugly old Nixon, so why haul yourself kicking and screaming into the future? Our man has a sense of destiny not only for himself but for the nation."
My mother had come to the sink with the empty bottles. "If he wins," she said, "it will be because his poppa buys the office for him, just as he bought the Senate seats for his boys."
Figgy flicked the lights. "It's late, love. It's later than it's ever been up here. It's bedtime. Kennedy for president! Good night."
My aunt's womanly intuition told her that her husband was going to Washington, that he was going to be important, and that she, Mrs. Arthur Fuller, would be invited to have tea with Mrs. Kennedy on several occasions. Also, they'd enroll Buddy in a private school along with other White House staff children. Finally, he'd start to make something of himself.
Chapter Four
THERE WERE A FEW STORIES MY AUNT LIKED TO TELL ABOUT Madeline, but none gave her so much pleasure as "the Italian episode," as she called it. Through the years, the Moose Lake house, the broad front porch gave Figgy and me the opportunity to talk about the family, to cloak those conversations, that gossip, in the mantle of history. Because I was the closest of the cousins in age to Buddy, because he and I were nearly brothers for a time, she felt an affinity for me that she did not have with the other boys. Although I've heard the Italian episode on several occasions, I didn't understand her relish in it until fairly recently. I thought she enjoyed it primarily because it was the single complete story from Madeline's life before she was ours. The big event, Figgy would say, in Miss Schiller's record as herself.
"Did I ever tell you about the Italian episode?" she'd say. "Remind me," I always said.
We might be in the dark on the Moose Lake porch, or in a cafe in New York City. "Miss Schiller," she'd muse, as if she could conjure the woman she'd known briefly. "Miss Schiller." Wherever we were, the Italian episode began with Madeline's high-school graduation, Mother Schiller watching the boys parade across the stage as if they were auditioning for the role of her daughter's husband. The day after the ceremony, Mrs. Schiller took Madeline to Italy to shop for clothes, to look at the famous paintings, and, most important, to send pictur e p ostcards to the neighbors: We stood in a swoon in the Bargello. One afternoon in Florence, Madeline managed to escape the hotel, to take a walk across the Piazza Santa Croce alone. She had grown tired of being forced to feel in front of the broken statues, all those lost arms and blank eyes, and the unconvincing marble swirls of pubic hair. In that free quarter-hour, Madeline at last was at liberty to develop her own sensations. The Italian who provoked her had dark curls and, let's say, the famous Florentine smile and the liquid eyes. Although Madeline needed no special effects, it would be tempting to report that she seemed to be lit from
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