Blessings (7 page)

Peter, I never imagined you lived like this. You never said. But why should you have said? How could you have?

Jennie, we’re very rich, we live in a mansion.

Idiot! she thought. My cheeks are so hot, they’ll think I have a fever.

She went out, closing the door without a sound. Across the hall, through an open door, she saw another bedroom, this one decorated in a vivid ink-blue. There were at least eight bedrooms on the floor. All the doors were open, so you were supposed to keep them open. She went back to open hers, then went downstairs to find the library. First there was a large room with a bow window at one end, and great cabinets filled with books to the ceiling. She wondered whether the presence of these books meant that this was the library, but there was nobody there.

“This way, miss,” someone said.

It was the same black man who had driven the car. Now he wore a white jacket and carried a silver tray. Through several rooms she followed him, treading on almond-green velvet carpet and Oriental rugs and once on a carpet flowered in pale peach and cream. At the other end of the house people were gathered in a long, wood-paneled room lined with bookshelves. There were leather chairs, some models of sailing ships, and over the mantel a portrait in oil of a man wearing a gray uniform. All this she saw through peripheral vision as she walked in.

The men stood up and introductions were made. There were Peter, his father, a grandfather, and an uncle. Mrs. Mendes and an aunt made room for Jennie on the sofa before which, on a low table, the man had set a silver tray holding bottles and glasses. Peter offered Jennie the glass.

“You haven’t asked your guest what she wants,” his mother said.

“I always know what Jennie wants. She drinks ginger ale.”

Jennie sipped while the men went on with whatever they had been talking about. She remembered to keep her ankles neatly crossed. “With a straight skirt,” Mom said, “you have to be careful. It rides up when you cross your knees.” Mom knew about things like that. Jennie smiled inwardly. Sometimes, but not always, it paid to listen to Mom.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Mendes, “your garden can’t be as advanced as ours? They tell me you’re at least a month behind us up north.”

Your garden. Jennie was careful not to look at Peter.

“Oh, no, it’s still pretty cold at home.”

“How nice to have a house full of young people,” the aunt remarked. She could have been a clone of Peter’s mother, even to her silk shirtwaist dress and ivory button earrings. “I understand Sally June has a guest for the weekend too.”

“Yes, Annie Ruth Marsh from Savannah.”

“Oh, the Marshes! How nice! So the girls are friends?”

“Yes, we got them together last summer at the beach, didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t know. How lovely. So many generations of friendships.”

Meanwhile Jennie was examining her surroundings, and recalling a fascinating book for Sociology 101, with a chapter about house styles and ethnic backgrounds. Some Anglo-Saxons were supposed to like old things even if they weren’t inherited, because they like to make believe they were inherited; they want to proclaim that they’re not new immigrant stock. Some Jews go in for modern to proclaim that they are new immigrant stock, and see how far they’ve come! These people were Jews who were as “old-family” as any Anglo-Saxon. And all of it so foolish … But it was none of her business. The room was handsome, with so many wonderful books.

“You’re looking at the portrait, I see,” said Mrs. Mendes, suddenly addressing Jennie.

She had not been looking at it, but now saw that the gray uniform was indeed a Confederate one. The man had side-whiskers and held a sword.

“That’s Peter’s great-great-grandfather on his father’s side. He was a major, wounded at Antietam. But”—this spoken with a little laugh—”he recovered to marry and father a family or we all wouldn’t be here.”

The grandfather echoed a little laugh. “Well, let’s drink to him.” He stood, flourishing his glass, and bowed to the painting. “Salutations, Major. He was my grandfather, you know, and I can remember him. I’m the only one left who can. I’ll tell you, I was five when he died, and all I remember, to be honest about it, is that he kept bees. Hello, here’s our Sally June.”

A second girl in a white tennis dress came in with her.

“Annie Ruth Marsh, Jennie Rakowsky. Thank you so much for the cake, dear,” Mrs. Mendes said. “Annie Ruth remembered how we all adored that Low-Country fruitcake their cook makes.”

“Mother thought they’d be a nice house gift for this time of year,” said Annie Ruth, “because you can keep adding brandy all summer and they’ll be perfect for the holidays.”

House gift. Then you were supposed to bring a present? Why hadn’t Peter told her? He should have told her. But how could he have said, “Listen, you’re supposed to bring something, Jennie.”

It was cold here, cold and foreign. She was relieved when dinner was announced. Eating would take up the time. There wouldn’t be a need for conversation.

The table was polished like black glass. On each linen mat stood a glittering group of objects: blue porcelain, silver, and crystal. For a moment Jennie had a recollection of her mother bringing the ketchup bottle … Dinner was served by the same black man, Spencer, in the white jacket. Talk was easy, chiefly carried on by the men, who spoke about the local elections, golf, and family gossip. The food was delicately flavored and included a soup that Jennie learned from someone’s casual comment was black turtle, roast lamb fragrant with rosemary, and beets cut into rosebuds. She ate slowly, seeing herself as a spectator, observing herself as she observed and listened.

Suddenly came the inevitable subject of Vietnam, with a report of yesterday’s battle and body count. The grandfather spoke up.

“What we need is to stop pussyfooting, once and for all. We need to go in there and bomb the hell out of Hanoi.”

Peter’s father added, “We’re the laughingstock of the world. A power like this country allowing itself to be tossed around like”—he glanced indignantly around the table—”like, I don’t know what. These young people marching, this rabble protesting! If any son of mine did that … Believe me, if this war is still on—and I hope it won’t be, that we’ll have trounced them by then—but if it should still be on when Peter’s through with college, I’ll expect him to put on a uniform like a man and do his duty. Right, Peter?”

Peter swallowed a mouthful. He looked past Jennie to where his father sat behind the wine decanter.

“Right,” he echoed.

She was aware that her astonishment was showing on her face, and she wiped the expression away, thinking, But you told me, whenever we spoke about it, you told me that you would never go, never; that it was an immoral, useless war. All the things you said, Peter!

“And most of your friends, what’s their attitude, Peter?” the grandfather inquired.

“Oh, we don’t talk about it that much.”

Not talk about it that much! That’s what everybody talked about most—in class, after class, in the cafeterias and half the night. You might even say that’s all we talk about!

The grandfather persisted. “But they must have some opinion.”

Peter’s face was reddening. “Well, naturally some think one way, some another.”

“Well, I hope you speak up like a man, unlike these whining cowards, and defend your President. You just can’t let them get away with defeatist talk. That’s what weakens a country. I certainly hope you don’t sit silently and let them get away with it, Peter.”

“No, sir,” Peter said.

Mrs. Mendes interrupted. “Oh, enough politics! Let’s talk about happier things, like Cindy’s birthday party tomorrow.” She explained to Jennie, “Cindy’s a cousin, actually a second cousin, who’s turning twenty-one, and they’re having a small formal dance for her at home. I do hope it doesn’t rain. They’re planning to dance outdoors. It should be lovely.”

A small formal dance … He didn’t tell me that, either. Maybe he didn’t know. But I have no dress … Jennie thought. Never had she felt so much a stranger.

The talk continued. “Have you heard what Aunt Lee gave her?”

“No, what?” asked the uncle.

“A horse!” said Mrs. Mendes. “A colt, to be accurate. You’ve met our Aunt Lee,” she reminded Annie Ruth, “the one who has the horse farm.”

“She’s such a queer! A regular skeleton in the closet,” said Sally June.

“Sally June, what a dreadful thing to say!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mrs. Mendes answered stiffly.

Sally June giggled. “Mother! You do know.”

“My sister has always been a tomboy,” Mr. Mendes said, probably for the benefit of Jennie, the stranger in the room.

“A tomboy!” the girl persisted. “She’s over fifty. Everybody knows she’s a—”

“That will do,” Mr. Mendes said, and repeated sharply, “That will do, I said!”

In the silence one heard the clink of silver on china. Sally June hung her head, while a fearful flush spread up her neck. She looked frightened.

Peter broke the silence. “Speaking of horses, it reminds me that when I was at Owings Mills that weekend, I saw Ralph out riding. We passed him in the car. I didn’t know he’s at Georgetown now.”

How gracefully Peter drew the new subject out of the old! Of course, he had felt the tension in the room. He continued, “He may be going into the diplomatic service like his brother.”

“And get killed like his brother,” the aunt said, explaining politely to Jennie, “These are old friends of our family’s. Their son was killed during a riot in Pakistan.”

“Fifteen years it must be,” said Mrs. Mendes. “And his mother still mourning. It’s ridiculous.” She spoke briskly, addressing the table. “I have no patience with people who can’t face facts.”

“It was a terrible death,” Peter reminded her gently.

“All the same, she ought to shape up,” his mother said. “People can, and they do.” Unexpectedly she turned to Jennie. “Peter tells us that your father was in a concentration camp in Europe.”

So he had talked about her here at home. “Yes,” she answered. “He was very young and strong, one of the rare survivors.”

“What does he do now?”

Peter hadn’t told them that. “He has a store. A delicatessen.”

For an instant the other woman’s eyes flared and flickered. “Oh. Well, he got through it all right. He picked himself up and survived.”

“Yes,” Jennie said. Survived. His nightmares. His silent spells. And for the second time that day she found herself staring at the cuff that was finished with the skill that had kept her father alive, the skill he couldn’t bear to remember.

She glanced back at Mrs. Mendes, who had begun on another subject. You have no heart, she thought.

The servant was placing before her a plate on which lay a doily and a bowl of ice cream; on either side of the bowl were a spoon and an implement that she had never seen before. It seemed to be a cross between a fork and a spoon. Having no idea what to use, she was hesitating when, without changing his expression, the man placed his forefinger almost surreptitiously on the handle of the curious implement. All at once she remembered having heard about such a thing as an ice-cream fork and knew that was what it must be. She wished she could thank the man and decided to do so if ever there should be an opportunity. He had seen her bewilderment. She thought, He knows more about me than does anyone else in this room except Peter. I do not like it here. It’s colder than the ice cream.

But the ice cream was different from any she had ever had, with possibly a trace of honey in it, and some sort of tart liqueur. She ate it slowly, finding an odd comfort in its smoothness, as if she were a child with a lollipop.

After dinner Peter showed her the grounds. Beyond the tennis court lay an oversize pool shaped like an amoeba and seeming as natural as a pond. A pretty, rustic poolhouse faced it. Groups of pink wrought-iron chairs and tables under flowered umbrellas stood about on the perfect grass. Peter turned on some lights so that the pool shone turquoise out of the dusk. Jennie stood quite still, looking into the gleam, past it to the shadowy shrubs, beyond them to the distant black trees, and heard the silence.

“I didn’t know you lived like this,” she said at last. “I don’t know what to feel, what to think.”

“Think nothing. Does it matter how I live? Does it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Is it important?”

He was standing so near that she could feel, or imagine that she felt, the warmth of his beloved body. Of course it wasn’t important. What mattered was Peter, not what he owned or didn’t own. Yet there was something …

“You agreed with them about Vietnam.”

“I didn’t, really. I just didn’t disagree.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No. Think about it.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Well, it’s to keep the peace, and I hate arguments. What would have been the point in starting a long one that would only end as it began? We’d all keep our opinions. And you saw how it was in there.”

She considered that. Yes, it was true. At home there were subjects better left alone. No quarreling with Pop, for instance, about the old-fashioned custom of separating women from men in the synagogue. Pop knew it was right because it had been ordained, and nobody was going to change his mind, so there was no point in trying.

Yes, Peter was right. He had peaceable ways, as when he had turned the subject away from Aunt Lee when his father was so angry. It was one of the things she loved about him.

“I wish we could sleep together,” he said. “The poolhouse would be so great. There’s a sofa.”

“Peter! We can’t. I wouldn’t dare.”

“I know. Oh, well, we’ll be back home soon.”

It pleased her that he spoke of school, the place where they were together, as “home.” Then she thought of something else.

“You didn’t tell me there was going to be a dance. I would have brought a dress.”

“I didn’t know. I have this ridiculous cousin… . For God’s sake, who gives formal dances these days?”

“Apparently people still do.”

“I hate them.”

“But what’ll I do? I’ve nothing to wear.”

Peter looked at her doubtfully. “Nothing?”