Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “You make traveling sound like a pilgrimage.”

  “I guess I think of it that way. It’s a chance to see things fresh—not so much because it’s so different somewhere else, but because you haven’t gotten used to seeing it yet. Sometimes I try to turn the corner and make believe that I’ve never been on 113th and Broadway before. And sometimes I can actually do it, but it only lasts a second or two. When you go to a new place, I imagine you can hold the feeling longer.”

  “That’s a neat way of putting it,” said Anne. “I hope you get to travel.”

  “I will,” said Ben simply, “but for now, I can do it through Henry James.”

  “And through me,” she offered. “I’ll save you my impressions. It will only be two weeks.”

  “You can have a lot of impressions in two weeks,” he said.

  “I meant that I’ll be back in two weeks.”

  “I know,” he said, “and I’ll be waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANNE TRIED TO CONCENTRATE ON THE ROAD AS SHE DROVE THE few miles from Fenimore to Scarsdale, but she felt slightly sick. She had finally learned what she had feared to learn—that Ben Cutler was attached to someone else. It was an idea that she had entertained hypothetically, but now she knew it as a fact—and it was all the more painful because the attraction she had felt thirteen years ago was still there. How was it that after so much time had passed, she still felt her heart beat faster and her head grow light when she looked at him?

  She arrived at the house at noon, as she had promised Winnie she would. Ever since she could remember, she had saved one Saturday afternoon every month for shopping and lunch with her grandmother. The ritual had been put on hold after the last stroke, but lately Winnie had begun to say she felt “cooped up,” a sure sign of recovery. And so, they decided that today, after the college fair, they would spend the rest of the afternoon together, browsing Scarsdale’s main shopping street. To facilitate the outing, Winnie had volunteered to give up her cane for a wheelchair, a major concession.

  “I was attached to the cane,” she acknowledged, “but I fear I’ve outgrown it. The logical progression would be to one of those hideous walkers. But under no circumstances will I succumb to such a thing. It’s not only unsightly, it gets in everyone else’s way. Old age is scandal enough without having to inflict it on other people.”

  Anne told Winnie that she was being rather hard on walkers, but was secretly glad for the convenience of the wheelchair. As it turned out, they were able to maneuver with relative ease in and out of shops, where some of the merchants remembered Winnie from the years when she had been a dominant force in Westchester society. In the sixties and seventies, she had bullied and cajoled them to lend their support to her various charities and political causes, and in the eighties, she had repaid them by helping to fund the “Save Main Street” campaigns for this part of Westchester County-—a movement that had kept the area towns limping along despite the incursions of the nearby malls. Many of the original merchants from that period were gone, but those who remained treated Winnie like royalty.

  Although they went into almost a dozen shops, they concluded that there was nothing to buy—a fortunate conclusion since they had no money. They seated themselves in the little restaurant that had always been their favorite. There was still the lunch to pay for, and Anne was appalled to see that the grilled chicken salad now cost $16.95. “I remember when I got that here for six-fifty!” she exclaimed.

  “Now, Anne,” Winnie said reprovingly, “I’m the old lady, and I should do the complaining. Sixteen ninety-five is what you have to pay if you want the restaurant to stay in business. And there’s a fruit salad on the side, which makes all the difference. Besides, it’s my treat.”

  “And how is it your treat?” asked Anne.

  “I have my resources, don’t worry.”

  “You probably sold another piece of jewelry!” Anne looked at her grandmother accusingly. She knew that Winnie had recently had a visit from an area antique dealer, which would account for this sudden acquisition of disposable income.

  “And if I did, that’s my own affair,” sniffed Winnie. “As it happens, you can thank your grandfather. He was, as you know, a generous man, and every occasion that rolled around— birthday, anniversary, Valentine’s Day, you name it—there was another bracelet. I made believe I was thrilled, but of course, I said to myself, ‘Not another one!’ I don’t blame the poor man, mind you. He was just doing what men do. They hit on something you like—a bracelet, for example—and then they insist on buying it for you over and over again. I never had the heart to tell him that one bracelet was good, but two was less good, and that ten was really not good at all. But in the end, you see, it turned out for the best. It’s nice to have a few extra bracelets on hand for a rainy day.”

  “Gram, you’re terrible!” Anne laughed.

  But Winnie, who had delivered her discourse on bracelets in a breezy tone, now grew serious. “Something’s been on your mind, dear. I knew it ever since the day you told me about selling the house. I’m sure that’s part of it—but there’s more. I know you too well.”

  Anne was silent.

  “Out with it!” ordered Winnie.

  “It’s nothing really, Gram,” said Anne grudgingly. “But if you must know, it’s that I’ve had a bit of a surprise. You remember Ben Cutler? It seems his nephew has enrolled at Fenimore. The family recently moved back to the area after spending time abroad. I think I’ve mentioned that he publishes those popular travel guides.”

  “Yes,” mused Winnie. “The fellow did very well for himself, after all.” She looked at Anne probingly. “So he’s back?”

  “He’s engaged to be married,” Anne murmured.

  Winnie’s gaze lingered on her granddaughter. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

  Suddenly, Anne felt tears running down her face. Now that things were clear—she had seen Ben Cutler and he was lost to her—she felt an uncontrollable need to cry. Winnie reached out and took her hand. They sat that way for a while: the granddaughter crying, the grandmother gazing across at her helplessly. Then, finally, Winnie spoke. “You know, my dear,” she said with determined cheerfulness, “I think I’ll have the grilled chicken salad after all. With a nice glass of red wine. And the chocolate torte for dessert. I suggest you wipe those tears and do the same. No point spoiling a perfectly good lunch. As I said, it’s my treat—and you have your grandfather’s lack of imagination to thank for it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ALLEGRA’S PARTY THAT EVENING WAS FOR THE WIDENING GYRE, the poetry journal that relied on the kindness of socialites with literary pretensions to keep it afloat. Both Allegra and Carlotta Dupre, Anne’s temporary tenant, wrote clotted verse for the journal that Anne, despite her undergraduate degree in English, could not decipher. Allegra also wrote the journal’s editor’s column, usually on the subject of how the populace would never be able to appreciate poetry. Anne had once asked her sister if she would be willing to lead an after-school poetry workshop at Fenimore, and Allegra had raised a finely arched eyebrow and said that she didn’t “do high school”—as if she were speaking about some perverted sexual practice.

  “But high-school students grow into adult readers,” Anne had argued. “It might be worthwhile to help form their taste.”

  “I’m not into missionary work,” asserted Allegra disdainfully. “Besides, it’s my belief that poetry can’t be taught. It either inhabits the individual at the core or it doesn’t. And it’s a waste of time talking to high-school students about anything.”

  Like their father, Allegra was inclined to make remarks that ignored the sensitivities of her respondents. It would never occur to her that Anne spent her day talking to high-school students or, if it did, to edit herself in consideration of her sister’s feelings.

  Although Anne had long ago given up trying to convince Allegra to “do high school,” she occasionally went to her sister’s parties in the hope of snaggin
g someone who would. Given the number of doctors, lawyers, advertising executives, and financial analysts who visited the school to talk about the art of making money, it seemed like a good idea to have someone come in once in a while to talk about art in its purer sense. It was her belief that a poet was a valuable role model for high-school kids, even if the poet wasn’t very good.

  This year, for example, she knew that one of Allegra’s guests would be Peter Jacobson, a recent winner of the Pitzer Prize of Westchester County, an award whose major recommendation was that it sounded like the Pulitzer Prize, if you weren’t listening closely. Peter had the distinction of being half Irish and half Jewish, a combination that might have been the deciding factor in his winning the award. Last year, it had gone to a black lesbian, a more high-profile but less practical hybrid, given that the population of Westchester County had more Jews and Irish than blacks or lesbians.

  Anne had settled on a gray skirt and white silk blouse for the party this evening, an outfit that she believed too unassuming to be faulted. But as soon as she entered the foyer and peeked into the living room, she saw she was wrong. Allegra was standing near the fireplace, wearing a pair of pre-faded jeans and a pumpkin-colored designer T-shirt. Her boyfriend-of-the-moment, Zack, was standing in the opposite corner, wearing a pea-green, artfully rumpled button-down shirt. They were both talking to people in faux-worn ochre garments. In the context of so many distressed earth tones, Anne felt her gray and white looked positively vulgar.

  In a corner, Anne could see that her cousin, Rachel Kramer, aged twenty-six, was speaking to an older man who probably had some connection to the theater. An aspiring actress, Rachel was the daughter of Elihu’s much younger half-sister, who had married a dentist and lived in a split level in New Jersey, a fact that both Elihu and Allegra found extremely declasse. Allegra had been trying, in the interest of the family’s reputation, to steer her cousin to a job with an underfunded Off-Off Broadway repertory company. Rachel, however, was resistant to her efforts. She wanted a more mainstream career and had, to the dismay of Elihu and Allegra, recently been cast in a commercial for sinus medicine. “Pornography would be classier,” Allegra had said, rolling her eyes.

  Looking around the room, Anne saw that her father was standing in the corner and speaking with more than usual animation with Carlotta Dupre, who was fingering the lapel of his new cashmere sports jacket. John Updike, despite Elihu’s fearful prediction, did not appear to be present.

  As she stood at the door to the living room, surveying the guests, she saw a very tall, thin man, whose pale flyaway hair made him resemble a scarecrow, whip out a sheaf of crumpled pages. One of the staples of Allegra’s literary parties was at least one dramatic reading, carefully orchestrated to appear spontaneous. The scarecrow figure had apparently been assigned the role of providing this, since he began reading from the crumpled pages with the requisite suddenness:

  “The two bodies twisted in the summer heat, the sweat dripping from their labile limbs, entwined in a fearsome knot on the daybed. Mario drew his hand slowly over Albertina’s supple buttocks . . .”

  Anne stood uncomfortably at the entrance to the room as the reading continued for perhaps ten minutes until finally subsiding into artful anticlimax. “The sun beat down. It was summer . . .” As the reader’s voice trailed off, he gazed around the room dramatically, obviously taken with the power of his own words. There was a smattering of halfhearted applause. Anne wondered whether anyone besides herself had felt uncomfortable during this protracted if pompous exposition of graphic sex.

  No one apparently had, since everyone went on talking as though the scarecrow’s reading had been pleasant background noise. The exception was a young man sitting on the couch in the center of the room, who was fiddling nervously with his napkin. As Anne looked more closely, she recognized the young man, whom she had seen interviewed on a cable morning show, as Peter Jacobson, winner of the Pitzer Prize.

  Anne walked over to the couch. Peter Jacobson was in his early thirties and was wearing a light blue sweater and a pair of corduroy pants, an outfit that had the advantage of making no apparent sartorial statement. “I’m Anne Ehrlich,” she said simply, “I saw you interviewed on Wake-up Westchester last week.”

  “It’s nice to know someone was watching at five-thirty A.M.,” Peter said. His speech was slow and somewhat lugubrious, though it was clear that he was glad to talk—though perhaps he was only glad that the embarrassing reading was over.

  “Five-thirty is when I get up,” explained Anne. “I work as a guidance counselor in a public high school where we have to report to work before seven. I have to say that you sounded like the kind of poet who would interest our more literary sixteen-year-olds.”

  “Oh?” said Peter, looking rather insulted.

  “I mean that as a compliment,” Anne hurried to explain. “Unlike those TV executives who say that sixteen-year-olds are morons whom they’re obliged to cater to, I tend to think that this age group is quite discriminating. I suspect the TV executives are confusing them with older people more like themselves.”

  “An interesting distinction.” Peter nodded, smiling wanly. “You’ve convinced me to be flattered that I would interest the sixteen-year-olds at your high school.”

  “So, given your renewed respect for sixteen-year-olds”— Anne proceeded directly to her point—“we happen to have a Poetry Day coming up next month, and I wonder whether you’d be willing to speak at the school?”

  “Sure,” said Peter, as though he didn’t need to give the request a second thought.

  “We would obviously pay you something for your time. Though I’m afraid it wouldn’t be significant.”

  “What’s significant?” Peter shrugged. “Short of a few million, nothing’s significant. I don’t care about money. If you want me, I’ll come.”

  Anne looked at Peter with more interest. Physically, he had a lot to recommend him: He was of medium height but powerfully built, with a mop of dark red hair and a handsome, lightly freckled face that seemed refreshingly lacking in arrogance. She noted that he looked in need of cheering up. He had told the reporter on Wake-up Westchester that he had recently lost his girlfriend, a fellow poet, to a rare blood disease.

  “I’m sorry about your loss,” Anne said now.

  Peter sighed, his blue eyes doleful.

  “At least you have your work—your writing,” she suggested gently. “That must help.”

  “It does, a little,” he acknowledged, “but I still feel empty. I know there are plenty of people out there”—he gave a wave to the room—“women, and men too, if I were inclined that way— who would keep me company. But it’s not what I’m after. These aren’t the kind of people I feel comfortable with.” He gave her a long, probing look.

  “I understand,” said Anne, wondering whether he was after a relationship with someone like her, since she didn’t resemble the other people in the room.

  She decided to return to the main subject: “Anyway, I hope you’ll keep your promise and speak at my school. I came expressly to ask you when my sister told me you’d be here.” She gestured to where their hostess was standing across the room. “Allegra’s my sister, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Peter, surprised. “You don’t look anything like her.” Most people would have agreed. Allegra had the extreme fairness and aquiline features that came from the Ehrlich side of the family, while Anne’s hair and eyes were dark, her eyebrows rather thick. Elihu used to tell Winnie to “please have those bushy things plucked,” but her grandmother had known enough to ignore him. Anne’s eyebrows had the effect of balancing the sweetness of her mouth, so that people found her at once strong and comforting. If Anne was less immediately striking than her sister, whose shimmering blondness always created a stir, she was the one they tended to remember at the end of the evening.

  “We aren’t much alike,” Anne acknowledged to Peter now. “And I have to admit that this isn’t my scene either. I came because
I wanted to pitch you on the high school appearance. Since I succeeded, it was worth it.”

  Before he could respond, Allegra, as if on cue at the mention of her name, flitted over, gave Anne a perfunctory air kiss, and grabbed Peter’s arm to lead him to Zack who, she gushed, was dying to meet him. Zack was actually planning to write an article for an obscure online journal about why the Pitzer Prize should not have gone to Peter but to a homeless Bosnian refugee living in the Mamaroneck train station.

  Like a lamb to the slaughter, Peter dutifully followed his hostess to the other side of the room—though not before writing his number on the napkin and pressing it into Anne’s hand.

  “Call about your Poetry Day—or anything else,” he called out plaintively as Allegra dragged him off.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANNE SPENT MONDAY MORNING ON THE PHONE. IT WAS HER PRACTICE to devote a few days during the fall term to calling those colleges which she felt would be an especially good match for certain students. Many guidance counselors didn’t bother making these calls. It took a lot of time, and it was always a challenge to convince admissions officers that the kids one was advocating for were somehow different from the kids at other schools who, on paper, looked exactly the same.

  “Sean Dunne isn’t on staff any longer,” explained a harried Amherst admissions officer when Anne asked to speak to this person. “He quit to do bodybuilding. Can I help you?”

  Anne felt a drop. She had been cultivating Sean Dunne for ages, and had even indulged in an annual flirtation over drinks at the Marriot during the National Association of College Admissions Counselors. The result had been a record number of admissions to Amherst for Fenimore students over the past five years.