Jane Austen in Scarsdale

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “Yes, yes,” said Winnie distractedly “You know what I mean. But I have to get off the phone. We’re preparing for Thanksgiving, and I’m overseeing the dinner. Pauline is sous-chef, and Kirsten will set the table and take care of the desserts. It will take quite a bit of planning.”

  “But you’ll be out of the house by Thanksgiving,” said Anne. “I thought the doctor said you could start putting weight on the ankle.”

  “He said I could start,” corrected Winnie. “That doesn’t mean I can hop up three flights of stairs to that shoebox of an apartment of yours.”

  “Gram!” protested Anne. “You know that would only be temporary. We’ll start looking for an elevator building as soon as you move into the city.”

  “I know,” said Winnie in a gentler tone, “but there’s no reason to rush things at my age. Especially since the Cutlers are happy to have me. I’d even flatter myself by saying I make a contribution to the household.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Anne, “but still—”

  “The subject is closed. I’ll leave when I’m ready. Or when they throw me out. Meanwhile, I expect you here for Thanksgiving.”

  “I don’t know,” said Anne doubtfully.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You have to come. We always celebrate Thanksgiving together Besides, it’s tiresome always talking about you. We might as well have you here in person.”

  “Who’s always talking about me?”

  “Well, I am,” said Winnie. “And Kirsten is very interested.” “Is that so?” said Anne, feeling confused. “Of course,” said Winnie. “You’re one of our favorite topics of conversation.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  THANKSGIVING AT THE EHRLICHS’ WESTCHESTER HOME HAD ONCE been a major festive occasion. In the days when Anne’s mother was healthy people—some of them quite famous—had vied for invitations. Even when she was dying, there had been a wonderful last Thanksgiving, as Winnie told it. All the Mazurs were present—now deceased or scattered—as well as a generous sampling of New York intellectuals and people from the arts whom the Mazurs had been adept at collecting. Anne’s mother, though weak almost to the point of being unable to stand, had somehow rallied and made the sweet potatoes with marshmallows. Winnie had gone all out with three kinds of stuffing. Elihu had bought the best champagne, and everyone had gotten pleasantly drunk and, despite their intellectual pretensions, recessed to the library after dinner to watch football. Anne could not remember this occasion—she had been only three at the time—but she imagined that she did. That had been Thanksgiving as it was supposed to be.

  Her actual experience of the holiday tended to be less pleasant, since it usually involved the grudging participation of her father, her sister, and a motley assortment of their friends, brought along to ease the strain of family contact.

  This year, however, promised to be unpleasant in a different way. Anne would have preferred the more familiar awkwardness of celebrating with Elihu and Allegra, but Allegra had conveniently flown off to a poetry conference in Hawaii. (Why the conference couldn’t be held in, say, Yonkers was anyone’s guess, but Allegra wasn’t going to let the expense of such a trip get in her way She was as adept at getting grants to far-off places as other women are at finding bargains in luxury department stores.)

  Elihu was also otherwise engaged. He had promised to celebrate Thanksgiving with members of his club (which club wasn’t clear—perhaps it was a composite festivity involving all of them). “I’ve given my word, and my word is bond,” he announced, never explaining why he had given his word.

  Anne wondered if her father was nursing a broken heart over the loss of Carlotta, but concluded that this was unlikely. If his blood was on the order of expensive cologne, his heart was like the pedal on a high-end exercise bike: It performed its function extremely well but did not harbor any of the mysterious attributes that that organ was supposed to possess.

  Even though Elihu had no gift for true feeling, he was able to accrue companionship (friendship would be too strong a word). His companions were men like himself, thoroughly disconnected from their emotional lives, who enjoyed spending time together because no demands were placed on them. They ate expensive food, drank expensive liquor, took potshots at their allegedly philistine peers, and modeled their latest bespoke shirts and jackets for one another. There appeared to be a legion of such men living in New York City, and Elihu seemed to know all of them.

  Anne had little choice but to accept the invitation Winnie had proffered—and that Pauline made a point of seconding in an e-mail. Winnie had also determined that Rachel should come. And since Rachel was now living with Peter Jacobson, Peter should too.

  “Of course, we must have him,” Winnie had said. “Kirsten is very keen on his work. And the young man is devoted to Rachel, which speaks volumes in his favor.”

  Anne found her grandmother’s assumption that it was her Thanksgiving, though the house was no longer hers, a bit presumptuous—but let it go. Winnie seemed happy.

  As for herself, she had her work, her health, and her New York apartment back. What more could she want?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ON THANKSGIVING DAY, ANNE PUT ON THE SLEEVELESS RED DRESS with the scooped neck that she had bought at Saks several years ago. It had been purchased for a New Year’s Eve party, but she hadn’t worn it because she thought she would freeze to death.

  “You’re supposed to wear a cute little cover-up that you take off at the opportune moment,” Marcy had advised her.

  “But I don’t own a cute little cover-up,” noted Anne, “and if I wear a shlubby little sweater, it’ll look stupid.”

  “Then, just wear the dress and be cold,” counseled Marcy, who believed that a sexy dress was half what was needed to get to the altar (she cited Cosmo), and Anne ought to wear it even if she caught pneumonia. It was the sort of sacrifice one made for love. It was because Anne had refused this advice, Marcy declared, that she was still single.

  But Thanksgiving Day was balmy, and Anne found herself putting the dress on, taking it off, and putting it on again. In the end, she concluded that it would be wrong to let such an expensive garment go to waste and decided to wear it.

  When she rang the doorbell of the Scarsdale house, Pauline greeted her with her usual effusiveness: “That dress—my God, you’re a vision! Not that anything wouldn’t look great on you— with your figure! Kirsten, come look—it’s Anne. Doesn’t she look stunning?”

  Kirsten, who was wearing an understated silk suit, looked at Anne a moment and said simply, “You look great—and I’m so glad you came. This was your home, and I hope you’ll always feel welcome.”

  “We can’t tell you how we love it here,” gushed Pauline. “It’s like we’re in one of those Masterpiece Theater programs: Downstairs, Upstairs. And your grandmother is such a classy lady. She’s even rubbing off on me. She told me to stop wearing so much eye shadow and to get rid of all my designer logos. I still like my pumps with the double C’s, but to everything else, I said good riddance and gave them away to Goodwill.”

  Anne secretly pitied the homeless who would now be obliged to wear T-shirts and handbags emblazoned with Chanel and Louis Vuitton logos.

  “Let me show you some of what we’ve done,” continued Pauline, dragging Anne through rooms that had been replastered and painted for the first time in decades. The changes were startling, not just in making things brighter and more shipshape, but in revealing the underlying beauty of the house. Though it was no longer hers, she could still feel pride at seeing her childhood home brought back to life.

  One side of the house was in a state of disarray, still in the throes of extensive renovation. “This will be Bennie’s office area,” explained Pauline. “It’s hard to see how things will look, but Winnie and Kirsten say that it’s going to be fabulous. Not that it wasn’t fabulous before,” she hurried to assure Anne.

  They had approached the kitchen and Pauline now became flustered. “We used to order from
Boston Market for Thanksgiving, but your grandmother said we had to do everything from scratch this year. Not that I’m complaining. Winnie told me what to do and I did it. My goodness”—she glanced at her watch—“it’s been half an hour since I looked at the turkey! I wonder if the button popped!” She ran off to see.

  Left on her own, Anne wandered toward the dining room, turning into the back hall, where she practically bumped into Ben coming out of the library

  He stopped, embarrassed, and his eyes scanned her person, registering the dress but saying nothing. Anne felt a wave of excitement pass through her as they stood silently looking at each other for a few seconds. He finally spoke. “I want to apologize for my outburst the other day at the poetry reading. I was less than gracious. I had no idea that the young man was seeing your cousin.”

  Anne looked at him curiously. “Are you saying this would have modified your judgment?”

  Ben looked confused for a moment. “I think it would,” he finally said brusquely. “My response, in any case, was not entirely just. The poetry isn’t so bad.”

  “Yes,” Anne added, “after all, it did win the Pitzer Prize.” They both laughed, tacitly acknowledging they had the same opinion on the subject. She felt suddenly lighthearted: “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for my grandmother. I haven’t seen her so happy in years.”

  Ben nodded, taking this up. “She’s a real addition to the household. She actually gets Jonathan to talk. And she has an improving effect on Pauline—calms her down somehow—not to mention teaching her to cook.” He paused. “Kirsten likes her too.”

  The reference to Kirsten brought her up short once again. She had felt an exhilaration she had no business feeling. Ben was trying to be friendly, to “mend walls”-—but there was no ignoring that he was engaged to be married. It was absolutely necessary, she told herself, that she keep any feelings that she still harbored for him under control.

  “My grandmother likes Kirsten too,” Anne muttered, lowering her eyes for a moment.

  “Well, it’s nice to have her approval at last.” Ben spoke with an edge to his voice, so that she looked up, surprised. His eyes flickered and he seemed about to speak again, but Pauline’s voice was heard from the kitchen, announcing excitedly that the button had popped and everyone should come to the table.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  MOST OF THE DINNER WAS SPENT WITH PAULINE DESCRIBING THE places in the world the family had lived.

  “Did you know that we spent six months in India? Beautiful country, but the women in those shmattes in the hot weather—I felt for them. Then it was a year in Denmark. You talk about the frying pan into the fire. That’s where Bennie bought me my first fur coat. I didn’t say no. Who thinks about animal rights when you’re freezing your tuchis off?”

  “Copenhagen isn’t cold,” protested Kirsten. “It has the Gulf Stream.”

  “Gulf Stream, shmulf stream, I was chilly.” “But I thought you loved Copenhagen.” “I did, but it was cold. And everyone looked like you. It didn’t help my self-esteem.” “But you were such a big hit!”

  “I guess I was. If everyone is tall and blond, the short Jewish girl stands out.”

  “Pauline, everyone loved you! My father thought you were a not.”

  “I know, I know. Your dad was a doll.” Pauline patted Kirsten’s hand. “Everyone was very nice. And of course Bennie met you, which made it worthwhile.”

  “How did you two meet, anyway?” asked Rachel, curious in the manner of someone in love about other people’s romances.

  “Kirsten was with one of those tour groups,” explained Pauline, “and Bennie was looking around for material for the guides. Someone must have told him to contact her, since Kirsten is famous in Copenhagen.” Kirsten waved her hand modestly.

  “It’s true,” insisted Pauline. “Everyone knows you. Wherever we went, they said: ‘You should talk to Kirsten Knudsen.’ So, one day Bennie comes home, and he looks like the cat who ate the canary. I knew it must be a woman. And about time. There’d been someone when I was off in California having Jonathan—but since then, nothing much. No girl was good enough. That is, until Kirsten came along.”

  Anne kept her eyes on her plate.

  “I can identify with that,” Peter jumped in. “I walked into this house and saw Rachel, a vision of pulchritude—’beauty,’ “ he clarified quickly, as Rachel furrowed her brow, “and it was like the proverbial cupid’s arrow: I was smitten on the spot. I suppose it was the same for you.” He looked to Ben for confirmation.

  “Pauline—what did you think of the food in Copenhagen? Kirsten tells me it’s very fresh.” It was Winnie, interrupting and taking the conversation in a different direction.

  “I suppose,” said Pauline doubtfully, “if you like that sort of thing. Plenty of fish. Not that I don’t like a good lox or white-fish spread now and then. But their lox had no taste. I always told Jonathan: ‘Put a little salt on it and you’ll like it better.’ But I was dying for a bagel all the time we were there.”

  “We have bagels,” protested Kirsten.

  “No offense, but those mealy rolls were not bagels,” said Pauline. “And the other bread was worse. You know those little packages of party- rye?—that’s what they liked to eat. I kept on thinking: OK, this is the hors d’oeuvres, let’s get to the main course. But we never did.”

  Kirsten looked slightly hurt, but Peter intervened again with more questions about travel. “Did you get to Ireland by any chance? I’ve been wanting to go. I have a few relatives there, on my mother’s side. They keep telling me to visit.”

  “We did go to Ireland,” answered Pauline. “We spent a few months in Dublin in the late nineties. Very warm people. If it wasn’t for the drinking, you’d think they were Jewish.”

  “Pauline!” reprimanded Ben.

  “I’m just saying there were a lot of bars,” said Pauline.

  “Pubs,” corrected Kirsten.

  “Whatever.”

  “Jonathan,” said Winnie, “since you’ve been to Dublin, you should read Joyce’s Dubliners”

  “I read ‘The Dead,’ “ said Jonathan. “It was really deep.”

  “Yes, it’s a profound story,” mused Winnie. “It shows how you can’t control someone else’s thoughts, even if you love them.” She spoke with uncharacteristic emotion, then caught herself. “Tell us more about the places you’ve lived,” she requested of Pauline.

  “Well. . . we spent six months in North Africa. That was an education!”

  Ben nodded. “It’s a compelling part of the world. There was a point I thought I’d like to settle there—like Rick in Casablanca.” He shot Anne a glance.

  “Fortunately, I was around to get him moving,” noted Pauline. “He couldn’t very well park himself in Africa when he had Jonathan and me to take care of. At least he can thank me for that.”

  “I thank you for a lot,” said Ben, smiling but speaking seriously. “I thank you for being the most generous, open-hearted person I know. For showing me how it’s possible to get outside yourself and feel for other people.” Anne realized he was paying genuine tribute to his sister, who had done things for him that were less concrete but no less important than what he had done for her. It was a glimpse into a more vulnerable side of his nature, and it touched her to see it.

  “Well, you couldn’t help but feel for some of the people we met,” said Pauline, showing that she had no interest in dwelling on her own qualities or hearing herself praised. “We saw a lot of poverty, you know-—wherever we went there were people in need. It made us appreciate what we had.”

  “Yes.” Ben laughed. “Pauline was always giving my clothes to the poor before I had a chance to wear them. I recall one particularly nice cashmere sweater that she gave to some teenager in Northern Ireland because she said he looked cold.”

  “He did look cold,” insisted Pauline.

  “One of the reasons I decided to settle in Westchester,” continued Ben,
“was to hold on to my sweaters.”

  Pauline nodded. “It’s true. I haven’t seen much poverty here.”

  “Not in Scarsdale,” Winnie agreed. “But there’s a good deal of moral poverty.”

  “I wouldn’t know what that is.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, dear,” Winnie said gently, and Anne understood that her grandmother had finally taken the measure of this family and appreciated the qualities she had failed to notice years ago. It pleased Anne to see this, but it also saddened her that the appreciation had come too late.

  “So what’s next?” Peter addressed Ben with curiosity. “You seem to have published guides for all the more accessible destinations. Are you going to penetrate into the Amazon and Antarctica now?”

  “We have Alaska, not Antarctica,” noted Ben, “and we do have a guide to the Brazilian rain forest, though it’s not a big seller. But what I really want is to update and expand the more popular guides. That’s why I moved here.”

  “A base of operations, so to speak?”

  “Exactly. In the past, I’ve done the legwork myself, visiting all the churches and museums and hiring occasional temps to do the supplementary research and writing. But now I plan to have a regular staff and field the work out.”

  “It’s about time he settled down and started a family,” piped in Pauline.

  “I’ll be looking for some cultured, intelligent people who like to travel and want to get paid for writing about it,” continued Ben, ignoring Pauline’s remark.

  “That sounds like me,” said Peter. “I’m a starving poet with a taste for foreign climes.”

  “Bennie will hire you then,” said Pauline promptly.

  Ben laughed. “If my sister says so, I will of course. But seriously, if you’re interested, we’ll talk. I need an update for the guide on the English Lake District. Do you have an interest, by any chance, in the Romantic poets?”

  “They’re my lifeblood!” exclaimed Peter. “I used to think I was Keats reincarnated; then when I failed to die at twenty-six as expected, it was Shelley. I waited for the death by water, which didn’t come, so now I’ve switched my sights and I’m trying for Wordsworth. He lived the longest and had the best relationship.” He looked fondly at Rachel. “Rachel likes the Romantics too,” he added.