by Nancy Thayer
“Very well.” Katrina sighed. “I’ll check them to see if they’re all cotton. Amy was always allergic as a child, and Jehoshaphat might be, too.” With her eyes still on Polly, she said, “David, wash your hands before you go up.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” David washed his hands, then pecked a kiss on his mother’s forehead and headed for the stairs. “See you later, Mom.” Off he went in his stocking feet, up the back stairs, taking them two at a time.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Katrina said to Polly.
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Polly wept as she drove back to her house. She felt helpless, frustrated, and furious. At home, she stomped through her hall to her study off the kitchen at the back of the house. She would pour herself a glass of wine and phone Franny and vent.
Familiar bumps sounded down the stairs. Roy Orbison waddled in to greet her, looking hopeful.
“Hello, old friend,” she said. “I’ll feed you in a minute.” The message light on her answering machine was blinking.
“Polly.” Her mother-in-law’s ringing voice sounded loud and clear. “This is Claudia. I wonder whether you might be able to come to tea tomorrow. Anytime in the afternoon. Let me know as soon as you can.”
Tea? With Claudia?
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From the first moment they’d met, Claudia had made Polly aware that Claudia did not approve of her. In fact, Claudia had disliked every single thing about Polly and never hesitated to make this crystal clear.
To start, Polly was from South Boston, which in Claudia’s view signified that Polly was hopelessly unsophisticated and, worse, completely unimportant. This was so embarrassing for Claudia, really it was, to have a daughter-in-law who was so common.
Then there was the matter of appearance. Polly should have been, as Claudia was, regally tall and slender, with straight, obedient hair. Instead, Polly was short, buxom, and freckled, with rebellious curly red hair. In high school and college, Polly’s cheerful, bouncy good looks won her the position of head cheerleader. As an adult, her mature curves drew admiring glances from men and easy hugs from children. Around Claudia, Polly wore her most modest, nunlike clothes, and still the older woman’s face pinched with disapproval when she looked at Polly.
“I can’t hide the fact that I have breasts!” Polly had wailed to Tucker one night.
“And thank heavens for that!” Tucker had assured her.
But what Claudia abhorred most about Polly was that she was a seamstress, spending her days working on other people’s clothing. Claudia’s disapproval turned to bitter resentment when Polly continued with her business after marrying Tucker, though there was no financial need. Claudia could not grasp Polly’s love for her work. For Claudia, it was insultingly déclassé.
Tucker’s first marriage, to a beautiful young woman named Vanessa from a truly appropriate family, had pleased Claudia, for a while, but eventually Claudia found Vanessa tiresome because she was obsessed with maintaining her figure and her beauty, a mania Tucker gradually came to find as irritating as his mother did. When he and Vanessa divorced, it caused only a small glitch in his mother’s life; now she had no one with whom to attend the DAR meetings. Other than that, Vanessa’s family and Claudia remained on friendly terms whenever they met at the opera or the important holiday parties and lost touch when Vanessa remarried and moved to California.
Polly was forty-two when she married Tucker. She considered herself past childbearing age, a matter of some magnitude, for Tucker was Claudia’s only child and his first marriage had brought no children. Tucker assured Polly he was content to be stepfather to David, then a gawky fourteen. Over the years, as the three of them melded into a comfortable, affectionate little family, Polly dared imagine that Claudia would also come to care for David, who was, after all, an intelligent and well-mannered boy. But Claudia’s opinions of Polly and David ranged between disapproval and disdain.
Of course, at first, Polly had tried to please her mother-in-law. Muttering mantras about love, patience, and goodwill, she made overtures: Would Claudia like to join Polly for lunch at a new, chic restaurant? See the school play in which David was a star? Drive up to Vermont with David, Tucker, and Polly to see the fall foliage?
She would not.
You’re wasting your time trying to win over my mother, Tucker assured Polly. Claudia would be satisfied only if he married Queen Elizabeth, and even then only if Queen Elizabeth gave up her corgis, because Claudia abhorred dogs. But Queen Elizabeth is too old for you! Polly reminded Tucker. Exactly why Claudia would approve of her, Tucker said, grinning. No nasty sex.
Would your father have liked me? Polly had asked. Oh, sure, Tucker told her, but he’d never have shown it. Tucker’s father had been a banker, more comfortable with numbers than with people. He’d died, quietly and without fuss, from cancer, when Tucker was in his thirties. Claudia’s response had been to wear black and refuse invitations to cocktail parties or charity events for six months.
After Tucker married Polly, Claudia became involved with genealogical research. She joined the New England Historical and Genealogical Society, attended lectures on genealogy, and traveled several times a year to England to visit the towns where her ancestors, one of them descended from King Edward I, had lived. As she grew older and arthritis forced her to give up tennis, sailing, and golf, she filled her time reading biographies.
Polly was grateful for this because it provided something like conversation during their hellishly long obligatory holiday meals. Dutifully Polly served Easter, Thanksgiving, birthday, and Christmas dinners with the formality Claudia required, because Claudia grew white with fury if the men wore jeans and no tie or if the women wore trousers instead of dresses. If Polly’s guests didn’t belong to the elite social class that mattered only in Claudia’s mind, Claudia didn’t bother to chat. Claudia never thought the wine appropriate or good enough, the turkey or lamb roasted properly, or the centerpieces up to her standards. All Polly’s friends, and then David’s friends, and finally David himself after he hit his late teens, spent holidays elsewhere.
Gradually, Polly gave up. During the later years, when only Polly, Tucker, and Claudia sat at the long table with its white linen cloth, silver candlesticks, and elaborate meal, Polly felt a kind of desperation filling her with hysterical laughter. She fantasized saying or doing something outrageous, like sticking carrots in her ears or starting a food fight with Tucker, something that would offend Claudia so terribly Claudia would never speak to her again.
But she didn’t live out her fantasies. Claudia was Tucker’s mother. These were, after all, family occasions. Polly had to invite her, and for a few days a year she tried her best to please her.
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Two years ago, on a beautiful June day, Tucker had had a heart attack while playing tennis. He collapsed on the court and died before Polly could even say good-bye.
Claudia wore a hat to her son’s funeral and chastised Polly for not wearing one. She berated Polly for having “Let It Be” sung at the service, though Polly told her Tucker had always said that was the song he would want. Claudia told Polly a sleeveless dress was inappropriate, though it was a hot, humid day. That David’s hair was too long. That David’s girlfriend Amy’s dress, a rather Victorian-looking floral sundress, was inexcusably tasteless.
For a few moments, the exhilaration of battle swelled in Polly’s chest as she contemplated telling Claudia off in language that would make Robert De Niro recoil. She stared at her mother-in-law, so properly dressed in black suit and black hat, so arrogant and ruthless and unkind. Then she reminded herself that this was the day of Claudia’s son’s funeral. Claudia now had no one on the planet who mattered to her.
“Oh, God, Tucker,” Polly had cried. “Claudia, how will we live without him?” Tears streaming down her face, she bent toward her mother-in-law for a comforting embrace.
Claudia sniffed and stepped away. “Get control of yours
elf,” she ordered. “At least pretend you’ve got some class.”
Polly had closed her eyes and blown her nose in her cocktail napkin. David came up and put a consoling arm around Polly. Claudia stalked away, called a cab, and went home.
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For three weeks after Tucker’s funeral, grief enclosed Polly in its bitter grip. She didn’t phone Claudia; why should she? Claudia hadn’t phoned her.
But Claudia was an elderly woman living alone. Tucker had found his mother exhausting and infuriating, but as much as he was permitted, he had loved her. Polly knew she must live up to some basic standard of moral conduct out of respect for her husband, and her own sense of values as well.
So Polly phoned Claudia every week to chat. It was as easy as pulling her teeth out with her own hands and just about as pleasant, but Polly assumed that the very fact that Claudia deigned to spend time on the phone with Polly was evidence of some kind of bond. She felt obligated to continue to try.
That Christmas, Polly hadn’t felt like buying a tree. All the carols made her cry, so instead of inviting Claudia for a full-scale Christmas feast, Polly had Claudia, David, and his fiancée, Amy, over for a low-key Christmas-night meal, after which they exchanged presents. Polly gave Claudia several glossy coffee-table books. Claudia gave Polly what she gave her every year for Christmas and for her birthday: jewelry from a charity thrift shop. Polly knew this was the source because bits of glass were always missing, or the clasps didn’t work, or Claudia “accidentally” forgot to remove the little white tag that priced the item at $1.00, the implied message being that Polly wouldn’t appreciate and didn’t deserve anything better.
That winter was a blur for Polly. She couldn’t sew. She could scarcely dress herself. She took Roy Orbison for walks and sat up all night long watching old movies and sobbing. She slept during the day. She ate too much, or she forgot to eat. Still, she phoned Claudia once a week. Whatever else the older woman was, she was a connection to the man Polly had loved with all her heart.
By the spring, Polly had recovered much of her natural good spirits. She invited Claudia for tea at the Ritz. To her astonishment, Claudia agreed to go. Their conversation was as stilted as always, but wasn’t it better than nothing? She hoped Tucker was floating around on a cloud somewhere, looking down to see his wife and his mother together.
During the past year, driven by a sense of duty and the hope that Tucker, and God, especially if She kept records, were watching, Polly had continued to phone Claudia and occasionally to accompany her out to tea.
But Claudia had never phoned her.
Why was she calling now?
Polly collapsed in a chair, dug a box of chocolates from their hiding place, and ate five in a row.
7
Sunday morning, Beth paced her apartment like a Pavlovian dog torn between a bell and a buzzer. In five minutes Sonny would pick her up to take her to spend the day with his family. His only words of advice had been “Don’t dress up!” This surprised Beth, because Sonny never seemed to notice what she or anyone else wore. So he meant it when he said it, but still, it was Sunday dinner, and she was going to meet his family. For an occasion like this, the good manners her parents had drilled into her demanded a certain standard of “dressing up.” She decided on blue jeans ironed till the creases snapped, leather loafers, and a simple blue cashmere sweater. She brushed her hair until it shone and added a blue velvet headband.
As she stood by her window, watching for Sonny, Beth reviewed what Sonny had told her about his family. Sonny worked with his father, Merle, and his younger brother, Mark, in their carpentry business, Young’s Construction, in Methuen, Massachusetts, where Sonny and his parents and his grandparents had all grown up. His mother, Bobbie, was the bookkeeper. His sister, Suze, coached high school sports. Sonny had moved out of his parents’ house when he was twenty, into an apartment only a short walk away, but far enough to provide him some privacy for his adult life, by which he meant, Beth could tell by his sheepish expression, sleeping with lots and lots of women.
Sonny’s white pickup pulled up to the curb. Beth grabbed her jacket and ran outside. The autumn air was crisp, but Sonny wore no coat, only jeans and a tartan flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He smelled of leaves and sunshine and tasted, when he drew her to him in a kiss, of apple cider.
“Ready?” he asked.
As they drove along toward Methuen and his family’s home, Sonny listened to a pre-Patriots-game radio program. Beth leaned her head against the window and tried to let her mind drift, but it wouldn’t drift. Like a record stuck in a groove, her thoughts constantly replayed her fears: what if Sonny’s family didn’t like her?
But Sonny loved her, she reminded herself. He’d told her so.
But he’d told another woman he loved her, too. He’d told only one other woman in all his life that he loved her.
Gently, Beth tapped her head against the window. How could being in love make her so euphoric one moment, and so miserable the next?
“Here we are,” Sonny said, pulling into a double driveway, behind a black pickup, a tan SUV, and a red Corvette.
The Youngs’ home sprawled before her, a hodgepodge of architectural styles and materials, set on several acres of land loosely separated into particular areas. Behind the house, the workshop loomed. Nearby were heaps of metal and piles of wood waiting, Beth assumed, to be recycled. She could glimpse a small apple orchard blending into a dark forest, and between the orchard and the house lay a vegetable garden, fenced against deer and rabbits. A few bright orange pumpkins shone like lights from the brown earth.
Beth followed Sonny up the steps to the long porch, each step set with a pot of orange mums or a colorful gourd. The door Sonny pushed open was hung with Indian corn.
“Hey, everyone!” Sonny shouted. “We’re here!”
Immediately, Beth was blasted with sensory overload. Here in the living room a television blared, while from another room a woman called, and Sonny was pulling Beth through the living room into an enormous kitchen smelling of roast beef and pumpkin pie. A woman turned from the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, “Beth! I’m Bobbie, Sonny’s mom! It’s so nice to meet you!”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Beth said, just as a shaggy overcoat exploded from the other end of the room and galloped toward Beth, emitting a noise that was half-bark, half-yodel.
“Tinkerbelle!” Sonny said.
The dog threw herself on Sonny, who fell to the floor with her. Back and forth they rolled, wrestling, until Sonny tickled the dog’s stomach, which made Tinkerbelle lie on her back with her hind legs kicking the air spasmodically, as if she were pedaling a bike.
Beth stared, fascinated. No one in her family had ever thrown themselves on the floor. They never even sat on the floor.
“All the girls do that for Sonny,” Bobbie joked fondly. She was a large, vigorous woman, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt beneath her apron. Her black hair, salted with white, was chopped in a short, sensible cut. She wore no jewelry or makeup, which would have been unnecessary, because she had large, beautiful, dark blue eyes like Sonny’s, and like Sonny, an irresistible smile, which shone full force as she watched her adorable son.
“Hey, dinner’s just about ready,” Bobbie told Sonny. “You go out and round up the others. I’ll show Beth the house.”
Sonny jumped up and went out. Beth followed Bobbie from the kitchen.
“This place is a do-it-yourself dream.” Bobbie gestured as she led Beth through a maze. “The original three rooms were once a farmhouse when we bought it thirty years ago. Merle added rooms whenever he had the time. I guess it’s still a work in progress. We enlarged the upstairs when Sonny and Mark and Suze were born. Then we turned the little dining room into a large family room and enlarged the kitchen, because everybody’s always in the kitchen, anyway. When Sonny and Mark got into their teens, Merle turned the garage into a weight room, then built on a garage.”
; Beth thought the Young house had the wandering rectangular coherence of a game of Scrabble. “It’s great,” she said.
Bobbie stopped in the family room with its huge television. One wall of shelves was crammed with trophies and photographs. “Our rogues’ gallery,” she announced with pride.
A pictorial history of the Young family spread out before Beth, who leaned forward, genuinely interested.
“Is this your wedding picture?” Beth asked, gazing at a photo of a younger Bobbie in a short white dress, next to a man who looked almost exactly like Sonny.
“Yes.” Bobbie’s voice warmed as she spoke. “We couldn’t afford a proper big wedding. We couldn’t even afford a honeymoon. But we couldn’t have been any happier if we’d spent a week in the Bahamas.”
“Is this Sonny? Gosh, wasn’t he a cute baby!”
“All my babies were.”
“Look at Sonny in his baseball uniform!” Beth gushed. “He’s adorable!”
“Nine years old. The best hitter in his league.”
“Did he ever think of playing professional ball?”
“No, I don’t think he did. He always wanted to be like his dad.”
“And is this Suze?” Beth nodded toward a picture of a girl with pigtails, matching snowflake mittens and cap, spinning on an ice rink.
“Yes. For a while we thought she might become a professional skater, but she had a nasty fall when she was fifteen. Broke her ankle. Ended that career.”
“Oh, how terrible.” Beth studied the next few pictures. “Is this Suze, playing field hockey?”
“Yes. She was able to play her junior and senior years in high school. Developed a taste for it, and now she’s the girls’ field hockey coach at Methuen High.”
“Good for her!” The next photo drew Beth closer. Squinting, she studied the color photograph of Sonny in a powder blue tux with a gorgeous, buxom blonde in a pale blue, strapless gown. Sonny’s arm was around the girl’s slender waist, his hand resting possessively on her hip. Their faces shone with the gloss of young love.
