by Pamela Moses
“But I want to go, Mother!” I said as she returned the phone to the receiver.
“We have a full schedule this week, Franny,” was all she answered, her face flushing in a way I knew she was thinking her own thoughts, as she seemed always to be doing now. She had hardly heard my words at all as she popped open a bottle of Perrier from the fridge and blew smoke straight up over our heads, tapping and tapping over her little blue glass tray long after her ashes had dropped off.
When I was eleven or so, a card arrived from the Werther family, a brief greeting from their recent trip to Florence, inside a Polaroid shot of the four of them, Mrs. Werther in a fancy wide-brimmed hat. “Oh!” Mother said when she opened it, her voice so sharp I thought she’d nicked her finger on the edge of the envelope. After a moment, I saw that her hand holding the card was uninjured, still I could not stop thinking of how, the week before, I’d seen Father move the letter opener, from its usual spot where Mother kept mail, to the desk in his study; and this seemed suddenly a selfishness beyond explanation.
“You’re much prettier than Mrs. Werther, Mother!” I told her.
But Mother did not smile gratefully or lift her hand to pet my hair as I expected she would, only tucked the card back into the pile of mail to be sorted later, making a small cough of a laugh. “What a funny thing to say, Franny.” She glanced at the reflection of us both in the front hall mirror—she in the denim pants worn only around the house because she said they made her hips look wide, I in my sundress with the navy and red stripes, the one Mother had tried for months to convince me to give to Goodwill because it stretched too tightly across my middle now. And she squinted in a way that made me wish I had never given the compliment.
• • •
But things would change in the penthouse. Mother loved it so much there would be no time for short tempers, for old worries. She loved the ten-foot ceilings with their dentil moldings, the spacious bedrooms on the second floor, I heard her tell Father when we walked through the apartment as a family for the first time. And the paneling in the library and—Oh!—the French doors to the terrace, which wrapped the apartment on three sides. So I began to count the days until the renovations would be finished. It had not occurred to me that, with this formal home, Mother would find only more to preoccupy her, more things she wanted just so. For my bedroom, across from Christopher’s, at the far end of the upstairs hall, Mother had purchased sage-colored damask drapes to match the heavy fabric of my dust ruffle, and thickly stuffed pillows for my bed. When I asked if I could paint the borders at the base of the walls, as I had in my previous room, with a pattern of butterflies and rainbows, she forbade me. “It would be such a shame to mar your beautiful moldings, Franny!” And she claimed the clay animals and pinch pots I had made in school over the years and liked to display across my bureau must have disappeared in the move, but I had other suspicions.
“I liked it better in our old house,” I told Christopher as we worked on a one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle on his carpeted floor. And he nodded agreeably but, to my irritation, glanced over his shoulder at his brand-new bed and tall windows and the bookcases holding his model cars and lead soldiers. Only ten years old, he had agreed without complaint when told he could no longer leave his Lincoln Log or Tinkertoy constructions around the room for days on end nor sprawl on his bed in the daytime for fear the duvet cover would crease. “You’re just too young to be angry about how properly we have to keep everything!” I told him.
And now, even my own appearance, it seemed, required improvement. These were the injustices I stewed over from the stairwell as louder and louder fragments of conversation from Mother and Father’s party, peals of laughter floated up to me. Above the voices, I could hear Father addressing his guests by name, ushering them out of the foyer and into the living room. The swirl of Mother’s red skirts crossed the hall—once, twice, three times—as she moved from friend to friend. If she looked up, she would see my legs through the banister rails. What are you doing, Francesca? It’s half past seven! I expected you downstairs thirty minutes ago.
No. No, I refuse to go unless I can wear something else! I envisioned the flames that would flash across Mother’s cheeks at the strength of my tone. Then she would understand how unhappy she had made me. Then she would apologize, stroking my hair with both hands as she used to do when I was little. I’m sorry, Francesca, truly, I am sorry. The imagined words brought a scratchy lump to my throat.
A combination of smells I couldn’t name began to emanate from the kitchen. The trim black pant cuffs and patent leather shoes of caterers whisked back and forth. I wondered if they were serving any of the miniature fried egg rolls that I loved. Usually these were passed with a sweet, plum-colored dipping sauce that made the roof of my mouth tingle.
The front hall began to clear; everyone had wandered into other rooms of the apartment. A man with a raspy voice was telling jokes. I could hear the clink of ice in glasses as women laughed. Two caterers returned to the hall and paused at the table near the entry before scurrying back to the kitchen. Creeping down a few steps, I could see that, surrounding a vase exploding with white roses, they had set silver trays of food on the marble tabletop. One tray held wedges of cheese and clusters of purple grapes, another strips of chicken on wooden skewers. There were plates full of meat pastries and heart-shaped potato fritters and crackers topped with a pink spread. Then, at the end of the table, I spotted a lazy Susan piled with the egg rolls I’d hoped for. If I dashed down the stairs and quickly ran up again, I could escape being noticed.
A stack of powder-blue linen napkins lay on the table. With quick fingers, I grabbed a handful of the rolls, a few pastries, cubes of yellow and orange cheese. I dropped them into a napkin and darted back upstairs. The crispy rolls were still warm from the oven. As I chewed, they filled my mouth with steam. It was eight o’clock. I had missed the first hour of my parents’ party. Incredible that my absence had gone unnoticed for this long. Ha! I covered my mouth with both hands, afraid I would giggle out loud. The hallway was still empty; I might as well run downstairs for another fried roll. Plucking a fresh napkin, I added to my bundle two potato fritters the width of my palm. At the head of the stairs, I spread the napkin across my knees and pushed a hole in one of the fritters, sticking my tongue into the center, licking at the salty softness inside. Between the shreds of potato hid melted drops of butter. When I had hollowed out the middle, I popped the remainder into my mouth, swallowing it down in a single bite. After the second fritter my stomach began to bubble noisily with air. I eyed the egg roll still in my napkin. Its greasy shell had left a spattering of stains on the blue linen. I folded the napkin in quarters over the roll to save for later.
Mother and Father’s friends seemed almost to be shouting now, and I wondered how they could hear one another. If I were downstairs, I thought, some guest would be questioning me about school—my favorite class, whether or not I was studying a language, what sport I most enjoyed. I would be introduced to one of my parents’ chatty acquaintances and then another. I unfurled my napkin and sniffed the roll, then rewrapped it. It was already ten minutes to nine. No one had crossed the hallway for some time.
“Franny?” My heart pounding, I rose to my feet. Was it Mother calling to me from downstairs, angrily, having realized my absence? Or had it been another name? Another woman’s voice? It was so difficult to tell among the chaos of words. Then: “Dan-ny?” I heard it again, not my name at all. I squeezed the napkin wrapping the roll into a wad and shifted in my seat on the steps. The hard wood had begun to numb my backside, and I wanted to stretch my legs. If I tiptoed quietly along the stairs and poked my head into the living room for just an instant, who would catch me? Just a quick peek at the dresses and suits, the plates of food.
There were even more guests than I had imagined. How was it possible my parents knew so many people? And they seemed to know one another, too, weaving from living room to library to terrace to greet one another, the men clapping sho
ulders, the women kissing cheeks. There were even a few children, some close to my age. I recognized two boys from Christopher’s school and a girl who had been in my art class years before. One girl wore a dress similar to mine in pastel yellow. Her arms, her waist, her hips were as slender as flower stems. She was nibbling a tiny cookie, running a finger around her mouth every so often to check for crumbs. Father was at the far end of the living room, only the back of him visible in his navy jacket. Christopher was beside him, one fist thrust into his pants pocket as Father’s was. Father patted the elbow of the man on his right, and Christopher offered his hand, too, for an introduction. The room seemed a blur of sequined blouses and shimmering skirts, jeweled wrists and drink glasses, so it was hard to focus, hard to concentrate on any one person in the crowd.
Eventually I spotted Mother among a circle of women, a champagne flute in her right hand, a small plate in her left. Even from a distance, I could see her cheeks glowed pink. The red hem of her gown fluttered above her feet as she laughed with the women around her. Then she turned and began searching the room. I followed her gaze as it swept over each band of guests, each face. And it was not impatience or irritation I saw in her eyes but concentration. Or was it concern? Oh! I would permit her to find me where I stood. No. No, I would rush to her! But then I saw her eyes fix on Father instead. He was stepping over to Mrs. Mitchell, whose hair was loose for a change and whose black gown had a long slit along her right leg. So it was he Mother had been checking for, and she did not look away until one of the caterers moved to the center of the room with a tray of stuffed pastries. Then Mother seemed suddenly to remember something, and setting her dish on the coffee table, began to thread through the guests. Smiling, the burgundy of her lipstick glittering against her teeth, she waved to the caterer, and he followed her through the crowd, balancing his silver moon of a tray high in the air.
When they returned to the group of women, the caterer, with a bow of his chin, gently lowered the tray. Fingers reached for napkins and pastries. Mother handed an hors d’oeuvre to a woman in a sheer sleeveless blouse—the mother of the girl in yellow, I decided, since the girl seemed always to be standing behind her, blotting her lips carefully, taking cautious sips from a clear plastic glass. Then Mother leaned toward the girl, speaking something near her. When the girl nodded, Mother motioned to the caterer and gracefully lifted a pastry from his tray, then placed it into the girl’s open palm. They stood so close their blond heads nearly touched. The girl’s hair brushed Mother’s shoulder as she smiled with tiny, closed lips, her narrow nose twitching slightly. Instead of chewing the pastry in one gulp, she took miniature bites at its edges, licking it now and then to prevent the filling from dripping. I watched her until every bit of the pastry had disappeared.
In the hall, the marble table was still piled with appetizers. I crammed my napkin with as many fritters and cheese squares and crackers as it would hold. Then I climbed the stairs with clattering footsteps, not caring who heard me.
Seated cross-legged on the handwoven Indian carpet Mother had recently purchased for my room, I devoured one hors d’oeuvre after another. Within minutes, a dusting of crumbs littered the new rug, but I made no attempt to brush them away, only gobbled bite after bite until the first heave of nausea hit. Then, when the last morsel had been swallowed, I threw myself onto my bed unwashed, having tossed my dress to the floor, letting it lie in a crumpled puddle.
In the first days of September, before my ninth-grade year and Christopher’s fifth, the streets of New York flooded again with zigzagging cars and jostling pedestrians as they did at the close of every summer. We, too, had just returned from two months away at the house we rented in Montauk for every July and August.
“It’s invigorating, isn’t it?” Mother said one glaringly blue morning as we stood on the terrace watching the bustling people below. “The city rushing with life—surging once more with energy.” She sipped from the polka-dotted mug of coffee in her moisturized hand and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. She’d lightened it a shade, I thought, more streaks of yellow.
“You must be excited for the first year of high school.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it won’t be much different from last year.”
I squinted through the trees of Central Park to see if I could make out the flat gray oval of the reservoir.
“If you want to invite any friends to the recital tomorrow night, you are welcome to. Everyone must be back from vacation by now.”
I shrugged again. I had only two girlfriends, really—Sharon Frasier and Emily McKenzie. Sharon was expected home for dinner every night, and I was temporarily avoiding Emily—she’d responded to none of the letters I had mailed her at summer camp. “I’d rather not.” Besides, I couldn’t imagine any reason they would want to sit in our living room for two solid hours of harp music, even if the harpist was “heaven inspired,” as Mother had exclaimed after seeing her perform the previous spring.
“Are you sure? Larissa Balliet is so gifted. I bet your friends would enjoy her. I think it’ll be fun!” Mother leaned her hip against the terrace rail. The breeze lifted the hair from her neck. Then, glancing at her watch, she said, “I suppose I should make a few phone calls. Breakfast is on the table. Just don’t touch any of the wrapped appetizers in the refrigerator, love. They are to be saved for tomorrow evening.”
The afternoon before the recital, white-painted rental chairs with gold cushions arrived and were arranged in rows facing the living room fireplace. Mother adjusted their fabric ties and placed the programs she’d had printed on each seat. She set bowls of pink rosebuds on the two living room coffee tables and a vase of white tulips and lilies and peonies in the foyer.
“The house looks nice,” I said. It had suddenly occurred to me that possibly the Dempseys had been invited, and if so, might bring their son Jamie. “The East Coast Hottie,” Sharon and Emily called him because Emily had kissed him once at a wedding reception in Amagansett and told us his lips made her feel she would slide to the ground and melt into a puddle. Behind her back, Sharon and I agreed she was exaggerating, but this did not stop me from thinking of Jamie Dempsey when I watched movie love scenes, or imagining what it might be like to kiss him in the pouring rain.
“Are the Dempseys coming?” I asked Mother as nonchalantly as I could. “Or the Hanovers?” I added, just so that she would not grow suspicious.
“Dempseys—no. Hanovers—yes.”
“Oh,” I said, as though the answer made no difference to me, and stood watching Mother for a minute. Her flowers really did look beautiful, her arrangements always prettier than those from the florist. And I considered telling her so.
“Is there something else you need, Fran? I’ve a million things left to do,” Mother sighed.
“Not a thing.” And I would not say a word about her flowers.
It had been hours since lunch. From the fridge door, I poured myself a glass of Pepsi. On the refrigerator shelves were rows of finished hors d’oeuvres in protective plastic. One metal tray held puffed orange wafers that looked to be made with cheddar, the appetizers I had been forbidden to eat. But who would miss one from the corner? I took a gulp of soda then fished a single wafer from under the cling wrap. It had a spicy flavor that I liked, and I snatched another. Then a third. A fourth, and then one more, until a gaping hole formed in the center of the tray, too large to hide.
Several minutes before her guests were expected, Mother rapped on my bedroom door. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you later this evening, Francesca.” She spoke quickly, breathlessly. Through the closed door I could smell the sugary, petal scent of her perfume.
“What is it?” But she was already gone. I could hear her heels thumping on the carpet. So she would wait until after the recital for her reprimand. Perhaps she thought the delay would give me time to regret my actions.
After the final chord from Larissa Balliet’s harp, after the last guest had left, I sat in bed waitin
g, my bed lamp switched on, my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird propped open on the blankets I had pulled to my chest. I had finished the first two chapters and begun the third. Down the hall I could hear water running in my parents’ bathroom, the murmur of their voices, the clicking on and off of lights, and footsteps fading down the corridor. Then . . . nothing. Quiet. Only the faint rhythm of car tires whistling on the avenue below. During the hubbub of the recital, had my misdeeds been forgotten? Ha! I folded down the corner of my page to mark my place and set the book on my night table, then switched off my bedside lamp. Ha! Ha! But I turned in my tangled blanket for what seemed like hours before finally dropping off to sleep.
• • •
Every morning Mother directed Carmen, our housekeeper, to set a blue lacquered plate of croissants or brioche rolls on the breakfast-room table. This was more civilized than the bowls of cereal Christopher and I used to gulp down at breakfast, I heard her tell Carmen. After sipping her coffee and extinguishing her cigarette, Mother sometimes picked at a pastry, but always, I slathered my rolls or croissants with strawberry jam, finishing them entirely, then washed them down with a glass of orange juice. But by early fall, I noticed I felt unsatisfied even before I’d walked the nine blocks to school. So I began to visit the cafeteria before my first class for a cream cheese bagel and a carton of fruit punch.
In the afternoons, by the time I returned home, another wave of ravenous hunger overtook me. While Mother was busy upstairs with her late-day regimen of toning exercises, I combed the cabinets and refrigerator. From leftovers, I created elaborate snacks—cold slices of quiche, steamed dumplings, pecan cookies—eating these with my right hand, my left holding open whichever volume I was currently reading of the solve-your-own mystery series I’d discovered at the local bookstore.
