by Louisa Hall
“Mrs. Cheshire,” Diana said, “I know that things have been difficult between our families recently. But my dad thinks of your husband as one of his good friends.”
“Yes, dear, of course,” Mrs. Cheshire said. Her lipstick resumed its smile formation.
“And I know you were Mom’s best friend on the street,” Diana lied. Margaux never had a best friend on the street. When Diana was little, Margaux told stories about the farm where she grew up, and about the antiques shop she helped her mother run; a boy from the neighborhood had helped them lift the heavier furniture. He was a friend. Margaux was wistful about such friends of her youth, but she resisted William’s attempts to guide her into relationships with the women of Little Lane. The more enthusiastic he became about a potential friend, the more Margaux resisted. She never felt comfortable with those women; dinner parties, his favorite events of the week, were always painful for her. Once, while grocery shopping, Diana and her mother hid behind a pillar of bananas when they noticed that Beebee Cheshire and Elaine Weld had entered the store. They stayed there for twenty minutes, until the women had finished their shopping, watching through yellow foliage as Beebee and Elaine loaded up their wagons and drove out of the parking lot. When they stood up, Margaux brushed off her skirt as though nothing had happened. “We should get Nilla wafers,” she said. Diana felt as close to her mother then as she ever had in her life.
“Your mother was the most darling woman,” Mrs. Cheshire was saying. Her lipstick pursed, approximating sympathy. “I feel just awful for her. It must be difficult, I’d imagine, to have Adelia in the house so much. I’m not sure I’d understand if I were in her place.”
Mrs. Cheshire was close enough that Diana could smell a combination of hair spray and powder. She wanted to look away but warned herself to maintain eye contact. “It’s hard to know,” she said. “She doesn’t seem to notice. Right now it’s Dad who’s really struggling, and Adelia helps him.” Diana felt Mrs. Cheshire scrutinizing her, preparing to share notes with the neighborhood if she failed to produce some sign of daughterly distress. For the sake of self-preservation, Diana was tempted to gratify her, but in the end she cared about Adelia too much. She steeled herself to continue. “Dad hasn’t been the same since the stroke,” she said. “If we could save the carriage house for him for a few more weeks, I know it would help.”
Mrs. Cheshire stiffened, her sympathies rebuffed. “I’ll have to talk to my husband,” she said. “He understands the politics of the neighborhood better than I do. I’ve always been a dunce about these things. But I hope we can help. Anything for your mother. She was a darling when we first moved in.” The taut smile returned, and Beebee Cheshire and Diana faced each other at the threshold, neighborly and removed, until Diana waved and moved on with her route.
When she returned to the house, Adelia met her on the front stoop. “Did you get anyone?” she asked.
“Maybe the Cheshires. She said she’d talk to her husband.”
“I knew you could get them! She’ll want to do it for the sake of your mom.” Adelia clapped her hands in front of her chest. She looked like a child preparing to pray. “So maybe the Cheshires,” she breathed. “And not only them, Diana. Arthur Schmidt has come to our rescue. Can you believe it? He agreed to a stay on the demolition. He was apologetic about the police. He understood everything. He was wonderful.”
Diana watched the last spinners falling slowly down through the evening air. “So if the Schmidts agree, and maybe the Cheshires, that’s enough for a stay?”
“It’s enough!” Adelia said, then caught herself. “Di, listen. In my excitement, I asked him to dinner.”
“Who?”
“Arthur. He was so wonderful that I asked him to have dinner with us.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if all of you were home. I said you were, but that you would have to stay in, to take care of Lucy.” Adelia paused, clearly waiting for a reaction; Diana’s throat was tightening, but she tried to maintain an easy expression. “I only thought,” Adelia continued, “after your reaction this morning, I shouldn’t put you in a position you couldn’t get out of.”
“That’s fine,” Diana said. “That’s what I’d prefer.”
“I actually suggested he come over for dinner, so that you could come and go, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t want to inconvenience us, with Lucy upstairs and your father just back from the hospital. I told him we’d take him out to Traviata.”
The tightness in her throat was replaced with dull understanding. After all this time, Arthur wanted to avoid her. He wanted to go out to dinner so he could avoid seeing her at the house.
“You don’t mind, Di?” Adelia was asking. “You’ll take care of Lucy? Otherwise Elizabeth could stay home, or Isabelle. It’s completely up to you.”
“No, that’s perfect,” Diana said. “That’s perfect, Adelia. Let’s leave things just as they are.”
• • •
By the appointed time for dinner with Arthur, the atmosphere in the house on Little Lane had elevated to a frenzy. Diana realized they’d been isolated a long time, more deeply than she’d understood. They’d existed alone, deep in their sense of superiority. The prospect of one dinner out with Arthur Schmidt sent them into paroxysms of preparatory activity. In the kitchen, Adelia rehearsed a speech about how grateful their family would be for the chance to remove the carriage house. William came downstairs in a tie no one had seen before—dusty brown crepe with silver bullet-point dots—and Adelia sent Diana to find him a new one. Elizabeth had arrived an hour early from the house on Wimberlyn Street, children in tow, jangling with bangle bracelets and hoop earrings; now she was running down the stairs in search of a missing hair clip. Diana followed her with a red and blue alternative for William. In the living room, Isabelle, shimmering in a purple dress that made her look like an Italian movie star, looked up from the magazine she was reading and examined the tie. “No,” she said. “He won’t look like himself.” Diana turned to go back upstairs and saw that Margaux had come down. She was standing on the landing, holding her purse in one hand.
“When are we going?” she asked, scanning the foyer.
Diana blinked back at her mother. Usually, there was a serenity to Margaux’s vague wandering that was familiar and continuous with the person she had always been. This pointed distress was new and confusing.
“We’re going to dinner with Arthur, Mom,” Izzy said from behind Diana. Her voice was crisp and capable. “You don’t have to come if it makes you nervous.”
Margaux peered, unconvinced. “Ah,” she said. “I see.”
Louise materialized above her. “Where are you running off to, young lady?” she asked, and Margaux looked up, relieved.
“I think I’ll stay, if they’re all going anyway,” she said, moving back up to her studio.
“She’s not used to all these people in the house,” Izzy said, and then Elizabeth was rushing out from the kitchen with a bottle of children’s aspirin. “Take these up to Lucy?” she asked breathlessly, catching Diana by the arm. Diana started when Elizabeth touched her. “What’s wrong with you?” Elizabeth asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. If you’re going upstairs for another tie, can you take this to Lucy?”
When Diana was halfway up the stairs, the doorbell rang. She stopped, unsure whether to move farther up or down. Behind her, Elizabeth ran to the door, bracelets jangling. Diana thought about running up the stairs to escape, but the idea of him seeing her in flight made her stay where she was, back turned, clutching the bottle of aspirin. The door opened. Elizabeth said his name. There was the clanging sound of a hug, and then Diana heard his voice. The same voice. She turned around. For a moment he looked up and half caught her eye where she was standing on the stairs. “I’m taking these to Lucy,” she said, too softly for anyone to hear. He nodded curtly up at her, then turned to smile at Isabelle, w
ho had glided into the foyer. Diana felt the heat of a blush rising to her cheeks, so she turned and fled up the stairs to the bedroom where Lucy was resting. Her hand was trembling slightly when she reached out to brush Lucy’s sweaty bangs away from the bandage on her face. Trying to calm herself, she leaned forward and kissed the girl’s forehead; Lucy, still sleeping, moved closer to Diana’s hip on the bed, her body curved like a parenthesis. Diana breathed. She could hear the family clustering in the foyer, preparing to leave.
“We’re going, Diana!” Adelia finally called, and there was the sound of the front door closing, the car’s engine starting in the driveway. The headlights sent a wash of pale light across the room, and then they were gone.
• • •
Hours later, when they returned, Diana joined them in the kitchen while they reviewed the success of the night. Her sisters had softened, polished to a rich glow by the chance to display themselves again. There was the glimmer of jewelry, Elizabeth laughing, another round of wine being poured. Isabelle lingered in the kitchen, leaning over her forearms on the island while Adelia retold a story that Arthur had delivered. Even William had collected himself. There was a look of satisfaction, if not optimism, about him tonight. His white hair, combed neatly from its side part, seemed less faded than it had since he came back from the hospital. From her side of the kitchen, Diana felt as though she were watching luminous fish swimming across an aquarium.
“I could have listened to his stories all night,” Elizabeth said. “Really, I haven’t laughed so much since I left L.A.”
“He’s gotten more handsome than he used to be,” William said, sitting at the kitchen table. “I remember him having a slouch.”
“He is more attractive, isn’t he? And he’s done so well for himself. I had no idea he owned the Eldridge; everyone goes to the Eldridge. I’m sure Mark’s been there; I’ll have to ask him next time.” Elizabeth sipped her wine. “We tried to get him to come say hello to you, Diana,” she added. “But he was so sweet about Lucy. He said he didn’t want to disturb her.”
Diana pulled out a stool so that she could sit.
“He’s grown into his nose,” William continued. “I remember his nose being bigger. But he’s grown into it. I think if you met him on the street at this point, you’d think he was a good-looking person.”
“He was so reasonable about the carriage house,” Adelia said. “He agreed that it’s gotten out of hand. He was sure he could buy us some time.”
“That’s wonderful,” Diana said, her voice faltering.
“It’s nice to see when a person grows into his looks. So often it works the other way,” William said, a touch of accusation in his voice.
“Yes, William, that’s fine,” Adelia said. “But did you hear what we said about the carriage house?”
William’s expression darkened. “It’s too far gone. It will fall apart, even if we get it across the fence.” He considered his terrible tie. “That house was perfect once. In another time.”
“We can rebuild it,” Diana said.
“We’d need an excellent architect,” he muttered, getting up from his place at the table to pour his wine down the drain. “This wine tastes like ash. And the architects in this town are no good anymore.” He resumed his place at the table.
“You could do it,” Elizabeth suggested, sweeping over to the table to sit beside him.
“I’m too tired,” he said.
“Diana could do it,” Adelia said.
“Diana hasn’t even graduated yet. She’s taken six years, and she hasn’t finished her degree.”
An awkward silence settled into the kitchen.
“Well, it’s a start that he’s going to speak to Anita,” Adelia said finally.
“He was nice to be around,” Isabelle said out of the blue. “He has a nice way to him.”
“I completely agree,” Elizabeth said. “I needed that. I needed to relax for a while. I can’t tell you how much I have needed to sit back and have a glass of wine and an actual meal with some people my age.”
“You drank too much,” William said.
“I had a glass and a half,” Elizabeth corrected him. Wounded, she pushed her glass to the side. “Di, how’s Lucy?”
“She’s fine. She hasn’t woken up since you left.”
“Oh, good,” Elizabeth said. “You were darling to stay with her. I wish you could have come with us.”
“Me, too, Lizzie.”
“We talked about you, you know,” Elizabeth continued, attempting to be generous.
“Arthur said you’ve changed since he saw you last,” William said. “He said you were so different, he hardly recognized you at all.”
The air in the kitchen felt like rising water. Diana looked at both her sisters: could they also feel the thickening air? Isabelle, unnoticed, poured herself a glass of wine. Elizabeth glanced at hers but didn’t touch it. Adelia, looking through the kitchen window to the slanting shape of the carriage house as it rose out of the darkness, murmured, “I think he can help us persuade her.”
“He seemed like he wanted nothing more than to get that building off his property,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t you remember? When he said it belonged to the Adairs and had nothing whatsoever to do with his family?”
And then all of them were talking about the issue of the carriage house, and Diana was left alone in her corner of the kitchen. So she was changed to the point that he couldn’t recognize her. He had used those words. She couldn’t blame him. She had changed, and why would she expect Arthur Schmidt to be generous about that? She had faded. It had never hit her quite as fully as it did just then, in the kitchen, while Isabelle and Elizabeth laughed, their earrings glimmering. How unfair for unhappiness to also make you look dull. As though it weren’t enough to feel unhappy, you also had to fade.
“I could help with the house,” she said, and as her words rang out through the kitchen, she had the strange sensation that even her voice had changed beyond recognition. “I really could,” the voice persisted. “I could draw up a plan, and we could use that to rebuild it. I know that building as well as anyone.”
They all stopped talking and turned toward her.
“I could do it quickly,” she said.
“You’ve never finished a thing in your life,” William said. He stood from his chair with measured dignity. “I have had a terrible day,” he said. “And now I will go to sleep.”
They waited for his footsteps to climb the stairs. “You’d do a great job of drawing a plan,” Elizabeth said once he was out of earshot. She repossessed her wine.
“You would,” Adelia agreed. “Just give him a couple of days.” She patted Diana’s hand in a way that was neither pitying nor gentle but could only be classified as fierce, then made her way up to the guest room. Elizabeth yawned and followed, and Isabelle waved good night. Diana was alone. Without them, all the various elements of the evening resolved into the stillness of an empty kitchen, and Diana Adair closed her eyes and tried to remember the sound of her old voice, the way she once looked, when Arthur loved her and listened to her and recognized her still.
• • •
On Monday morning, Diana woke to find Lucy staring at her. Her wide eyes were close enough that Di could almost feel the sweep of her eyelashes when she blinked; the yellow in Lucy’s irises made her eyes the blue of a deep bruise. The stitches had puckered her eyebrow, the soft skin around it pulled taut.
“Hi, Luce,” Diana whispered, reaching out to touch her warm cheek.
“Hi, Aunt Di. You wanna go outside and play?”
“Right now?” It was early enough that the light through the shades was watery.
“Right now.”
Outside, Diana sat on a damp chaise longue while Lucy collected insects on the lawn. Diana liked to be awake this early, before the rest of the world had risen. Things were so
new, emerging out of the nighttime cool. In Texas she would pour herself coffee and sit down to work at her desk at five a.m. before the creaking of the floorboards above her announced the awakening of the couple who lived upstairs. Then she could sharpen her pencils, roll a sheet of paper out over her desk, pull out her measuring tools, and draw. Unencumbered by the long accumulation of errors that occurred over the course of a day, Diana imagined buildings. She drew in the company of a bird that lived in her driveway. Its call punctuated the morning, a long, hoarse craake. The sound of a rusty gate swinging wide open, allowing a new day to enter and wash the house clean with its light.
At that time of day, Diana loved her apartment. It was nearly empty, pristine in its emptiness. In the living room, a blue couch and a table. In the bedroom, a mattress, her desk, and a bookshelf full of architecture texts. She liked it that way: simple and spare. She tried not to keep any food in the fridge. Nothing that could pile up. In her drawings, people could live cleanly and efficiently. Modern human beings, sharing each other’s heat and cool air. She imagined idealized downtown blocks, carless and compact.
By seven o’clock, Diana would start to get hungry, so she’d pour herself a bowl of cereal. By the time she’d finished the second bowl, the equilibrium of the morning had shifted. The house creaked and sighed, adjusting itself to the livelier presence of her waking neighbors. Diana felt leaden. When she returned to her drawings, the lines were less straight than she had imagined, the designs less crisp. By noon, Texas light had armed every aspect of the day. The sun was direct and unstinting, unfiltered by trees. With each new motion, Diana felt as if she were resisting defeat. In class, she took notes dutifully but had no recollection of what she had learned. By the end of the day, she could no longer imagine the people who would live in her buildings. Her teachers felt she had talent but hadn’t yet found her voice. Her adviser asked her to decide what kind of architect she’d like to become. He offered a list of suggestions: schools of thought she might join, theories she could espouse. He seemed to think it ought to be clear. What kinds of structures did she want to build? Diana couldn’t tell him.
