He said, “I’m never going to believe there was too much distaste. Afterward, you’d hold my hand. The countryside will have memories of you as long as I live. A beer can tossed away under a tree will make me think of our woods.”
“And butterflies will,” she said, dreamy and enumerative and singsong as a recitative child. At a sudden intenser shower of rain, she thrust her hands into a hoop over her head and might have been a child about to begin some inept ballet.
He made signs of leaving. “I’ve known all along I’d have to suffer. It doesn’t make it any easier.” His voice was jerky. “I won’t keep on like this, though. If you want to see me again, it’ll be on my terms.”
At a point when Amy avoided looking at him, he had signalled a cab, meandering on the avenue. It came with funereal slowness down the block. Amy tried to think of some restraining remark but, as if suddenly, he had disappeared. She stared in an amazed way before darting upstairs, like a scared animal. When she entered the soundless, and even odorless, house, the landlord, having seen her come in, opened his door. He thrust toward her a letter so abruptly, it seemed to hang midair before Amy touched it. “Special came,” he said, and went back in his room.
The envelope when she opened it in her room produced a heavy white card with a detachable purple ribbon. It bore the name of her father’s dancing school in gilt letters. How sad, she thought, that people would come there to pay more for companionship than for instruction. She pictured the place as ostentatious and full of gilt mirrors, with hostesses wearing dresses tight across the rear. Both her father and Billy Walter would enjoy dancing with them. At the bottom of the card, her father had scrawled that he hoped she would come for the opening.
She went downstairs and telephoned about a plane. Coming back, she knelt and drew from beneath the bed her suitcase, stifling a scream as a pale spider ran toward her. But, steady after a moment, she began to pack. She glanced several times at the scrawl along the bottom of the card. Two to tango and all that, pet! Come if you can. Nicknames were touching; that small one might be sending her home. However, her father was unsure of himself and had added, Billy Walter says please come.
The landlord remained silent, after opening his door, and heard without interest that she was leaving. She stood with a scarf over her head, more like some impecunious immigrant who was arriving, bundles and a suitcase and a paper sack at her feet. The flicker of his eyes toward them made Amy look down, to see she had a run in her stocking. Her mother would smile and say it didn’t matter, make some excuse about stockings running more easily all the time. Then, she would want to know how, possibly, her baby had managed to get home with all this stuff? Amy, in giving the landlord her forwarding address, wondered if the tailor would ever inquire about her. A taxi drew up with its lights wavery in mist, turning into fog. She piled in her things and, driven away, glanced back once toward the place she had lived. Soon, in the window, where the landlord passed now as a shadow, the Room for Rent sign would reappear.
Later, he thought Amy had been anticipating a call. That would be the reason she had stood so hesitantly, and so long, outside his door, to explain her leaving, why she had looked so expectantly around and back up the stairs. The landlord had supposed her wondering whether she had left anything behind. Customarily curt to late callers, he gave out her address and answered that the caller was welcome. A gentleness in the older man’s voice had coaxed his own.
“Have you met anybody?” Edith said. “And what’s happened to your coat? And, baby, how did you manage alone with all that stuff?”
“I had to manage,” Amy said flatly. “There was no one else to.”
Staring appraisingly, Edith said, “Your hair’s longer.” They exchanged a glance, in silence. “You’re thinner,” Amy said. “You must have been sticking to your diet.” What, Edith wondered, if she’s grown, is to happen next? Her father had parked the car and came down the airport’s ramp with a bright smile, wearing a blue ascot, an addictive color to match his eyes, but they had ashy and noticeable shadows beneath them; Edith had written he had not been well. “Have you grown?” he cried. “You seem taller.”
“You haven’t seen me in so long,” she said, “and my skirt’s shorter, that makes my legs longer. How about putting me to work in your dancing school?”
“We like ’em a little fatter other places,” he said and stopped his hand from giving her a swat across the rear, which Amy wished he had done. Grown softer, his face seemed to give way when she pressed it with hers and his cheekbone, sharper, left a smarting place, where she raised her hand. Her father. Home. She looked at everything, speculatively. A peach, a swell girl, the icing on the cake, the whole cheese—these were the things her father called her for coming home, and mentioned them all in the short time it took them to reach the car. He said them almost all in one breath. On the front seat they sat, three abreast, a unit formed again. Her father grandly held the steering wheel, with hands whose nails were highly buffed and shone. He mentioned that, incidentally, the dancing school was on the way home. Of course then, they must go by to see it. Hearing her mother’s grateful sigh, Amy realized they wanted little from her and expected nothing. How selfish she must have been. Approaching the school, she stared ahead as the road generously widened.
Though possibly the building could have been worse, it was hard to imagine it so. The façade was modern, and the school appeared a tuberous outcropping of light, on a tree-lined street of old houses, which had now a huddled-down and almost embarrassed look. Amy and Edith climbed apprehensively purple-carpeted steps between walls painted geranium pink, and found the ballroom emitted a sensational glitter, a turbulence to shame storms. Spangles shaking as quicksilver on the hostesses’ gowns, hanging along a corridor, added to the feeling. Last-minute workmen stored hammers in the kangaroolike pouches of their work clothes and seemed to tiptoe away, as though feeling they did not belong.
On the following morning, the leaves lay flat in rain puddles, with a look of having drowned. After waking and glancing at the clock, Amy thought how the tailor would be opening his shop and heard reminiscent horns coming up like cries from the Village’s streets. Should she have stayed in New York, and had she been short on persistence, and had she given up or given in? Had she waited longer would something have happened, she wondered.
Edith had put bronze chrysanthemums in a copper bowl. Amy, left alone, went about the house, her parents having spared her lunch with city officials. Billy Walter would pick her up for the dancing school’s champagne opening, at five. Tugged open, the French doors in the living room revealed violently green winter grass and that raindrops had given to tree bark the texture of frogs’ backs. A sluggish wind was inept against matted piles of wet leaves; among them were only a few colorful ones. Along the driveway, oaks stubbornly held all their foliage, which was just beginning to crackle and to brown. Here was conflict and confusion, winter intruding but fall not yielding. All the chrysanthemums in Edith’s garden had not dropped their blooms. Violets peeked from beneath leaves yet to be raked. Should she, Amy wondered, standing by Edith’s pretty arrangement, have tried another coast, or some more distant place?
Lopsided beneath his pouch’s weight, the postman caught sight of her behind the door’s glass panes and ceased whistling. “Haven’t seen you in a long time,” he said, extending mail, leaving unspoken between them the question, Where had she been?
Wherever Amy went, friends came forward to hug her, asking immediately, Had she met anyone? To marry, they meant. Her smile was always hesitant, which made her look mysterious, and made them less worried. On her first afternoon home, Billy Walter had come in and lifted her off her feet in a hug. This afternoon at the reception, he held her hand. As if painted on with one of Edith’s little brushes, Amy’s smile was set and represented pleasure—a doll’s face, or a puppet’s. The corners of her mouth thinned with smiling, her cheeks burned bright red with effort. No one could help thinking she was having a good time. Billy Walter,
feeling the trembling in her hand, thinking he caused it, was not surprised later when she threw herself on him rather desperately when they parked.
Soon their dates began to take place in motels. He said once that he put into his love-making all the love he could, and Amy felt grateful. But she had feelings of sadness afterward, while Billy Walter strode about busily, filling the dingy room in which he was dressing, having a drink. She lay inertly asking him questions (to his secret annoyance) about himself: had he had a happy childhood; what were his feelings about his mother and father and all his sisters (she liked the idea of being drawn into a large family), what childhood pets did he most miss; did he believe in God; how had he decided to go into the insurance business? When his answers were short and brusque, she would gaze sorrowfully at him, as he seemed not to worry in the least that one person could never know another fully.
Handling insurance for the dancing school, Billy Walter came by frequently in the late afternoon to see her father. Edith would do crewel work and the men would drink and talk about money, and while blue and orange flames leaped in the gas heater, they were all comfortable together and grew drowsy. Shaking herself from reveries, Amy made herself look wide-eyed, attentive to the stock market’s future, knowing she need never worry about it. Her days were a repetitive confrontation of clothes, and not only did she spend time arranging them, she shopped for more. She and Billy Walter were taken as a couple and invited everywhere together. Relieved and hopeful, eventually fairly certain, her friends and Edith’s waited for an engagement. They thought Amy wore less an air which always had been to them unsettling, though never had they been able to give it its name: puzzlement. About what could Amy have been puzzled? they would have asked.
After Christmas shopping, Dea stopped by, wearing her perennial nubby navy blue coat. Her hair was greyer, but her face bloomed with information not offered and questions not asked when she met Amy. “You seem to have grown,” she said.
“My skirt’s shorter, that’s why.”
Dea and Edith closed themselves too obviously into the kitchen to drink coffee, but Amy heard Dea’s first whisper, “He’s back!” They became busy about the room when Amy swung through the door. Edith had been baking cookies. They all bent to the oven while she drew them out, turning full attention to whether sugar should be sprinkled on when they were cooled, or still hot. Having offered an opinion, Amy pulled on blond pigskin gloves. “The sherry party’s from three to five. Then, I’m taking dresses to be shortened,” she said.
“Have a good time,” Edith said.
Dea, with her coat on, ballooned out. She had to go, and closed her eyes against the uncertain afternoon sunlight and leaned dependently upon Amy’s arm. “I’m getting old,” she said, “but feel I can’t do anything about it.” Amy felt surprised. To her, Dea had always been old. “You don’t look any different to me,” she said.
“Well, you’re sweet to say so,” Dea said. “But I can see myself.”
Behind them, in the door, Edith stood watching. As they bent together, she observed in the shape of their heads a family resemblance unobserved before. Had they been talking about Mr. Almoner when Dea had said she would not mention a word? Edith had said she dared not and knew nothing. Past the house, chimney smoke drifted in ripples, like ribbon shaken out. To everything, there was a quality of overcolor, picture stillness, the grass was even too green. The scene appeared unreal, yet this was life. This was it, Amy repeated to herself. She watched Dea climb reluctantly into her old, almond-pale Chevrolet. Her breath still warm from coffee, she kissed Amy.
Holding open the car door, Amy wished there were not lying on the front seat a little whisk broom. It lay there so hopefully over a frayed place, as men attempt to spread thinning hair over bald spots. Bravado often seems sad.
“Land, the faucet’s going on,” Dea said, beginning to cry. She whispered, “I couldn’t tell even your momma, but I have to tell someone. Bubba has just left out. We’re pretending on a business trip, hoping he’ll come back. Had to sow his wild oats, I guess. He never had. Once, my patience would have been tried. Your momma and daddy and I didn’t grow up in an age of this psychology mess. When we did something wrong, our britches got set afire. But I guess he’s trying to find himself.”
With Dea in her car, Amy stuck her head in the window saying, with no idea, that she was sure things would be all right. Dea said, “I don’t know whether it would be good or not if we ever knew what was ahead.” Often when she put her head on the pillow at night, she wondered. Her advice now might not be the kind somebody like Mr. Almoner could give Amy, but was practical. “Honey, you may think your children are trouble when they’re little,” Dea said. “But you won’t know anything till they’re grown.” Her face attentive, Amy said she would remember. In the rearview mirror, Dea watched Amy’s much sleeker car follow her own a short distance and turn a different direction. She stuck her arm out the window to wave. At the same moment, Amy waved. Driving on, Dea thought it was necessary to existence to have these little reassurances, waving, having somebody at home waiting for supper.
“I’m glad,” Amelia announced, “to have a change from turkey for Christmas.” What she had always wanted, though, was roast beef, or goose, though everybody said it was greasy. But did Inga have to stare as if she absolutely adored this venison because Jeff had shot the deer. Jessie, stepping back after putting the platter down, waited, disapprovingly, her arms folded. Amelia had made her soak the meat in red wine for days. Jeff was carving. Latham had sat with his fork upright ever since the blessing. Sometimes, he had no more table manners than Marguerite. Amelia glanced at him affectionately, realizing she had gotten more tolerant with age. A year ago, for instance, she never would have expected to buy bar-b-ques where Negroes were sitting eating them. And though, still, she would not sit down herself when the place opened and the Negroes were the first ones in, she had made no comment. They would be served in Chester’s, yet. And what she hoped, now, was only to live to see the day. Jeff looked peaked. Change seemed to have done him no good. If she had known he was coming back would she have married Latham? It was, she decided, better that she had.
“Now that, Jeff,” Latham said, handing along his plate, “is one mighty fine buck.”
“Sweet potatoes?” Inga asked from the other end of the table.
“Don’t give him too many,” Amelia said. “Getting heavy may be why his ankle keeps giving way.”
“Yes, sir, one fine buck,” Latham said again. “Ain’t that right, Jessie?”
“Sho was,” she said, eyeing the juices running red.
“It’s just a rangy taste otherwise, Jessie,” Amelia said. “Now cheer up. If you eat some it isn’t going to be like you taking spirits. Inga, I declare, what a nice Christmas present to have had the head mounted.” They gazed outward to the hall where it hung. “Let me tell you,” Amelia said, “that we’ve—that you’ve—needed something out there all along. That paper I picked out was too plain.”
“I’m happy with the mounting, if Jeff likes it?” Inga said questioningly.
“I thought I made that very clear when I first saw it,” he said, putting down the carving knife. Gazing at her, he said, “Have more confidence in your gifts. They’re appropriate.”
She said, almost loudly, turning to Amelia, “I thought when you picked it out the paper was too plain. But you had to have your way.”
“I see I did,” Amelia said humbly.
“Can you take more?” Jeff asked, holding up Inga’s plate.
“I can. I think I can stand more,” Inga said, folding her hands calmly into her lap, watching him add meat to her plate.
“Very fine,” Jeff said, after eating. The others had waited for the tasting verdict from him. Only then did Jessie carry out the platter, muttering again that the meat ought to have been fried.
The day was warm and the front door stood open. Intermittently, through the afternoon, they heard firecrackers set off along the road, then the enthralle
d cries of youngsters. Cows let out outraged bellows. Trees in front of the house looked unbalanced, dark and leafless, in opposition to the solid bright sun. From her seat, Inga could see down to the pine copse, where birds nestled. The house gave off a gummy smell of pine, the tree lit, wreaths at all the windows. The others had wanted candles in them. She had said, “Too dangerous,” and had won. “You hardly ate, Jeff,” she said, solicitously. There had been these moments since he came home.
“Watching the waistline boy?” Latham said.
“You ate enough for both, and I’m bursting,” Amelia said. “But, Brother, you didn’t touch your nice cranberry salad.”
“It was my day to eat venison,” Jeff said. “I find I no longer need to eat much. Many things all taste the same.”
Warm air from the floor furnace swayed icicles on the Christmas tree, and sunshine, rebounding from the white walls, fell in shaking patterns everywhere. Jeff hardly touched his dessert, though it was homemade boiled custard, which Amelia had decorated with a cherry and tiny real leaves. She said, “Did I take over dinner in your house, Inga?”
“No. Look at the custard. So pretty. Only you could have gotten the meat done right.” Inga nodded toward the kitchen, about Jessie and the deer; after all, people with strong wills, who knew what they wanted, ought to be admired. Amelia had stuck by her when Jeff left home and now that Latham’s back hurt, and his ankle would not heal, she had to help Amelia. After dinner, they went out, not even needing coats, and drew in the day. Brittle-seeming, but tenacious and strong, the stripped muscadine clung to supports of the porch, which seemed endless and vacated, the hammock down for the winter. With a scattergun sound, firecrackers broke the far-away quality of the country stillness, the children’s voices grew remoter. “Christmas is for kids.” Amelia paused from walking off her dinner, up and down, to watch beyond the unvigilant and leafless hedges young people parking. A party was being held some distance down the road. “Still,” she said, “I love Christmas.”
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