by Anbara Salam
Isabella sat up and twirled her hair around her wrist before letting it fall. “His trust is all tied up ’til he’s twenty-one, so, you know.”
I nodded, although I didn’t really know. The important thing was that he wasn’t trying to claim her. I saw Ralph and Sophie falling aside like two bowling pins. “You should probably take this.” I handed over the bracelet.
Isabella let out a breath. “Briddie, you’re my champion.” She thrust her wrist toward me, and when I stared at it, she shook her arm. “Help, please.”
I focused so hard on clipping her bracelet that I grew light-headed.
“My parents woulda given me the lecture of a lifetime if I lost this again,” Isabella said, waving her wrist so the charms clacked together. With a bounce, she leaped off the bed and opened my closet. She flicked through my dresses in such a perfunctory way, I knew she wasn’t admiring them.
“How did yours meet?” she said. I was concentrating so closely on the shuffle of my darned cardigans that I didn’t catch her meaning. “Your parents.”
“Oh.” There was a tightening in my throat. I could feel the conversation brewing before us. “The war,” I said eventually. Although that wasn’t strictly true. Or true in any part.
“Neato.” Isabella pulled out my straw boater and admired herself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. “Was your dad in the army?”
“No.” I pretended to adjust a plastic tray on my dresser. “He was working. In England.”
“That’s so cool.” Isabella took off the hat and put it on the wrong hook. “I wish my parents had a cool story of how they met. Something romantic. But they knew each other their whole life. It was practically an arranged marriage.”
I made a noncommittal noise.
“And it wasn’t a big deal? Her being from Arabia and all?”
Woodenly, I repeated the phrase Dad had made us practice. “My parents were married legally in the United Kingdom and my mom’s naturalization was approved in 1947,” I said.
Isabella rolled her eyes. “I knew that,” she said.
I didn’t think she really did know that.
“I mean, didn’t your dad’s parents throw an absolute fit?”
“Not really. Granny—my grandmother—she likes my mom. I guess it wasn’t a big deal.”
“That’s neato,” she said again. “My grandmom is an old bat.” Isabella turned around and caught sight of Dubs, my stuffed bear, on the shelf above my bed. She picked him up with a swoop. “And who’s this?”
I winced. Why hadn’t I thought to hide him? “Some toy.”
“Yes, but aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Just then, Mama knocked on the floor with the broom. Isabella turned to me, her eyebrows high on her face.
“That means it’s suppertime.”
Isabella laughed, tossing Dubs on the bed. I laughed too, though it had never struck me as funny before.
I swallowed. “Will you stay for dinner?” I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted her to stay for dinner. Things were going so well, it seemed like gambling to ask for more. “You don’t have to, I mean, maybe you have—”
“No, I’d love to stay,” Isabella said, picking up Treasures of Italy again.
My heart bopped in my chest. “You don’t need to ask your mom?”
“She’s still at the club.”
I ran downstairs, two steps at a time. “Mama, I have my friend here can she stay for dinner?” I said breathlessly, bursting into the kitchen.
Mama was sailing between the fridge and the oven, a half smile on her face. I evaluated her through Isabella’s eyes. Her apron was clean; her navy blouse was conservative, unobjectionable. Though she never wore mascara, her eyelashes were enviably dark. She would pass, I decided. Through the door into the backyard I could see the back of Dad’s head on a lawn chair, where they had evidently been sitting for some time, since the ashtray was full.
“Of course, Budgie. I’ll just set an extra place.”
“Her name’s Isabella.”
“OK, Budgie. Sounds great.” Mama opened the oven door. “Go get your sister.”
I ran back up the stairs. “Mom says it’s OK,” I yelled to Isabella, who nodded behind Treasures of Italy. I stuck my head through into Rhona’s room. It was thick with a sort of nap-time stuffiness. “Supper, Rhony.”
She sat up groggily from her bed. “Is someone here?”
“Yes, my friend Isabella,” I said.
“Sophie’s friend?” Rhona said, rubbing her face.
I shrugged.
“I’ll be down in a minute.” She reached for a sweater on her ottoman.
“Your hair is all messed up from the pillow,” I said, unable to help myself.
Rhona’s face appeared through the neck hole in her sweater and she shot me a frigid look. “Don’t worry. Her Majesty won’t be inconvenienced by my uncombed hair.”
“Thank you.” I tried to apologize with an extra-wide smile. Still, I left before she stood up, so I didn’t have to see the knobs of her spine moving through her sweater. Something about Rhona’s back always made me feel kind of odd. Like she was really a fish and that was her fin.
Mama had made lasagna. It was the special way I liked it, with bread crumbs on the top to make it extra crispy. Isabella sat next to me and the table jiggled every time she kicked the leg, although thankfully Dad didn’t tell her to stop.
While we waited for Rhona to come downstairs, Mama set out her saucer of carrots and another of buttered bread. “Rhony is on a special diet,” she said to Isabella with a deliberate breeziness.
I held my breath, staring down at the tablecloth.
But Isabella just nodded. “Sure.”
Rhona came to take her usual place opposite me, and as promised, her hair was combed and pinned back with a green bow.
“Your hair looks lovely, darling,” said Mama. “How lovely you all look.”
Rhona gave Mama a stiff smile. “Hi,” she said to Isabella; then, sitting down, she flipped the bread over to check it hadn’t been buttered on both sides. When Mama went to refill my milk glass, I watched as Rhona scraped a thin layer of butter off the slice with her knife and wiped it into the napkin. She caught me watching and let her knife fall on the side. I didn’t say anything.
As we ate, Dad lectured us about the dangers of fireworks even though nobody asked. Then we got onto lightning, and then he told us about a storm from when he was a boy and how the hailstones were as big as eggs. Isabella said she’d once read about a storm in Hawaii that sucked up a bunch of frogs, carried them over to another side of the island, and rained them down again.
“Raining cats and frogs, eh?” Dad said, overloudly, to Rhona.
Rhona gave him a blank smile and crunched another small mouthful of carrot. She took a gulp of water, and I could see the movement of the water through her throat as she swallowed. I turned my attention back to my lasagna, hoovering it up at great speed.
“Would you like some more lasagna, Isabella?” Mama said.
Isabella shook her head. “Thanks, Mrs. Ryan, but I’m full to burst.”
“More for you, Budgie?”
Everyone else had put down their forks. “Yes, please, Mama,” I said.
“Young ladies,” Dad said, standing up and tipping an imaginary hat to us. He went into the kitchen and I heard the rustle as he picked up a newspaper.
“Is it true you have a private tutor?” Isabella said to Rhona. A jolt of panic rattled through my eardrums. I definitely had never told her that.
“Yes,” Rhona said icily. “Is it true you have a horse?”
“Yes,” Isabella said.
“But she doesn’t ride it,” I added, although that made it worse.
“Pebbles. He’s more like a big gerbil,” Isabella said, kicking the table leg again. “Str
ictly for petting.”
“Rather an extravagant kind of gerbil,” Rhona said.
“Yeah. And I also had a private tutor, so I guess I win the brat contest,” Isabella said with an audacious smile.
Rhona shot me a look that was a blend of question mark and amusement.
Mama came back and put down my plate with an extra square of lasagna on it. She kissed me on the top of my head, and I tried my best not to squirm away.
Isabella leaned over and grabbed hold of my wrist, pulling my watch toward her. “Say, I should probably jet off. Sorry, Mrs. Ryan.” She looked at me. “I’m supposed to meet Ralph.”
“Oh.”
I walked her to the front door, handing back her shoes, her coat. My face was throbbing. Of course she wasn’t going to stay and hang out with me. Of course she was rushing off to see Ralph. If I hadn’t had her bracelet, she would never even have come. And now she was leaving. Leaving for the whole summer. Next year I’d have to go back to staring at her from behind during class, hoping that the force of my interest alone would be enough to charm her. Like being watched by a sentient potato.
“Are you coming to Sophie’s birthday next Saturday?” Isabella adjusted the cuffs on Ralph’s jacket.
I swallowed. “I don’t know.” But I did know, as I hadn’t even been invited.
Isabella frowned at me. “You have to come.”
“Maybe.” I tried to look indecisive.
She flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I insist,” she said. “I’ll remind her to remind you.”
“You will?” A gate swung open in a meadow, a staircase appeared in the chute of a waterfall, a woman in a scarlet dress reached into the audience and ushered me onstage.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “Don’t think any more of it.”
3.
July
It began raining on the way to the LeBarons’ house, and Mama was driving so slowly I even saw the mailman pass us by. She was wearing the wide-brimmed hat normally reserved for Mass, and a blue neckerchief. I inspected her out of my peripheral vision, suspicious about how much she had fixed herself up just to give me a ride. But it wasn’t every day we got to drive up to the door of the LeBaron mansion, so I appreciated her need for preparedness.
We drove past the iron gates at the front of their property and down a long, straight gravel driveway. Mama pulled up on the left of the house. White roses bloomed over the doorway and a silver balloon tied to the front porch bounced under the raindrops, reflecting lozenges of light into the car.
Mama snapped opened her purse, took out her compact mirror, and reapplied her lipstick. I realized then she was going to come in with me and tried to climb out of the car as quickly as possible.
“Bye, Mama,” I said, gathering Sophie’s gift from under my seat.
“One second, Budgie.” She rubbed her index finger over the front of her teeth.
But I had already slammed the door. “I don’t think there are many grown-ups there, Mama,” I said through the window.
“Sweetheart, it’s rude if I don’t thank her for inviting you.”
I cursed myself for not expecting this—Rhona was usually so good at predicting when we would have to discreetly detach ourselves from Mama in advance.
“OK,” I called over my shoulder, taking long steps toward the front door. If I put as much distance as possible between us, maybe it wouldn’t seem like we were there together. I heard Mama’s car door slamming behind me as I reached the porch. The door was propped open and a white ribbon was tied around the knocker. I paused and took a breath. I pictured myself on horseback, charging across a drawbridge and into a watchtower. The fortress that would unlock Isabella.
The front hallway was decorated in fern green wallpaper, and something about the dim light and the smell of wood polish lent it the worn grandeur of a museum. A huge oak staircase on the right disappeared off onto a second landing. Loitering at the base of the staircase, I looked over a narrow table boasting photos of Sophie in various stages of childhood dorkery—milk-toothed on horseback, diapered and gripping the threadbare ears of an ornamental tiger-skin rug. A door on my left opened and I caught the smell of broiled salmon.
“Afternoon, miss.” An older black lady wearing an apron approached me. “Can I take that for you?” She gestured to the gift.
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at her. “It’s from Bridget,” I added.
“Oh yes, there’s the card.” She smiled appreciatively at my drawing of a birthday cake. I had copied it from one of Mama’s cookbooks. It was supposed to be a wedding cake, but I didn’t think Sophie would mind having her birthday treats promoted.
“Would you like some ice tea?” she said. Before I could answer, Mama came behind me and rested her hand on my shoulder. Suddenly glad she was with me, I nodded at the maid.
“Thank you,” I said.
I saw her look from Mama to me. “Mrs. LeBaron and the other ladies are in the garden.”
We walked in single file down the corridor, past four or five doorways. On the right, an open door revealed a cavernous wood-paneled room with a real glass chandelier. I craned my head, hoping for a glimpse of the famous carpet.
“Don’t dawdle, Budgie,” Mama said, pressing me forward.
We came into a large kitchen with a stainless steel refrigerator and marble countertops. I touched them in case they were painted Formica, but the surface was cool under my palms. On the right was a winding staircase leading down, and I tried to peer into the gloom in case the LeBaron basement was superior in some way I’d never thought basements could be.
Through the back door I could see ladies in pastel day dresses milling around beside a kidney-shaped pool. There was a banner hanging from one side of the garden to the other: SOPHIE’S SWEET SEVENTEEN. I stepped out, searching among the crepe de chine for Isabella. The garden was the size of a hockey field, lined with urns of purple heliotrope. At the back was an imitation Greek pool house, where mothers I recognized from the clothing drives and charity fairs at school were sheltering under the awning, smoking and patting hairdos fluffy with drizzle. It was easy to spot Mrs. LeBaron. She was wearing a peach silk dress stained with raindrops, giving instructions to three young men in dinner jackets wrestling with a patio umbrella.
There weren’t any girls from school in the garden, and I had an irrational moment of panic that I might have come on the wrong day. Mrs. LeBaron stared at me a moment, then waved me toward her. Her fingernails were painted with dark lacquer.
“Bridget, honey, how nice,” she said, kissing the air around my head. A heavy gold ring clinked against her champagne flute.
“Thank you for having me,” I said.
A raindrop fell into the bowl of Mrs. LeBaron’s glass and she frowned up at the darkening clouds. A strong, sweet gust of wet grass and warm clay rose from the earth. “Why don’t you go upstairs and see the girls? Sophie will take her time getting ready.”
“My mother is here,” I said, glancing behind me at Mama, who was lingering in the kitchen, admiring, or pretending to admire, a refrigerator magnet in the shape of a banana.
“We can take care of your momma,” she said. “Why don’t you go on and join the girls upstairs?”
I gestured for Mama to step into the garden, and she followed, wobbling as her heels sank into the grass. “Bye,” I said, hurrying past her, deliberately not looking behind me. I didn’t want to watch Mama try to make conversation. I didn’t want to spark that feeling I got sometimes, watching her try. It was a queasy and pitiful feeling, like finding a drowned butterfly in a baby pool. I started up the oak staircase, following the sound of chatter to the first landing and toward a room on the right. I passed an oil portrait of Mrs. LeBaron, chinoiserie vases filled with white roses, a taxidermied bear cub holding an ashtray. Softly, I knocked on Sophie’s door, then poked my head around. The room was large, with canary
yellow wallpaper. Isabella was hunched over on a window seat, wearing a mint green dress with a sweetheart collar, the tan lines from her bathing suit pale against her neck. Sophie was in peach silk, like her mother. She was curling her eyelashes with concentration at a Perspex vanity. The twins, Alison and Meredith Graham, were in sky blue tulle, kneeling on a sheepskin rug, and Alison was brushing Meredith’s hair. I surveyed the room for chandeliers, seams in the carpet that indicated it might be rolled back. Sophie’s bedspread was decked in ruffles, and in pride of place in the center, I was relieved to see a teddy bear with a red heart patched onto its stomach. On the walls were mawkish illustrations of rosy-cheeked girls skiing somewhere wholesome, perhaps Canada. The air in the room was dry and cool, and it took a moment before I realized that the machine in the window ruffling Isabella’s dress was an electric air-conditioning unit.
“Hello,” I said from the doorway.
Eleanor looked up at me. Her dress was so close to the shade of the wallpaper that I hadn’t registered her. She sat cross-legged on the floor with a book spread out on her knee. Rookie, I thought. Even I knew better than to bring a book to a party.
“Bridget’s here, at last!” Eleanor shouted, as if they had all been waiting for me. I could have hugged her then, book or no book.
Sophie gave me a smile in the mirror. “Welcome.” As I went over, she planted a kiss on my cheek.
“Happy birthday!” I said.
“Thanks.” Sophie tossed her hand as if birthdays were nothing but a tiresome facade.
There was a moment of silence while everyone surveyed my outfit. I smoothed down my dress with my palms. Rhona had generously called it “dove,” although it was apparent now that it was closer to pigeon.
“Briddie.” Isabella patted the window seat, and I obeyed. She was breathing on the window and doodling in the steam. “You’re late,” she said, with the hint of a pout.
“Sorry,” I said.
Alison and Meredith abandoned their hairdressing and joined Sophie at the mirror, licking their fingers and smudging down their eyebrows. I saw then they were all carrying velvet cases heavy with lipstick and rouge. Eleanor joined the girls at the back and began fixing her earrings. My cheeks grew hot. I hadn’t known to arrive in a state of strategic undress.
