by Anbara Salam
Isabella laughed. “Course they do. I’m adorable.” She leaped off the sill, stabbed her cigarette against the stone, and threw it out the window into the grounds. She began to brush her hair at the mirror.
I turned to smoke the last of my cigarette with my elbows propped against the sill. “I can’t believe anyone isn’t happy here,” I said. “All those girls crying over their beaus. Seems like a waste.” The evening was cool and the breeze tawny with damp earth. I heard her laughing.
“Isn’t Patricia the worst?”
I nodded, swallowing the last of the smoke as my eyes smarted. I pressed the butt onto the ashy mark left by Isabella’s cigarette on the flagstones and tossed the rest of the cigarette into the night as she had done. Although I never did such a thing in my own bedroom. I now had a special clay pot filled with sand by the window for my smoked filters.
“It’s like she finds reasons to be upset.” Isabella mimicked an interaction, playing both roles. “Patricia, would you like a stick of gum?” She held out her own hairbrush and pretended to wipe her eyes over it. “Oh, but Charles loves gum.” And she faux sobbed into the folds of her nightdress.
I laughed, not even out of duty, but because I agreed with her, and it was a relief not to have to make false cooing noises of sympathy and understanding.
I lay in my own bed that night thinking over Greta and Bobby, and Patricia and Charles, and Isabella and Ralph. I was strong-hearted and cruel in my youthful algebra of love. How foolish and wasteful to allow the joy of the academy to be eaten away with tears for a beau. Not like me, I thought. I was so modern, so independent. I didn’t miss anyone. I had everything I needed, right there at the academy.
* * *
The next evening, Katherine knocked on my door as I was dressing for dinner. I was trying to set my curls into waves, but one section insisted on kinking at the back of my head and my arms were shamefully tired from rolling the same spot over and over.
“Come in,” I said, giving up and pulling my hair into a ponytail.
Katherine stuck her face through the door. “Bridge? Do you have any bobby pins?”
I swiveled my whole body toward her, since I couldn’t turn my head without losing control of the ponytail. “Help yourself,” I said, gesturing to the plate by my mirror.
Katherine came in and scooped up a generous handful that I tried not to mind about. She sat heavily on the right-hand bed and began threading the pins together.
I watched her in the mirror, unnerved. Was she waiting for something? Was I supposed to offer to help her with her hair?
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” Katherine said, in a tone that implied she might be persuaded otherwise.
I licked my lips. “Are you sure?” I tried my best to sound relaxed. “Is there anything troubling you?”
Katherine sighed. “Not really.”
“OK,” I said. “But I’m always here if you need a friend.” Did that sound inviting enough?
Katherine threw the pins down on the bedspread and I heard a couple clatter on the tiles. “Ugh, Bridge, I’m fed up.”
I let go of the ponytail. My heart began hammering. Was I in trouble? Had I done something? Said something? I cast about for any possible infractions. At lunch, Isabella had made a joke and I’d laughed, dropping a mushy mouthful of sandwich on my sleeve. But everyone had been laughing.
“How come?” I said warily.
“Joan’s upset because I didn’t save her a seat this morning.”
“Oh.” A great wave of relief roared over my head and swallowed me up. I composed my face and nodded earnestly at her in the mirror.
“And Sibbs gets so mad when Joan gets upset. But Joan stormed off, and I had to go after her. And I didn’t mean to forget her this morning—I just forgot.”
I picked up the hairbrush again and commenced attacking my ponytail. “Sylvia only minds because she’s supposed to be your best friend,” I said. “And as for Joan, make it a point to remember tomorrow and she’ll forgive you.”
Katherine nodded seriously. “Thanks, Bridge. You’re probably right.”
I smiled at her in the mirror.
Katherine sighed and stood up. “I better brush my hair too.”
Before she reached the door, I seized my moment. “Say—do you and Sibbs want to have a picnic with me and Isabella later? I bought a bottle of that plum wine from the market.” I congratulated myself on how casual my suggestion had sounded, the sort of thing a real person might say.
“Sounds swell,” she said, absently tapping the door handle.
“Down by the spa?”
“Great!” Katherine licked her lips. “But you won’t tell Sibbs I said anything—will you?”
I turned to her. “Never.”
“It’s just, she gets real sensitive.”
“I won’t say a word. Not even to Isabella,” I said.
“Bridge, you’re a doll.” She blew me a kiss.
I evaluated myself in the mirror as she closed the door. I could make friends just fine.
Supper that evening was a buttery mushroom risotto and I ate every last mouthful and then some of Patricia’s, feeling in some odd equation that it was compensation for my failed hairdressing experiment. After supper, Isabella and I waited for Katherine and Sylvia at the side door. We sat next to each other on the step, listening to the shuddering throb of cicadas.
“Do you have a light?” said Isabella, tapping a cigarette out of her pack.
I felt my pockets and shook my head.
“Damn.” She clenched her cigarette in the corner of her mouth and stood up to rummage better through her pockets.
My belly was so full of risotto that I was annoyed by her movements, as if she needed to be still so I could concentrate on being uncomfortable. “Katherine will have a light,” I said.
“Hey, look.” Isabella kicked her leg behind her and caught me at the soft part of my arm. Over my shoulder I squinted into the dark orchard, where the red glow from the tip of a cigarette was burning.
“Hullo?” she called into the darkness, and strode off toward the smoker. I contemplated unpacking the blanket from my basket so I could sit on it instead of on the rough stone, but I could barely move.
Isabella came back toward me. “It’s the nun,” she hissed.
I stared up at her blankly.
“The nun—smoking. It’s that nun—the African one,” she said.
“You mean Sister Teresa,” I said, not understanding why Isabella was so surprised. I had often seen her and the sister with the bright blue eyes smoking before—they usually sat on the stone bench under the apple trees.
“Do you think I can ask her for a light?”
“Of course.”
Isabella hovered. “Will you come?”
Slowly, I levered myself off the step and dusted my behind. We crunched under the trees.
“Buonasera,” Isabella called out.
“Buonasera,” Sister Teresa said.
“Can I borrow your lighter?” Isabella waved her cigarette.
Sister Teresa grimaced. “Sorry,” she said. “I used up my matches, but here—” She held out her hand for Isabella’s cigarette, then put it to her lips and drew on it using the coals from her own cigarette until it smoldered. She handed it back to Isabella.
Isabella stared at it as if it had been transformed into a magician’s wand.
“Thank you, Sister,” I said, as Isabella stood there in silence. “Come on,” I said, leading Isabella by the arm. I called, “Buonanotte,” behind us. Sister Teresa gave us a bemused half wave.
“What’s up with you?” I said.
Isabella shrugged me off. “Nothing.”
As we approached the side door, I saw Katherine and Sylvia had finally arrived. Sylvia was holding my basket and looking about her.
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“There you are,” she said. “Ready?”
I nodded.
“Sorry for the holdup,” Katherine said. “My zipper got stuck. Thought Sibbs would have to cut me out!”
We walked down the path under the pine trees, and the herbal smell of resin filled the air as we crushed pine needles underfoot. Sylvia had brought a flashlight and it cast crooked shapes against the boughs. Katherine was making a “Wooo” sound, and Sylvia dropped the circle of light to the earth and swatted her.
“Maybe we’ll see the ghost,” Katherine said.
“Please don’t, Kitty. It’s creepy enough as it is!”
“What ghost?” I said.
“A blazing nun who appears in the window of the spa, and you can tell she’s about to appear from the smell of incense,” Katherine said, wiggling her fingers dramatically.
Sylvia tapped her with the flashlight. “Don’t, I swear I’ll cry.”
“Sibbs, you are such a scaredy-cat.” Katherine put her arm around her shoulders.
“We can go back to the chapel and I’ll pour some holy water in my pockets,” I said.
They both looked at me and laughed. I gulped against a sudden tightness in my throat. Was that sarcasm? I glanced at Isabella, but her face was drawn and concentrated. “Are you all right?” I said.
“Fine,” she said.
“You seem kind of quiet.”
“Christ, Briddie, give me a break for five minutes, will you?” she snapped.
My cheeks tingled. Had the others heard her speak to me that way? I searched for anything to divert attention from her jibe. “Have you two spent much time with Sister Teresa?” I called to Katherine and Sylvia.
“Who?” Sylvia wrinkled her nose.
“The speaking nun,” I said.
Katherine squinted, raising her hand to just below her shoulder. “Is she the short one?”
“That’s Sister Benedict.”
“Oh.” Sylvia smiled. “Isn’t she the one that fetches the mail?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I suppose being speaking liaison comes with all sorts of jobs. You should say hi. She’s a doll.” I cleared my throat. “Right?” I raised my voice to Isabella. “She’s a doll, right?”
Isabella shrugged.
The path ended at a rocky outcrop, and we clambered down it one by one, using well-worn grooves in the rocks carved by students over the years. The back of the abandoned spa looked quite ominous in the gloom. The south side of the building was blackened and the tiles ruffled from fire damage. Bats were swooping in and out of a cavity in the roof. Sylvia began walking so quickly she was almost jogging. Finally, we came to a wide ledge that looked out onto the bowl of the lake. It was too dark to see much, but lights blinked on the opposite shore from the litter of houses in the cove of Brancorsi, one of only two villages on the lake. The breeze blew dank and mossy across the water.
Isabella and Sylvia ran ahead to toss pebbles into the lake, straining to catch the faint plunk as they broke the water. I unpacked the blanket and laid out two paper bags of biscotti and a bottle of plum wine.
“Oh, cookies!” Sylvia said. She picked one up. “It’s stale,” she said, with such horror that Isabella laughed.
“They’re supposed to be hard,” I said. “But then that’s what the wine is for.” Isabella was looking at me. “For dipping.” My face flushed.
Isabella leaped onto the blanket. “Briddie, you’re a genius.”
My chest relaxed. She’d forgiven me for whatever I had done earlier.
Isabella seized Nancy’s penknife and, with a swift tweak, uncorked the wine. “Cheers!” She took a slug straight from the bottle and a scarlet drop rolled from the corner of her mouth and down her neck before she caught it. She passed the bottle to Sylvia. “You don’t mind, do you?” she said, in an interrogative tone. “Briddie and I don’t bother much about etiquette,” she said.
I was gratified—was that true? Were we too modern to bother with social decorum?
Sylvia smiled. “Not at all.” She accepted the bottle and took a dainty sip, then handed it to me.
The wine was sweet and thick, like cough syrup. The sugar spiraled into my brain. I wished I had thought to bring a bottle of water. We crunched the cookies and sipped the wine until our lips were stained violet.
“Such a good idea,” Katherine said, with her mouth full. “Of course Bridge is a natural host.”
A rush of joy bubbled inside me. “Hmm?”
Katherine motioned for the bottle of wine and took a deep drink. Sylvia filled in for her. “Greta told us all about your mom’s famous parties.”
“Oh.” My cheeks prickled.
“Say, where is your summerhouse?” Katherine said.
I froze.
Isabella leaned forward. “Bristol, Rhode Island.”
“Get out!” Katherine reached forward and grabbed my leg. “We have a place in Newport!”
My heart leaped under my tongue.
“Were you there this year? Did you come for the Summer Sail? Oh my God, were you there when the coast guard found Dickie Baron’s yawl?” Her grip was fierce on my leg. “It was so dramatic,” she said to Sylvia.
I shot Isabella a horrified glance. “No,” I said.
Isabella sighed. “We were dragged to this stuffy Republican Club event in St. Cyrus,” she said. “We missed all the fun.”
“It’s a silent auction,” I supplied weakly. “There was a boat.”
“Me and Briddie’s houses are practically next door to each other in Bristol,” Isabella said.
Katherine grinned. “This is such good luck! Oh, and we can go to the America’s Cup next year together! When are you going there next summer?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. I felt dizzy.
“Or”—Katherine clasped her hands—“even better, you can invite me to your famous Labor Day party.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not sure that we’re doing it next year, though.” My lip was wobbling. “My mom says it’s too much work.”
Katherine’s face fell. “Oh, too bad. Though I suppose she has Thanksgiving and Christmas to plan.”
“You can come to mine for Labor Day.” Isabella patted Katherine on the shoulder.
“What about me?” Sylvia said mournfully.
“You too, darling.” Isabella reached over and pinched her cheek.
Sylvia smiled. “Quite right. So anyway, if you three are all done with your New England association”—she hoisted her bag onto her lap and pulled out a miniature red book with gold-edged pages—“I thought we could have a poetry recital.”
“But we’re not supposed to take the red-bound ones out of the library, are we?” I said.
Sylvia shot me a quizzical look.
“I mean, not that it matters,” I added.
Isabella groaned. “Poetry? Sibbs, honestly, I didn’t take you for one of those. Tell you what. I’ll give you a recital myself.” She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and in a suitably theatrical voice yelled, “Candy is dandy, but—” until we shushed her.
“Trust me.” Sylvia opened the pages onto a bookmark fashioned from cigarette foil. “You’ll enjoy this. It’s from our patron saint herself.” She cleared her throat. “My beloved approaches me like a thief in the night. In the hours of darkness, my love lies beside me, his golden shaft a ray of sun that pierces my body, filling me with—”
Isabella and Katherine were howling with laughter and Sylvia caught the giggles from them so bad she had to stop reading.
“It doesn’t say that—” Isabella grabbed the book from Sylvia’s hand, wiping her eyes. She gestured for the flashlight and squinted at the page. “I can’t believe it! Good for old lady Pentila.” Isabella rose to her knees. “Filling me with waves of light. He is my beloved, and as his consuming love fills me”—sh
e began wheezing with laughter—“I quicken with growing anticipation—”
While the other three moaned with laughter, coughing and dabbing their eyes, I fixed a sort of incredulous expression on my face, as if I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Isabella broke off to take a deep swig from the bottle. Sylvia clutched my knee.
“Oh, poor Bridge—look at your face,” she shrieked. “Oh, Bridge, you’re so disapproving—don’t be disappointed in us.”
I shook my head, figuring that “disapproving” was better than admitting I didn’t follow their joke.
“Don’t be mad,” Sylvia said, holding her hand out for the book. “We have to have some fun here with no boys.” Katherine passed her the wine and Sylvia wiped the rim of the bottle before taking an unsteady sip.
“If you say so,” I said, hoping it sounded like a tease.
“Speaking of boys, have I told you Patrick sent me the most darling letter?” Sylvia said dreamily. She began talking about Patrick’s job and how he had flown in an airplane on two separate occasions. Katherine was unattached, but her sister was a volunteer nurse with a VA hospital and had just married a neurologist from Rhode Island.
“I miss her, though, now she lives in Providence,” Katherine said with a sigh. “Her room is empty and it’s terrible to look at. Me and Mom just start blubbering whenever we go in there.”
Sylvia reached over and took her hand. “You should make a special date, once a month, just for the two of you. Me and Bonnie make it a point to go to the stables every third Saturday. That way we get a whole day of sister time.”
Katherine took a sip from the bottle and turned to me. “How about you, Bridge?”
I was watching a brown moth flutter around the mouth of the flashlight. “How about me, what?”
“Anything! Everything. Sisters. Brothers. Do you have a beau? Some lacrosse player crying for you into his supper club at Yale?”
I blushed. “No.”
Sylvia shook a cigarette from her pack. “And are your siblings married?” She broke off. “Gee, Bridge—do you even have siblings? Or are you an only child like Bella?”
They watched me, poised with polite inquisitiveness.
