“She doesn't strike me as the ignorable type."
“My dear, I have ignored heads of state when it was prudent," Cecily said with a smile. "What else have we here? Who's this on the pink paper?" -
"Are you really going to take this class?" Jane asked Shelley later in the afternoon. She'd run over to Shelley's to borrow some milk. They were sitting at the table in Shelley's always immaculate kitchen. That was one of the great mysteries about Shelley. Her house was always spotless, but Jane had never actually caught her cleaning. When did she do it all? Jane often wondered.
“Yes, I think I will. I've dragged down the box of photo albums and letters, and I've been sorting through it. That's what that stuff on the sofa is," she said, gesturing toward the family room. "What's all that you've got?"
“It's my copy of the class materials. I've already read all of it except Mrs. Pryce's, which I don't intend to read. Mom's working on her copies now, and you can have mine."
“Are you enjoying having your mom here?"
“Sure. She's got a real talent for visiting people. She's really no trouble at all. You know how some people are—my mother-in-law's a perfect example. They'll say, 'I won't put you out a bit, but I don't eat any meat or dairy products or bleached flour, and MSG gives me hives, and do you have the receipt for that blue dress I bought you in 1963?' “
Shelley laughed. "Thelma's not that bad, is she?"
“She would be, if she thought of it. But Mom's not like that at all. She settles right in, does her share of the work without any fuss, and will eat absolutely anything. She does her own laundry without even asking how the machine works or where the soap lives and can unload the dishwasher and get everything back in its proper place. I don't know if she got that way under the pressure of living all over the world or whether it's the other way round. That she was naturally suited to be a gypsy and saw in my father a man who would let her be."
“Do I detect a sour note?"
“Oh, just the usual, I guess. It was a weird childhood, never having a home or friends for more than a year before uprooting all over again."
“But you've got a home of your own now." "And they'll have to take me out of it on a gurney!" Jane said, getting up from the table.
“Stay a minute and tell me about these chapters. I don't think I can get them all read by this evening."
“Sorry. Can't stay. I've started a fake autobiography I want to type up.""A fake autobiography?"
“Yes, I'm really having fun. Her name is Priscilla. She was born in 1773 and she has a very mysterious past—"
“Jane! Let me read it!"
“Not now. Not until I mess around with it a little more," Jane said. She was sorry she'd mentioned the project now that she realized Shelley would want to see it. It was still too tentative and fragile for even a best friend's eyes. "I've really got to go. I've got to get dinner ready. Uncle Jim's coming over to see Mom."
“And you—"
“Yeah, but Mom's the main attraction. By the way, I suggest you skip Mrs. General's book. Mom glanced through it, and it nearly made her crazy.”
Jim Spelling was a former army officer who'd been friends of the Grants since before Jane was born. Retired from the service now, he'd joined the Chicago police department as a detective. An honorary "uncle" to Jane, he'd kept in touch with her over the years and had been a regular visitor since Jane's husband died and year and a half earlier. Uncle Jim was one of the few people outside the family who knew the truth about where Steve was going when he was killed. Everyone had been told it was a "business trip" when, in truth, he'd left Jane for another woman that very night and was on his way to her when his car skidded on the ice and hit a guardrail. For Jane it was a double loss, but the anger had helped assuage the grief somewhat.
Jim Spelling and Cecily Grant, as always when they got together, kept up an amusing stream of chat‑ ter about various adventures when their colorful lives had crossed.
“Remember the time they served sheep's eyes and you had to swallow them whole because you couldn't stand to bite into them?" Cecily said to Jim. "I'll never forget the look on your face."
“And the time in Russia when you went out to inspect a farm in that roly-poly snowsuit and you fell down and couldn't get up and brought three other people down who were trying to help you," Jim countered.
“Mom, I hope you're going to write all these down," Jane said, starting to clear the table. "Are you writing a book?" Jim asked.
“Jane and I are taking a short class on writing autobiographies," Cecily explained. She glanced at her watch. "And we better get going or we'll be late for the first one."
“I'll stick around here and wait for Katie to come home," Jim said. "Then maybe we can talk some more when you get back. Janie, where are those tools I gave you for Christmas?"
“On the basement steps. Why?"
“I saw you fighting the garage door. Thought I'd look it over while you're gone."
“Uncle Jim, you're a guest. You don't have to fix things."
“But it's not going all the way up."
“That's all right," Jane said. "I'm thinking about teaching my station wagon to limbo."
“Jim, do you remember General Pryce?" Cecily asked. She was rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher.
“Pryce? Pryce? Oh, yes! The old bastard with the battle-ax wife.""The battle-ax is in our class," Cecily said. "Knowing that, you're going? You've got a higher capacity for self-torture than I have. I wouldn't get within ten miles of that woman. She's dangerous." "Dangerous?" Jane asked.
“Yeah, that kind of wicked person drives people over the brink and makes them do things they shouldn't. Evil is contagious, you know.”
4
The class was to meet in the basement of the city hall, which was an overly cute Tudor-style building adjoining the mall. It had been built only three years earlier, and there had been the usual public carping about the expense and style. Its critics said it looked like a Disneyland city hall, needing only a dwarf at the entrance. Its defenders claimed it had dignity and grace. To Jane, it was just a building she visited annually to get Willard his dog tags. The ground floor was a warren of little closet-sized offices for the mayor and the public works people. The basement housed the traffic court, which was, tonight, doing double duty as a classroom. Jane, Shelley, and Cecily made their way down the rather steep steps with a sense of happy anticipation, which was obliterated when they entered the room.
Jane had never actually seen Mrs. General Pryce. Only heard about her distasteful exploits. But she recognized her instantly. Not so much a big woman as an impressively built one, Mrs. Pryce had a pouter pigeon figure—skinny legs, reasonable hips, but an enormous bosom. She was so thoroughly corseted that she looked as if a person could bounce a handball off her—if that person had no sense of self-preservation. Pryce had a face like a bulldog; the same prominent, determined jaw and protuberanteyes, the whole unattractive visage surrounded by an elaborate array of tight purple curls. She was, naturally enough, sitting front row center of the makeshift classroom. She must have gotten there a good quarter hour early to assure herself of this position. Poor Missy, Jane thought.
Jane's mother took a deep breath and approached the older woman. "Mrs. Pryce? I'm Cecily Grant. Mrs. Michael Grant. We met in Portugal some years ago. My daughter, Jane Jeffry, is your neighbor.”
Mrs. Pryce glanced up. "I don't remember you, young woman," she said bluntly.
Cecily didn't falter. "Possibly not, but I remember you. My husband was posted to the embassy." "There are always hangers-on around embassies." Cecily paused. "My thought exactly."
“What is that supposed to mean?"
“Merely that I agree with you," Cecily said smoothly, and took her departure before Mrs. Pryce could get in another insult. Cecily sat down by Jane and whispered, "I guess I should count myself lucky. I got called 'young woman.' "
“Why didn't you deck the old bitch?" Shelley asked as if genuinely curious.
“Sometimes age is the best revenge," Cecily replied. "She can't possibly last as long as I can." She was speaking just loud enough that Mrs. Pryce might have heard her.
Jane wasn't paying much attention, because it had just occurred to her that her fictional person could have a long-lost identical twin. Her mind was racing along with the idea. What if she met a man who'd known the twin....
A tall man came in the classroom. He started toward the front of the room, saw Mrs. Pryce, stopped, and sat at the far end of the second row of chairs. He was lean, with painfully short hair and a stiff bearing. Jane recognized him as Bob Neufield.
He was followed by two middle-aged women. They were obviously sisters, both very feminine, blue-eyed and delicate-featured. One was painfully thin and rather ill looking, and the other prettily plump and quite tan, wearing a flowered dress with far too many ruffles for a woman her age. This sister, the fit one, was Ruth Rogers, the heroine of the swimming pool incident. She nodded at Jane's group and went to speak to Bob Neufield. She exchanged a few pleasant words about some cartons Bob had offered to take someplace. Then she came over to say hello to Jane and Shelley. Her sister, a frail, tired-looking woman, had inadvisedly taken a seat in the front row next to Mrs. Pryce.
“You must come over for tea," Ruth was saying to Cecily Grant after they'd been introduced. "The garden's at its best, and I'd love to show it off. We're just on the corner of Jane's block."
“Oh, I noticed your house when I got here," Cecily said. "Those are alstroemerias around the front porch, aren't they? I've never seen them actually growing—only in florists' shops."
“How nice of you to notice. I've had a terrible time starting them. This year is my third try. They're sunk in pots, of course. They can't winter here—" She broke off, turning to see what was going on in the front row.
Mrs. Pryce was talking loudly to Ruth's sister, Naomi. "Naomi Smith? You're the one with cancer, aren't you?”
Naomi, pale as eggshells, said, "What? No—I don ' t—"
“Just the same, would you mind sitting someplace else?”
Jane heard Shelley's hiss. "That's unforgivable!" Cecily Grant exclaimed under her breath.
Ruth Rogers, ruffles quivering with outrage, had practically leaped the row of chairs to get to her sister's side. "Mrs. Pryce, my sister has a rare blood disorder. Not that it's any of your business. It isn't contagious, and you owe her—all of us—an apology.”
Naomi Smith had picked up her purse and folders and had moved away. "Ruth, please—"
“I don't apologize," Mrs. Pryce pronounced. "Ever."
“Then it's a wonder you've lived as long as you have!" Ruth said. She went to sit where her sister had taken a place. "Do you want to leave?" she asked quietly.
Naomi Smith was shaken, but smiled weakly. "No, Ruth. We can't let that kind of person drive us away from something we want to do."
“Darlings! Are we all ready to be literary?" a voice trilled from the doorway. Desiree Loftus entered with her usual flourish. She was trailing scarves and an exotic scent that Jane thought smelled like a mixture of marijuana and ylang-ylang. "Ruth and Naomi—the biblical sisters!" she said, rushing over to greet them. "No, don't tell me again. I know that Ruth and Naomi weren't sisters, but you are. I've been meaning to tell you how delightful the naked ladies looked all over your lawn last fall.”
Jane thought Desiree had finally gone over the edge. She looked at Shelley with alarm.
Shelley giggled and whispered, "Naked ladies are those pink lilylike flowers that come up in the late summer. You know, the ones that don't have any foliage.”
Jane sighed. "I'm so relieved. I was picturing unclad virgins artfully strewn all over the corner lot and wondering how I could have missed it.”
Desiree, courageous as ever, called across the room to Mrs. Pryce, "My dear! Such a bad color for you—blue. You have a red aura, you know."
“Utter nonsense!" Mrs. Pryce exclaimed.
“No, not at all. I'm very tuned in to these things." "You're drunk! As usual!”
Desiree glared at her for a moment, then laughed shrilly. "Drunk on the joy of life, perhaps," she replied before turning her attention to the man at the edge of the room. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Desiree Loftus."
“How do you do. I'm Robert Neufield. My friends call me Bob."
“Oh, I do hope I'm going to be among them, Bob." She gave him a dazzling smile and turned to survey the room for other conversational victims. "Jane! Shelley! And who are you? No, don't tell me. You must be a relative of Jane's. It's the eyebrows. They tell everything! People don't pay nearly enough attention to eyebrows these days.”
As the introductions were going on, Jane heard Grady Wells's characteristic hearty laughter in the hallway. He came in the room with Missy, who was smiling—until her eye fell on Mrs. Pryce ensconced center front. Grady, chunky and florid-faced, took a seat by Bob Neufield, and Missy went to her desk and started sorting out her notes.
Jane slipped out of her seat and went to have a word with Missy. "I'm cheating. I made up a person," she said, furtively sliding an envelope onto thedesk. "Just for fun. Not for the class." She was surprised and embarrassed to realize her heart was pounding at her own audacity. She almost snatched the envelope back.
“What a great idea, Jane. I won't pass it out to the others if you don't want me to."
“Oh, no. Please don't. I'm terrified to even show it to you.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Pryce bellowing at Grady. "I'm surprised you'd have the nerve to show up here.”
Grady smiled at her as if she were a grand joke. "I don't know why that would be."
“After the way you've neglected your civic duties."
“Mrs. Pryce," he said patiently, "I'm not here as mayor. Bring your concerns to the council meeting if you must."
“Oh, yes! To your paid toadies!"
“Mrs. Pryce, the council isn't paid anything. And I only get a hundred dollars a year. That's about a nickel an hour for my time." His patience was obviously wearing thin, but he still looked cheerful. Grady always looked cheerful.
“That may be your salary, but I have good reason to think you make a good deal more.”
All the amusement had faded from Grady's face. "What are you talking about?"
“Let's not mince words. Embezzlement. That's what I'm talking about."
“Embezzlement?" Grady's always pink face had grown alarmingly red.
“Yes. We all pay a hefty amount in taxes, but there never seems to be any money for necessary pro‑ grams. I believe that large sums of money are missing."
“Mrs. Pryce, I invite you to look over the city's financial statement any time you want. In fact, I insist on it. I'll have our treasurer explain it all to you. But I warn you—if there's any more of this loose talk, I'll have to discuss you with the city's attorney. This is slander and could damage a number of reputations. I won't have it.”
Missy cleared her throat loudly. "I believe we had better begin our class.”
Jane scuttled back to her place between her mother and Shelley and sat down, shaking her head in disgust.
“Do you think she's gone gaga?" Shelley whispered.
“God! Can you imagine saying a thing like that to Grady?”
Missy glanced at them, silently ordering them to be quiet. "Now, we're all here to learn to write an autobiography—"
“Some of us already know how," Mrs. Pryce said.
Missy ignored her. "I'll be giving you a lot of instructions—rules, if you wish—but I want to make a disclaimer right now. Rules are, as trite as it may be, made to be broken. But the secret to any good writing is in breaking the rules selectively. I believe—"
“Why are you teaching this class?" Mrs. Pryce interrupted.
“Because I want to," Missy snapped back.
“I hardly think you're a suitable teacher. A woman who writes those dirty books.”
Missy drew herself up and looked dangerouslycomposed. "Have you ever
read one of my books, Mrs. Pryce?"
“I wouldn't demean myself."
“Then you have no right to comment on their content, quality, or morality. I'm sorry to say this, Mrs. Pryce, but if you can't keep quiet until you're called on, I'll have to ask you to drop out of this class."
“I've paid my money and I'll stay as long as I wish. That is my right as a citizen." She turned and looked around smugly, as if daring any of them to dispute this.
“Now see here—" Missy began, then caught herself. She looked down at her notes, took a long breath, and went on with her lecture. "The first thing you must determine is the purpose your autobiography is to serve. There are many reasons for writing one, some therapeutic, some instructional....”
Jane was making notes. Why is Priscilla writing this autobiography? To explain herself to her descendants? To clear her conscience? To plead her cause in the eyes of the world? Or to prove a point to the woman she believed to be her mother for so many years? For a little while she was able to put aside the suffocating tensions in the room. Mrs. Pryce didn't exist in Priscilla's world, nor did any of Mrs. Pryce's victims.
5
“So how did it go?" Jim Spelling asked Jane, Cecily, and Shelley as they trooped in the door. He was at the kitchen sink washing grease off his hands.
“Not bad—" Jane said, preoccupied.
“Not bad?" her mother and Shelley said in unison. "Jane! Have you gone mad?" Shelley finished. "What?"
“Earth to Jane. Do I need to get the jumper cables?”
Jane laughed. "I'm sorry. I was thinking about something else. The class was ghastly, at least Mrs. Pryce was. Is Katie home, Uncle Jim?"
“She came and went."
“She's not supposed to go anywhere."
“Just next door to look at somebody's hair. Why anybody'd walk five feet to look at hair is a mystery to me.”
Shelley was getting out coffee cups. "It's my daughter's, and it is worth gawking at. She looks like somebody went at her head with a lawn mower."
“I've been thinking about it, and I believe Agnes Pryce is insane," Cecily said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "I remembered her as being overbearing and insensitive, but nothing like that performance tonight. Maybe it's a particularly nasty form of senility.”
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