The moment her mother sat back, Cecile said, “The boys’ hands will be all sweaty.”
“What has gotten into you?” her mother asked, fluttering her eyes at herself in the mirror. “You act as if you’ve never been to a dance before. It’ll be fun.”
“It’ll be more than fun. It’ll be fantastic. Why do you think we’ve been taking dance lessons all these years?” Natalie jumped up and started waltzing around the room with her arms held out as if for a partner. “One, two, three…one, two, three…oh, you’re so marvelous!” she drawled, throwing back her head to smile up into the face of an imaginary boy. “You’re the funniest boy I’ve ever met!”
“No one says marvelous except in movies,” Cecile grumbled. “Boys will think you’re crazy.”
But Natalie was above her, floating on an air of romance with a boy so real, Cecile could almost see him. He would have his hand planted possessively in the middle of Natalie’s back. His eyes would be staring down into hers. Natalie could say anything she wanted. No boy would willingly let her go.
“Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous!” Natalie chanted.
“That’s it.” Cecile sat up and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling as grouchy as if she were five. “If that’s the way we’re supposed to talk, I’m not going.”
“You can talk any way you like. Talk in pig Latin, if that’s how you feel,” her mother said. She twisted her tube of lipstick, making a glossy stick of bright scarlet rise up. “When I was a little older than Natalie,” she said, deftly painting first one half of her lower lip and then the other before she went on, “I went to dances at West Point all the time. Sometimes two or three in the same weekend.”
“Did you really?” Natalie dropped back down beside her mother, breathless and deadly serious. “Your mother let you?”
“For one thing, I was sixteen. For another, she had a fit.” Their mother blotted her lips on a folded piece of Kleenex. “The day after a photograph of me wearing a strapless dress appeared in the newspaper, my mother sent me off to a girl’s Catholic boarding school. I’ve told you that story.”
“I know you have. I love it.” Natalie had picked up her mother’s hairbrush and was running it slowly through her own hair. “Do you think the Cahoons will be invited?” she asked casually.
“You mean William Cahoon,” Cecile said.
Natalie shot her a withering look.
“Granddad arranged a guest membership for them while they’re on the Island. I suppose they will.”
The heavy brass knocker on the front door rapped loudly. King’s voice called out.
“Good heavens, look at the time,” Mrs. Thompson said. She got up and went over to her closet. “Natalie, run and tell King I’ll be ten minutes. He can fix himself a drink while he waits.”
Cecile wandered over to the dressing table and ran her hand lightly over the tubes and jars. There was the expensive lotion she’d used. She opened the lid of her mother’s jewelry box and looked at the jumble of necklaces and earrings as carelessly intertwined as the lures in Jack’s tackle box. Pulling the stopper from a bottle of perfume, she dabbed the stopper behind each ear and put it back. Her mother was making little noises to herself. Cecile heard the repeated thud of shoes as she picked up a pair and discarded it, wrong for whatever dress she was wearing.
“Does Dad know you’re going out with King?” Cecile called.
“I’d hardly call it going out with him.” Her mother came out of the closet with a yellow linen dress draped over one arm and lay it on her bed. “King and I were practically in diapers together. As you well know,” she said. She slipped her robe off her shoulders and let it slide down her body; it pooled like a silk puddle around her feet. Against the whiteness of her slip, with its delicate lace bodice, her dark hair looked almost black.
“You’re getting pretty dressed up,” Cecile said. “Does Dad know you’re going out with King again?”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” her mother said, turning to give her an appraising glance that wasn’t altogether loving. “I don’t like the way you’ve been acting. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” Cecile said. But she wasn’t fine. All this talk about the dance, and the brushing of hair and delicious smells in misty air…it was as if there were an itch, deep inside her body, and all Cecile wanted was to rub up against the rough bark of a tree to scratch it; throw it off, somehow, like an itchy wool coat. But even that wouldn’t take care of it; it felt a part of her.
“Am I pretty?”
The words were out before she could stop them. Cecile ducked her head. How mortifying, to hear her question in the quiet room! Imagine what Natalie would say. She willed her mother not to laugh.
“All of my children are good looking,” Mrs. Thompson said, flashing Cecile an inclusive smile before she slid the yellow dress over her head. She wiggled her hips to help it fall as she turned around. “Zip me up, would you?”
Cecile stood still, as if waiting for more.
“Cecile?” her mother said impatiently, looking back. “Now, please.”
Her mother slipped her arms under her heavy hair and lifted it off her neck as Cecile slid the zipper smoothly up her back. “King will have a fit if we’re late to the Parkers’,” she said.
Cecile felt as pale and insignificant as a moth in her mother’s bright light.
The stores lining the main street of the village were either ivy-covered brick or stucco. Huge latticed windows jammed with clothing and jewelry, shoes and antiques, begged for attention. Wraithlike women walking small dogs on leashes lingered and stared. It all looked fake, Cecile thought as she followed her mother and Natalie down the street. Behind those facades, saleswomen were waiting to pounce the minute you walked through the door. Saleswomen who could sum you up at a glance.
Those glances were enough to freeze Cecile in her footsteps. She hated going into these shops on the days when their mother was getting her hair done or having a manicure and she let Cecile and Natalie wander on their own. Cecile would have been happy to look in the windows, but Natalie ruthlessly dragged her into every store that interested her and promptly deserted her as she breezed right past the cool voice of the saleswoman who asked, “Can I help you girls?” in a voice meant to discourage them.
A bell tinkled when her mother opened the door of the shop. The saleswoman looked up from behind the counter and, sweeping her eyes quickly over Natalie and Cecile, rested them on their mother. “How’re you ladies today?” she asked, smiling.
“Fine, thanks.” Mrs. Thompson flashed a smile of her own.
“Let me know if you need any help,” the sales-woman said, and went back to looking through the pile of receipts on the counter in front of her.
The shop was small and bright and reeked of perfume. The lettering over the window had announced that it was Peony Whitfield Dresses, Fifth Avenue, New York. It sold the dresses everyone was talking about this summer. At least, Natalie said everyone was talking about them.
“She’s wearing a Peony,” she’d said admiringly, more than once, as she flipped through a magazine at home. Their mother had told them at breakfast that that was where they were going to shop. Natalie had practically fainted.
So, what’s so special about them? Cecile thought petulantly as she trailed behind Natalie and her mother. They all looked the same to her: plain shifts in bright fabric with butterflies and flowers. Pink and green or blue and yellow or blue and green. Some had white bows above the side slits; others had white trim around the neck or arms.
She was determined to hate them.
“I love these dresses,” Natalie whispered as she whirled around to face their mother with a blue-and-yellow dress held up against her body. “This is so wonderful.”
“What’s so wonderful about them?” Cecile said. “They don’t even have sleeves.” She dragged her hand along the tops of the dresses, letting each one slide away from under it as if she didn’t care.
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Cecile dropped her hand.
“You behave better than that,” her mother said.
“I don’t see why Natalie’s making such a big deal about them. They’re all the same flowered pattern.”
“It’s the fabric. The fabric’s fabulous.” Her mother pulled out a dress and held it up to her face, breathing it in before she held it out to Cecile. “Smell.”
“Who do you think I am, Harry?” Cecile cried, stepping back. Harry always tried to make her smell his dirty sweat socks. He loved the smell of them; he said they smelled manly.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I sometimes forget how horrible you are to shop with.” Her mother clicked the hanger disgustedly against the metal rack as she hung the dress back and gave Cecile a firm, encouraging push. “Go take a look while I help Natalie. Green and blue would look lovely with your coloring.”
Good. She was glad she was horrible to shop with, Cecile thought as she drifted to the far end of the row. She didn’t even know she had a coloring. Just to be perverse, she pulled a pink-and-yellow dress off the rack and stood with it in front of a mirror. She held it against her body with her arm cinched at the waist to get the effect, the way Natalie did.
“Yuck,” she said, and lowered it quickly. She didn’t know why pink and yellow should make her skin look so much redder and her hair almost orange, but they did. She hung the dress back on the rack and chose a green-and-blue one. She held it up in front of her, too, prepared to reject it at a moment’s notice.
This one didn’t look nearly as bad. In fact…“I’ll try this one,” she said begrudgingly as she came up behind her mother.
“Perfect. It’ll be great on you.” Her mother briskly opened the door of a dressing room before Cecile could change her mind and, closing it behind her, said, “Shout if you need help.”
The overhead light glared; the floor-length mirrors on three sides stared critically. There were probably people standing behind them, watching her. Cecile turned her back and tore off her T-shirt and shorts. Stepping into the dress, she pulled it up over her body. The fabric was cool and crisp against her skin. It did smell different; she recognized the perfumy smell she’d noticed when they’d entered the store.
For a startling second when she turned back around—as quickly as a sprite in a fairy tale might flit from one tree to another in an enchanted forest—she glimpsed a pretty girl with brown eyes under dark brows in a wide forehead and a mass of curly hair. The girl’s dress was so simple, it made her long legs and arms appear more delicate and shapely than Cecile’s ever could.
Cecile stared.
“How does it look?” her mother called, and the sprite was gone. Cecile opened the door and stepped into the aisle.
“I knew it would suit you,” her mother said. “You look terrific. Doesn’t she look terrific, Natalie?” she called, spinning Cecile around. Natalie had chosen the pink-and-yellow fabric. With her bright, sleek hair, she looked like a luscious dish of ice cream. She turned from admiring herself in the mirror long enough to cut her eyes at Cecile and say, “Too bad she can’t do something about her hair.”
“Oh, pooh to you, Natalie.” Mrs. Thompson squeezed Cecile’s shoulders and said, “Don’t pay any attention to her. Your hair’s your crowning glory. Go take your dress off so I can pay for it.”
The mirrors seemed so much friendlier! Cecile twisted and turned. Putting her hands on her hips, she posed; she felt so free and easy inside this dress. Maybe that was what made an expensive dress worth paying for: knowing you looked great in it made you feel relaxed. Why, she wouldn’t be surprised if she sounded more fascinating at the dance.
Best of all, the thing that was making her hold her head a little higher, made her smile and show her teeth without laughing, was the fact that Natalie was jealous. Because she was jealous—Cecile had seen the quickest glint of the fact in Natalie’s eyes when she’d turned around.
It wouldn’t last for long; Natalie had plenty of crowning glories of her own. But still. Cecile stretched her arms above her head, as contented as a cat. What was a crowning glory, anyway?
“Your dress is so lovely with your coloring, my dear,” Cecile drawled from the backseat on the way home. “Why, thank you, Rhett,” she answered in a high voice. “You look mah-velous yourself tonight.”
“The day a boy calls you ‘my dear,’ I want to hear about it,” said Natalie.
“Frankly, Natalie, I don’t give a damn.”
“Cecile! Mom, did you hear her?”
“What?” Cecile was giddy with laughter. “It’s from Gone with the Wind.”
“Leave her alone.” Their mother smiled indulgently in the rearview mirror at Cecile sprawled along the backseat. “You two run up and hang up your dresses when we get home, and we’ll go for a swim at the club.”
Cecile followed Natalie up the stairs, into their bedroom. She hung her dress next to Natalie’s in their closet, only to have Natalie roughly push hers to one side to leave a wide space. “What are you going to wear under yours?” she asked as she sauntered over to their dresser and picked up her brush.
“What do you mean?”
Natalie gave her hair a few strong strokes and put her headband back into place before she turned and said, “Don’t you think it’s time you started wearing a bra?”
“You’re not the boss of everything, Natalie,” Cecile said. Her hand had gone up to her chest. Her cheeks blazed.
“I don’t see why you make such a big deal about it,” Natalie said, shrugging. “Every girl has to get one sooner or later.”
“I will when I want.”
“I wouldn’t wait too long, if I were you,” Natalie said lightly as she put her brush down. “You’re kind of showing, if you know what I mean.”
It was artfully delivered. The cut was so quick, Cecile could only stand with her mouth open as Natalie pulled her swimsuit out of a drawer and left the room. She hardly noticed Jack when he ran past her as she walked slowly down the stairs to the front hall, either. Her mother, in her tennis dress, was kneeling by the front door fastening Lucy’s sandals.
“I think I’ll stay here,” Cecile said to her mother’s bent head.
“Are you sure?” Her mother patted Lucy on the bottom and said, “You’re all set. Go get in the car,” before she stood up and looked distractedly around the front hall. “If it’s not in your room, you left it in the car!” she called up to Jack. “Natalie? Are you ready? I have a court at one o’clock.”
“I’m sure.” Cecile stepped back as Jack ran down the stairs with his towel over his shoulder and bolted past them out the screen door. “I got them,” Natalie said, holding up a fistful of magazines as she came out of the living room. “I’ll be outside.”
“You’re slouching,” her mother said. Cecile arched her back away from the quick twist her mother gave with her knuckle in the middle of Cecile’s back. “That’s right, stand up straight. You’ll ruin the lines of your dress if you hunch like that.”
“Speaking of the dress,” Cecile said. “What will I wear under it?”
“Under it?” her mother said, slinging her tennis racket in its case over her shoulder and checking her face for a last time in the mirror. “Underwear, I guess,” she said absently. She patted Cecile’s cheek as she went past. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll look great.”
Cecile stopped the screen door with her foot as it swung shut and sagged against it as her mother went around to the driver’s side of the car. “When will you be back?” she asked.
“We should be home around five,” her mother said. “If you decide to join us, Mr. Peabody can bring you over.”
“Bye,” Cecile said, but it was lost in the sound of the car starting up. She watched until it was gone and then went into the kitchen. Sheba was sitting on the back steps, husking corn. The drying yard, ringed with tall hedges to conceal the clothesline, was to the left. Tall white lattice walls hid the garbage cans on the right. It was always strange to see Sheba out of uniform.
In dark blue shorts and a sleeveless white shirt, her large arms and legs looked as warm and comforting as pillows. She wore old loafers, several sizes too big, on her bare feet. The bag was half full of husks and silk; Cecile saw Joey’s photograph on the step beside her.
“Whose shoes are those?” she asked, her face pressed against the screen.
“I thought I heard someone.” Sheba lay an ear of clean corn on the pile of other ears on the dish towel in her lap. “They’re Oscar’s,” she said. Oscar was Sheba’s husband. “Make me feel like home.”
Cecile stood watching as Sheba deftly stripped the husks away from the corn and picked off the strings of silk, one string at a time. “Want some help?” she asked after a while.
“I’d never say no.” Sheba shifted over and moved Joey’s photo to her other side so Cecile could open the screen door. Cecile saw Joey’s smiling face and huge dark eyes and thought about how he’d be leaping around on the train platform beside Oscar, barely able to keep still, when Sheba’s train pulled into the station on Sunday.
Sheba told them all about Joey when they ate in the kitchen: how he was always waiting for her, every single time. How he always had a new painting for her to admire and sometimes a new space between his teeth.
“And kisses?” Sheba would say, laughing. “That boy has the biggest kisses in the whole world for his mama.”
Cecile felt a pang in her heart as she sat down, to think about Sheba having a little boy who she looked forward to seeing so much. A cute little boy, who would hug Sheba fiercely around the neck with his skinny arms when he saw her and refuse to let go. She probably wouldn’t think about the Thompsons until she was back on Gull Island.
Now that she thought about it, Cecile realized mournfully, she’d never kissed Sheba and Sheba had never kissed her. Not even once. She sagged against Sheba’s broad shoulder, letting her ear of corn dangle listlessly between her knees.
The Lucky Ones Page 10
