by Anne Tyler
“Menopause!” Maggie said. “You’ve been through menopause?”
“Gladly,” Serena told her.
“Oh, Serena!” Maggie said, and she stopped short, nearly causing the Barley twins to bump into her.
“Well, goodness,” Serena said, “why should that bother you?”
“But I remember when we first got our periods,” Maggie said. “Remember how we all waited? Remember,” she said, turning to the Barley twins, “how that was once the only thing we talked about? Who had started and who had not? What it must feel like? How on earth we’d keep it secret from our husbands when we married?”
The Barley twins nodded, smiling. Their eyes were invisible behind their dark glasses.
“And now she’s gone and stopped,” Maggie told them.
“We haven’t stopped,” Jeannie Barley caroled.
“She’s gone through change of life!” Maggie cried.
“Wonderful; announce it to the world,” Serena said. She linked arms with Maggie and they resumed walking. “Believe me, I barely gave it a thought. ‘Well, good,’ I told myself. ‘Just one more thing to let go of.’ ”
Maggie said, “I don’t feel I’m letting go; I feel they’re taking things away from me. My son’s grown up and my daughter’s leaving for college and they’re talking at the nursing home about laying off some of the workers. It’s something to do with the new state regulations—they’re going to hire on more professionals and lay off people like me.”
“So? That job was always beneath you anyway,” Serena said. “You were a straight-A student, remember? Or near about.”
“It is not beneath me, Serena; I love it. You sound just like my mother. I love that job!”
“Then go back to school and get to be a professional yourself,” Serena said.
Maggie gave up on her. She was too tired, all at once, to argue.
They turned in through a little gate, onto a flagstone path. Serena’s house was newer than the others—raw brick, one story, modern and compact. Someone stood at the front window, drawing back a curtain to gaze out, but when the guests approached she dropped the curtain and vanished. She reappeared at the door, a buttressed and corseted woman in a stiff navy dress. “Oh, you poor thing!” she cried to Serena. “You come right on in. Everybody, come in! There’s lots to eat and drink. Anyone want to freshen up?”
Maggie did. She followed the woman’s directions and passed through the living room, which was filled with heavy furniture in a wagon-wheel motif, and down a short hall to the bedroom. The decor seemed purely Max’s doing: a bedspread patterned with multicolored license plates, a beer stein collection lining the bookshelf. On the bureau, a photo of Linda in cap and gown stood next to a bronze cowboy boot stuffed with pencils and gnawed plastic swizzle sticks. But someone had hung guest towels in the bathroom and set out a bowl of rosette-shaped soaps. Maggie washed up, using the bar of Ivory she found in a cabinet beneath the sink. She dried her hands on a grayish bath towel draped behind the shower curtain, and then she peered into the mirror. The walk had not done anything for her appearance. She tried to flatten her bangs down. She stood sideways to the mirror and sucked in her stomach. Meanwhile the Barley twins were discussing Linda’s photograph: “Isn’t it a pity she got Max’s looks and not Serena’s.” Nat Abrams said, “Would this be the line for the john?” and Maggie called, “Just coming out.”
She emerged to find Ira waiting with Nat; now their topic was gas mileage. She returned to the living room. The guests were gathered in the dining alcove, where platters of food covered a table—sandwiches and cakes and drinks. Sissy Parton’s husband was serving as bartender. Maggie recognized him by his violent pink hair, the color of freshly cut cedarwood. It hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. She went over to him and said, “Hello, Michael.”
“Maggie Daley! Nice singing,” he said. “But what became of Ira?”
“Oh, well …” she said vaguely. “Could I have a gin and tonic, please?”
He made her one, pouring the gin with a flourish. “I hate these affairs,” he told her. “This is my second funeral this week.”
“Who else died?” Maggie asked.
“Oh, an old poker buddy. And last month my Aunt Linette, and the month before that … I tell you, first I went to all my kids’ school plays, and no sooner was I done with those than we start on this.”
A stranger came up and asked him for a Scotch. Maggie started circulating through the living room. She didn’t hear much talk of Max. People were discussing the World Series, the prevalence of crime, the proper depth for tulip bulbs. Two women Maggie had never seen before were assembling a composite portrait of some couple they both knew. “He was a bit of a drinker,” one said.
“Yes, but he adored her.”
“Oh, he’d never have managed without her.”
“Were you at that Easter brunch they gave?”
“Was I there! The one with the chocolate centerpiece?”
“It was a present from him to her, she said. He’d surprised her with it that morning.”
“A hollow chocolate rabbit. He’d filled it with rum.”
“She didn’t know he’d filled it with rum.”
“He said he’d wanted it to be like those Swiss candies they fill with liqueurs.”
“Rum seeped out the bottom.”
“Little melty holes in the chocolate.”
“Worst mess you ever saw, all across the tablecloth.”
“Lucky it was only one of those Hallmark paper tablecloths for holidays.”
Back in the dining alcove, the Barley twins were talking with Michael. They had flipped up their clip-on shades, which stuck out above their glasses like the perky antennas of some sharp-faced, cute little creatures from outer space, and they were nodding earnestly, in unison. Jo Ann and Sugar were discussing mixed marriages—the consuming interest of Jo Ann’s life for years before her wedding to Nat and evidently afterward as well. “But tell me the truth,” Sugar was saying. “Doesn’t it sometimes seem to you like every marriage is mixed?” And Serena’s two little grandsons were surreptitiously bombarding each other with bits of cake. It looked good: angel food. Maggie thought about trying a slice but then she remembered her diet. She had a virtuous, empty feeling in the center of her rib cage. She traveled around the table surveying what was offered, resisting even the bowl of Fritos. “The dump salad is mine,” Serena’s neighbor said at her elbow.
“Dump salad?”
“You take a packet of orange Jell-O powder, a can of crushed pineapple, a carton of Cool Whip …”
Some woman in a bouffant hairdo said hello and the neighbor turned to greet her, leaving Maggie with the gritty feeling of Jell-O powder on her teeth.
Serena was over by the buffet, beneath an oil painting of a dead bird with a basket of olive-drab fruit. Linda and her husband stood next to her. “When all these people leave, Mom,” Linda was saying, “we’re taking you out to dinner, anyplace your heart desires.” She spoke a little above normal volume, as if Serena were hard of hearing. “We’re going to buy you a real meal,” she said.
“Oh, well, there’s so much food right here in the house,” Serena said. “And I’m honestly not all that hungry anyhow.”
Her son-in-law said, “Now, Mother Gill, just tell us your favorite restaurant.” Jeff, that was it. Maggie couldn’t think of his last name.
Serena said, “Um …” She glanced around, as if hoping for a suggestion. Her eyes brushed Maggie and traveled on. Finally she said, “Oh, well, maybe the Golden Chopsticks. That’s a good place.”
“What kind is it, Chinese?”
“Well, yes, but they also have—”
“Oh, I just don’t care for Chinese food,” Linda said. “Not Chinese or Japanese, either one, I’m sorry to say.”
“Or any other Oriental,” Jeff pointed out. “You don’t like Thai food either.”
“No, that’s true. Or Filipino or Burmese.”
Serena said, “But—”
&n
bsp; “And you can’t eat Indian; don’t forget Indian,” Jeff said.
“No; Indian has those spices.”
“Spices affect her digestion,” Jeff told Serena.
“I guess I’m just sensitive or something,” Linda said.
“Same goes for Mexican.”
“But we don’t have any Mexican,” Serena said. “We don’t have any of those places.”
Linda said, “What I’d like to know is how the Mexicans themselves can stand all those spicy seasonings.”
“They can’t,” Jeff told her. “They come down with this awful condition that coats the insides of their mouths like plates of armor.”
Serena blinked. “Well,” she said, “what kind of restaurant did you two have in mind?”
“We thought maybe that steak house off of Route One,” Jeff told her.
“MacMann’s? Oh.”
“That is, if it’s all right with you.”
“Well, MacMann’s is kind of … noisy, isn’t it?” Serena asked.
“I never thought it was noisy,” Linda said.
“I mean it’s always so noisy and crowded.”
“Just take it or leave it, Mom,” Linda told her, raising her chin. “We were only trying to be nice, for God’s sake.”
Maggie, standing just outside their little circle, waited for Serena to toss her one of her wry, eye-rolling expressions. But Serena didn’t even glance at her. She seemed shrunken, somehow; she had lost her dash. She lifted her drink to her lips and sipped reflectively.
Then Max’s brother called, “Serena? You ready for this?”
He was gesturing toward a mildewed black leatherette case that stood on the coffee table. It looked familiar; Maggie couldn’t think why. Serena brightened. She turned to Maggie and said, “That there is my surprise.”
“What is it?” Maggie asked.
“We’re going to show a movie of my wedding.”
Of course: a film projector. Maggie hadn’t seen one of those in years. She watched as Max’s brother unsnapped the silver clasps. Meanwhile Serena moved away to lower the window shades. “We’ll use this biggest shade for the screen,” she called. “Oh, I hope the film hasn’t just disintegrated or bleached out or whatever it is that old film does.”
“You mean your and Max’s wedding?” Maggie asked, following her.
“His uncle Oswald took it.”
“I don’t remember a camera at the wedding.”
“I was thinking back over the songs last night and I all at once remembered. ‘If it’s still in one piece,’ I said to myself, ‘wouldn’t it be fun to watch?’ ”
Fun? Maggie wasn’t so sure. But she wouldn’t have missed it, all the same; so she found herself a seat on the rug. She set down her glass and curled her legs to one side. A very old lady was sitting in a chair next to her, but at this level all Maggie saw were her thick beige cotton anklets melting over the tops of her shoes.
Now the guests had got wind of what was about to take place. Serena’s classmates were settling around the projector, while the others started flowing distractedly in different directions, like something under a microscope. A few edged toward the door, mentioning baby-sitters and appointments elsewhere, promising Serena they would keep in touch. Several returned to the bar, and since Michael had deserted, they began mixing their own drinks. Michael was in the living room now, and so was Nat. Ira wasn’t anywhere that Maggie could see. Nat was asking Sugar, “Am I in this, do you think?”
“You are if you sang at the wedding.”
“Well, I didn’t,” he said glumly.
With just a little stretch of the imagination, Maggie thought, this could be Mr. Alden’s civics class. (You had to overlook the old lady, who had remained contentedly seated with her tinkling cup of tea.) She glanced around and saw a semicircle of graying men and women, and there was something so worn down about them, so benign and unassuming, that she felt at that moment they were as close to her as family. She wondered how she could have failed to realize that they would have been aging along with her all these years, going through more or less the same stages—rearing their children and saying goodbye to them, marveling at the wrinkles they discovered in the mirror, watching their parents turn fragile and uncertain. Somehow, she had pictured them still fretting over Prom Night.
Even the sound of the projector came straight from Mr. Alden’s class—the clickety-click as the reels started spinning and a square of flawed, crackled light was cast upon the window shade. What would Mr. Alden say if he could see them all together again? He was probably dead by now. And anyway, this movie wasn’t showing how democracy worked or how laws were born, but—
Why, Sissy! Sissy Parton! Young and slender and prim, wearing a tight chignon encircled with artificial daisies like a French maid’s frill. She was playing the piano, her wrists so gracefully arched that you could believe it was only the delicacy of her touch that caused the film to remain soundless. Above the white choir robe, the Peter Pan collar of her blouse was just visible, a pale salmon pink (in real life a deep rose, Maggie recalled). She lifted her head and looked purposefully toward a certain point, and the camera followed her gaze and the screen was suddenly filled with a double row of ridiculously clean-cut young people in pleated robes. They sang silently, their mouths perfect ovals. They resembled the carolers on a Christmas card. It was Serena who identified the tune. “ ‘True love,’ ” she sang, “ ‘true—’ ” And then she broke off to say, “Oh! Would you look? Mary Jean Bennett! I never even thought to invite her. I forgot all about her. Does anybody know where Mary Jean lives now?”
No one answered, although several, in low, dreamy murmurs, carried on with “ ‘… for you and I have a guardian angel …’ ”
“There’s Nick Bourne, the rat,” Serena said. “He claimed it was too far to come to the funeral.”
She was sitting on the arm of a chair, craning her neck toward the movie. In profile she looked commanding, almost glorious, Maggie thought, with that silver line of light from the screen running down her large, straight nose and the curve of her lips.
Maggie herself stood in the front row of the chorus, next to Sugar Tilghman. Her hair was in tiny squiggles all over her head; it made her face look too big. Oh, this was humiliating. But no doubt the others felt the same way. She distinctly heard Sugar groan. And when the camera switched to Durwood, with his wet, black, towering pompadour like the crest on the top of a Dairy Queen cone, he gave a sharp bark of laughter. This younger Durwood strode over to the piano with his robe flapping behind him. He assumed his position and paused importantly. Then he embarked on a silent “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” with his eyes closed more often than open, his left arm gesturing so passionately that once he swatted a lily in a papier-mâché vase. Maggie wanted to laugh but she held it in. So did everyone else, although the old lady said, “Well! My goodness,” and rattled her teacup. A couple of people were humming along with this song too, which Maggie thought was charitable of them.
Next the camera swung dizzyingly to Jo Ann Dermott at the front of the church. She gripped the edges of the pulpit and read from a book that the audience couldn’t see. Since she wasn’t in the chorus, her dress was completely exposed—stiff, square-shouldered, full-skirted, more matronly than anything she would ever wear again. Her lowered eyes looked naked. No one could hum along with The Prophet, so the reading just went on and on in total silence. Out in the dining alcove the other guests talked and laughed and clinked ice cubes. “Good Lord, fast-forward it, someone,” Jo Ann said, but evidently Max’s brother didn’t know how (if you could fast-forward these old films), and so they had to sit through it.
Then the camera swooped again and there was Sissy playing the piano, with one damp curl plastered to her forehead. Maggie and Ira, side by side, stood watching Sissy gravely. (Ira was a boy, a mere child.) They drew a breath. They started singing. Maggie was slightly bunchy in her robe—she’d been fighting her extra ten pounds even then—and Ira had a plucked, fledg
ling look. Had he really worn his hair that short? In those days, he’d seemed totally unreadable. His unreadability was his greatest attraction. He’d reminded her of those math geniuses who don’t need to write out the process but simply arrive at the answer.
He was twenty-one when that movie was filmed. Maggie was nineteen. Where they’d met, she had no idea, because at the time it hadn’t mattered. They had probably passed each other in the halls in high school, maybe even elementary school. He might have visited her house, hanging out with her brothers. (He and her brother Josh were nearly the same age.) Certainly he’d sung with her at church; she knew that much. His family were members there, and Mr. Nichols, always short on male voices, had somehow talked Ira into joining the choir. But he hadn’t lasted long. About the time he graduated from high school, he quit. Or maybe it was the year after. Maggie hadn’t noticed exactly when it was he’d stopped appearing.
Her boyfriend in high school had been a classmate named Boris Drumm. He was short and dark, with rough skin and a frizz of cropped black hair—manly even at that age, everything she’d been looking for. It was Boris who taught Maggie to drive, and one of his exercises involved her speeding alone across the Sears, Roebuck parking lot till he loomed suddenly in front of the car to test her braking skills. Her clearest picture of him, to this day, was the determined stance he had taken in her path: arms straight out, feet wide apart, jaw set. Rock-hard, he’d seemed. Indestructible. She had had the feeling she could run him over, even, and he’d have bobbed up again untouched, like one of those plastic toy men weighted with lead at the base.
He planned on attending a college in the Midwest after graduation, but it was understood that as soon as he got his degree he and Maggie would marry. Meanwhile Maggie would live at home and go to Goucher. She wasn’t much looking forward to it; it was her mother’s idea. Her mother, who had taught English before she married, filled out all the application forms and even wrote Maggie’s essay for her. It was very important to her that her children should rise in the world. (Maggie’s father installed garage doors and had not had any college at all.) So Maggie resigned herself to four years at Goucher. In the meantime, to help with tuition, she took a summer job washing windows.
