Frank said, “What about Hal and Friskie?”
“They’re both engaged, as you know. Hal’s marrying into the Corneliuses, and Friskie’s got himself a Sulzberger cousin. First cousin. The fate of the company is a problem for them, not a project. The way I see it, we’re pointing them all toward a form of family happiness they’ve never experienced before.” Then he laughed. Jim Upjohn was the most casually self-confident person Frank had ever met.
—
BILLY WESTON, who lived down the street from Richie and Michael (for now, but Mommy said that they would be moving soon, and to a much nicer neighborhood), had gotten a tent for his eighth birthday, and had invited Richie and Michael to help him set it up; Billy’s dad had shown him how to pound in the stakes and said that he could work on it on his own. As far as Richie was concerned, there was only one thing wrong with Billy Weston, and that was that he didn’t have a twin. Richie had to watch very carefully to see whether Billy, who had lots of good stuff, seemed to be playing more with Michael or with him. If Billy had had a twin, then he and Michael would each have had a friend, but Billy had four sisters, who ran into the house every time Richie and Michael came over.
The tent was not a tepee. It was long, and each end was a triangle with flaps that hung down, and the flaps had four ties. There was a floor in the tent, and Billy said that you could take it into the woods when it was cold or rainy and zip up the flaps and have a lantern inside and sleep all night, even if a bear showed up. They were not taking it into the woods; they were setting it up in Billy’s backyard.
What you did was, you spread the tent out on the grass, and made sure that the floor was smooth and that the edges were straight. Then Billy, who was inside the tent, gave Richie four stakes and Michael four stakes. A stake was a pointed piece of iron with an L-shaped bend at the top. Richie did what he was told, which was to go along the long edge of the tent on one side and pull out the loops, then set a stake beside each loop. Michael did the same thing on the other side.
Billy had one hammer. The three of them took turns. Billy pounded a stake on Richie’s side and a stake on Michael’s side; then he gave the hammer to Richie, and Richie started to pound the stake. It was easier than a nail, because the L-shape wasn’t as small as the head of a nail. Richie hit the L-shape twice, and it went in a little. Michael said, “I want to do it.” Richie didn’t pay any attention to him, and pounded twice more. It got in a little ways farther, but still not halfway. Richie stopped and took a deep breath. Michael stuck out his tongue. Richie hit the stake twice more.
When the stake was finally in, with two hits from Billy, they took the hammer around the tent, and Michael did his first one. He got it in on four hits. Pretty deep, too. This made Richie mad. It always made him mad that he was older but Michael was bigger and stronger. Michael never let him forget it. His dad said that that should make Richie fight harder and smarter, but that didn’t work every time. Billy brought the hammer around, and the other two boys watched Richie do his second stake. Because he’d had some practice in aiming this time, he got it in on four hits, so he felt not as mad. It went like that. After all the stakes were in, they walked around the tent and crawled into it and sat and lay down, then crawled out of it. It smelled bad, but Richie thought it was neat—a little dark, like you could hear a ghost story in there. Billy must have felt the same way, so he went into the house to get a blanket and some comic books. He was still talking more to Michael than to him, and Michael kept giving Richie that look. The thing about Michael was that he didn’t have to say a word to get Richie—his every look and movement rippled through Richie, no matter whether he wanted them to or not.
Once they had the blanket and the comics, Billy decided they needed 7-Ups because they had worked hard, so he headed back to the house. Michael took the blanket into the tent to spread it out. He said, “Leave the comics alone. I get first dibs.” Richie didn’t say anything. He most of the time didn’t say anything.
Squatting there by the side of the tent, Richie saw that one of the stakes might be coming out, so he picked up the hammer where they’d dropped it in the grass and hit the stake. It went in a little, so he hit it again. It was after the second hit that he saw the bump moving along the roof of the tent. Of course he knew it was Michael’s head—he wasn’t an idiot. The bump pushed out, then slipped to the right, then pushed out, then slipped to the right, and he lifted the hammer and hit it. There was a loud groan. The bump went away, and there was a sound of rustling. He went around and looked between the flaps. Michael was lying on his side.
Just then, Billy showed up with the 7-Ups and said, “What happened?” And Richie said, “I hit him with the hammer.”
Billy ran for the house.
That was when it got scary, because Mrs. Weston came screaming out the door and the girls were behind her, and all the girls gave him mean looks. Billy looked worried, too. Michael was still lying there; “out cold” was an expression they said on TV. This must be it, Richie thought.
Mrs. Weston dragged Michael out of the tent and laid him on the grass, and the oldest girl, Randy, ran into the house to call Nedra; as quick as could be, Nedra came running down the street and through the gate, shouting, “Oh my Lord, oh my Lord! What a pair of boys, it’s always something.” She smacked Richie on the head and said, “This time maybe you killed him and got your wish, you naughty child. I will deal with you later.”
Nedra had a stick of butter in her hand, and as she started to open the paper wrapping, Michael groaned and moved. Nedra held him down and said, “Now, don’t move, Michael; that a boy.” Mrs. Weston patted Michael on the arm. Nedra felt around on Michael’s head and said, “Well, here’s the goose egg—heavens to Betsy—big as my fist,” and she put the butter on it and made him lie there. The girls went back inside. Then Nedra said, “What in the world did you do this for? Two days ago, they were pushing each other on the stairs. They said it was just a game, but it looks like all-out war to me.”
Richie said, “It was just a game.”
Mrs. Weston started shaking her head. “Well, boys don’t know the difference half the time. And girls! Well, I don’t know which is worse. He’s coming around.” Michael sat up. Richie wondered if Nedra was going to tell on him. Nedra said, “Maybe I should take him to the doctor. Mr. Langdon is in Venezuela again, and the missus is over the river.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Weston. “He’s fine. Let’s have a cup of coffee. Look at him. Michael, you okay?”
Michael nodded.
“Do you feel like you need to go to the doctor?”
Michael said, “I don’t want to go to the doctor.” He felt his bump, then sniffed, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t have a single tear. “Can we go in the tent and read some comics?”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Weston. “But if you feel like you are going to pass out, you send Billy to get me, okay?”
Michael nodded.
Nedra said, “I need a smoke.”
Mrs. Weston said, “Me, too.”
The two women stood up, and after a moment, Michael crawled into the tent, then Billy. Richie crawled in after them. They settled themselves, and Billy handed each one a comic book and a 7-Up. That was that, thought Richie. For now. But he was going to have to watch out, and not for Nedra. He looked around Billy at Michael, who was reading and touching the bump in the back of his head with his finger. No, Richie thought, he wasn’t sorry. It was a good thing he hadn’t been made to say he was.
—
THE NEW HOUSE HAD a long driveway, but Andy had already foreseen the blizzard and left the car at the end of it—all she had to do was wait for the plow and shovel it out. As soon as she got up, she pulled on her warm clothes and went out to check. The snow, still quietly balanced just where it had fallen, undisturbed as yet by wind or movement, was a work of art. She stood beside the car, staring around. Though she had never been one to make use of snow, like her brother, Sven, and the other Norwegian relatives, she had al
ways appreciated it as a type of raiment, hiding, smoothing, brightening.
Inside, the call had come—no school. She prevented herself from mentioning snowstorms in Decorah—that time they were walking home, which normally took fifteen minutes, and so much snow fell just in that struggling half-hour that she and Sven had to take refuge in the house at the foot of their block, and be taken home an hour later by that neighbor boy—what was his name?—who pulled them on a sled. She said, “What are you going to do today, then?”
Janny looked up at her. “Can anyone come over?”
“In this weather? I doubt it,” said Andy.
“I think we should bake some Christmas cookies,” said Nedra.
“Spritz would be nice,” said Andy.
“I like those best,” said Janny.
“What about the boys?” said Andy.
“They will do what they do,” said Nedra.
“At least they have their own rooms now,” said Andy.
“When they need solitary confinement,” said Nedra.
Andy laughed.
Frank was somewhere. Andy couldn’t remember where. All she knew was that after Christmas she was expected to go with him to Caracas, take kisses on each cheek, and speak a little Spanish. And after that, he had told her, now that they were moved in and the decorators had finished their work, she would be expected to have parties, at least cocktail parties—catered, it was true, but still busy and invasive. Possibly she would talk to Dr. Grossman about that very thing today.
The plow had gone by when she came out again, and done an excellent, quiet job. It took her no time to shovel out the car, and quite soon, she was heading toward East Palisades, carefully but smoothly. Most of her neighbors were snowed in. East Palisades was fine, and when she turned south on the Parkway, she saw that everyone was moving along. The jam on the GW Bridge was a pleasant jam—the sun was shining now, and the Hudson, not frozen, sported glinting lozenges of thin, floating ice. Then she turned south on the West Side Highway, and from there, only five miles, however long it took. Since she had given herself an hour, she could take her time. Riverside Park was as beautiful as her own road had been, but in a bright, urban way, and plenty of people were out, walking in their furs and boots, smiling, enjoying the novel cleanliness.
When Dr. Grossman opened the door to Andy, she looked a little surprised—how had Andy made the trip on such a day? So Andy thought of telling her that old story about the snow: six inches in half an hour, an avalanche. Had they been frightened? She couldn’t remember, and Sven would not have admitted it if they had. She could say that they were layered and piled with bright-colored knitted hats and sweaters and mittens and vests and leggings and stockings—imagining it made her feel happy as she settled down on the couch.
But there, there she was again, and what she did tell was the story of Uncle Jens and Aunt Eva, the immigrants, the first to come, who tried Minnesota, or was it North Dakota? Wherever the most Norskies had gone and the land was cheapest. They had no luck, though: Aunt Eva went mad with the endless horizon and took refuge on a wooden trunk they had brought with them from Stavanger, and then Uncle Jens got caught in a blizzard, skiing from town with provisions. He took refuge on the leeside of a haystack, and was found frozen there days later. Dr. Grossman said not a word as she told this story, and why was she back to doing this, telling stories? It had nothing to do with her family. Uncle Jens had made a fortune, for his time, and Aunt Eva had been a well-read and well-respected matron, who spoke not only Norwegian and English but French, and had traveled to Copenhagen and then to Paris as a girl, before coming to America. She’d thought that Dr. Grossman was immune to this, and had refrained for months, but then Dr. Grossman had made the mistake of saying that every story, every dream, everything that you were moved to relate had meaning, and often those things that seemed most meaningless had the most hidden meanings. Andy didn’t know whether to believe her, but she had succumbed to temptation. Now there was a long silence, and Andy brought into her mind once again the way the lattice of snow had lain so gently upon the tree branches that morning, how fluffy it was, how beautiful and transient.
1961
AT FIRST Joe and Minnie had laughed about Rosanna’s opinions of the new President and the new First Lady. Since Rosanna was Catholic by baptism, Joe thought she would be proud that a Catholic had gotten to the White House. All Rosanna said was “Irish Catholics and German Catholics do not see eye to eye.” But, really, she didn’t mind the President himself—he was a good-looking boy and had a pleasant speaking voice, if you could get over the Boston twang. It was the wife who got her goat.
“Jacqueline!” exclaimed Rosanna as they watched the Inauguration. “What a name for a First Lady! What happened to ‘Eleanor,’ or ‘Mamie,’ or ‘Ethel’?”
“The sister-in-law is Ethel, as you know,” said Minnie, who was home with a flu, a fever of 102.
“She’s younger than Lillian! And old man Kennedy is a crook—everyone knows that—and hand in glove with Daley and worse.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” said Minnie.
“What do I do? I sit and watch TV. And you can’t have the late movie all day, which I wish you could, then I wouldn’t bother with the Today show, the Five O’Clock News, or the Ten O’Clock News. Goodness me. Look at her mouth. She has the strangest mouth. That’s what I don’t like about her. Her fake smile.”
Minnie never forgot that Rosanna herself had been quite a beauty in her day, though her day hadn’t lasted very long. The final thing to go had been her smile—open, sudden, and bright. Even when Minnie was a teen-ager, she had noticed that about Rosanna—always cloudy, always serious, and then the smile piercing the darkness. Her teeth had been good, too, large and straight, not like Minnie’s mother’s teeth, which she usually hid behind her hand. Ah well. Every thought of her mother still made Minnie sad. Almost fifteen years now since her passing.
Rosanna said, “You want some more tea? The chamomile pot is warm. You need it.”
Minnie slid her cup across the table, and Rosanna poured more of the pale-green liquid into it. She inhaled as she did so and said, “My favorite. The fragrance of June, right here in January.”
“It is nice,” said Minnie. “Which reminds me, I found a last jar of spiced peaches down in the cellar. Lois must have hidden it.” The cellar where her father had died. Minnie contained a sigh. If you lived in the same place long enough, everything reminded you of everything else.
“Well,” said Rosanna, “we’ll let her present it to us. I’m sure she has a plan.”
“Doesn’t she usually?” said Minnie.
“The second child always does,” said Rosanna.
They went back to watching the TV.
“You see?” said Rosanna. “She can’t take the cold. She looks very uncomfortable. Those French clothes aren’t made for warmth, that’s for sure.”
The new President began his Inaugural Address, and Minnie, who had voted for him (without telling Rosanna), was impressed. It was just the sort of thing she would wish her students to hear (and since she had purchased five televisions for the high school, she knew that they were, indeed, hearing it). It was a war hero’s speech, recalling younger days, glorying in dangers survived. He made Eisenhower seem dreadfully boring and old. Wrinkled, too. It was strange, Minnie thought, to have a president her own age. She had always thought of presidents as old old men.
Rosanna was shaking her head from side to side, but not saying anything.
Minnie said, “When does Lois get home on Tuesdays?”
“About three-thirty. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she picks up Jesse at the kindergarten.” Rosanna’s voice had warmed up. Everyone’s voice warmed up at the thought of Jesse (really Joe Jr., but his own charming self already). Lois was working at Dave Crest’s store part-time now. Rosanna said, “If there was ever a mother who needed more children, it is Lois. She was born to raise a brood.”
“I think she’s decided to quit while she’
s ahead,” said Minnie.
Rosanna laughed and said, “Well, no matter how long this brouhaha takes, I will sit around making myself comfortable until she brings that darling child home, just to get a hug from him.”
“She can drop you, if you want.”
“I do not want. I am not Jahqueleen Kennedy, afraid of a little snow, sleet, wind, or subzero temperatures.”
Minnie said, “Did you ever not have an opinion, Rosanna?”
Rosanna said, “Never.”
—
THE EVENING AFTER Arthur had his first meeting with a man named McGeorge Bundy, Lillian was surprised at his mood. Arthur was not impressed by the Kennedys, either Jack or Bobby. Both were hotheaded know-it-alls; the only difference between them was that one had a modicum of tact and the other didn’t. But when Lillian chuckled at Bundy’s name, Arthur frowned, though only a little—he never frowned at Lillian as if he were angry at her. She kissed him to make up, and Arthur started talking at once, leaning against the sink with his whiskey and soda in his hand while Lillian stirred the spaghetti sauce and watched Tina coloring at the kitchen table. She did it in her own way—every figure was done in different shades of the same color. Arthur said, “Well, how long have I been aware of him? I know he was working with Kennan and Dulles as long as ten years ago. On our side of the Marshall Plan.”
“What side was that?” said Lillian.