Superior Women Page 5

  “Uh, I guess.” But Megan cannot help feeling a little sad for poor Harvey.

  “Well, I was saying stuff like that. And he would not listen to one word I said. And then instead of letters I began to get these crazy long telegrams. He must be spending a fortune.”

  Megan finds that she has finished her sandwich and her frappe, although she was not aware of eating. Lavinia has hardly touched her food, but then she has been doing all the talking. Now, as Megan watches, Lavinia takes a reluctant bite from her sandwich, a small sip of her frappe. “I guess I don’t really feel like eating,” she complains. “But I really should. Gordon says my bones stick into him,” and she laughs.

  Initially relieved about not having to go to the Ritz (money, and the problem of what to wear), Megan is now experiencing considerable regret about not meeting Harvey; for one thing, obviously he would have paid for the lunch. And in this cooling weather she could have worn her one good suit (a birthday present from Florence, from Joseph Magnin, the best store in Palo Alto; blue, really nice); everything would have been okay. Mostly though she is aware of the most intense curiosity about Harvey: the knight (ah! Mr. Knightly!), the perfect figure of romance. And a millionaire, or almost, probably.

  “What does he look like?” Megan asks.

  “Gordon? But you met him, silly Megan. Honestly, you do live in a dream world. How could you forget the handsomest man at Harvard? Honestly—”

  “No. Not Gordon, Harvey.”

  “Well.” Surprisingly, Lavinia looks both uncomfortable and displeased; she might almost be on the verge of saying that Harvey’s looks are none of Megan’s business, except that Lavinia is never so overtly rude. But she seems then to come to some sort of decision; the frown disappears, and in a confiding way she leans toward Megan. “Well, he’s blond, and rather handsome, if you see him sitting in a restaurant, just his head and shoulders. But I guess he had polio or something, we never talked about it and I couldn’t ask, but he’s really crippled. Even on crutches he can hardly walk. And that’s something that really scared me off. I mean, of course I never saw his legs, we never went that far, I told you, but the very idea—Really, I wasn’t sure that I actually could—”

  Lavinia’s tone has been deeply, genuinely troubled, and sad. But then she shrugs, and the tone shifts. “Oh!” she cries out, “if he’d only leave me alone! Why won’t he catch on!”

  Megan is wholly concentrated on absorbing the fact of crippledness, Harvey’s legs. And her mind has made a connection, which she would like to reject, between crippledness and romantic extremity; she thinks, and she wishes that she did not think, that of course (and maybe only) a crippled man would fall in love like that, and especially with Lavinia, so tall and blond, so perfect.

  And she further makes another, highly unwelcome connection, this time between crippled and fat. She thinks of herself, fat Megan, and “madly in love” with George Wharton, who in his way is also perfect. She thinks of her own obstinate refusal to “catch on” to the fact that George Wharton does not love her.

  Escaping back to Harvey, she sees too that he would have to be rich; otherwise, a cripple, he would not have dared, would not even have aspired to Lavinia. (Would George love her if she were rich?)

  And: of course Lavinia would have to break it off, eventually. Even being seen with a crippled man must have been acutely painful to her, actually more painful than rumors of financial insecurity, irregularity. Megan starts to say, You know, really you’re still a virgin because of Harvey’s crippled legs. But of course she does not say that.

  “Oh, shit,” then says lovely Lavinia. “I’ve forgotten my billfold. Darling little Megan, would you pay? I’ll get it next time, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  5

  “I just don’t know,” Lavinia’s mother, who was once a fabled golden Southern beauty, is saying, vaguely, fuzzily, to her daughter. “I just don’t know,” Mrs. Harcourt repeats; she smells of lavender, and of sherry. “If this boy is coming all the way down here, I just don’t see—” As so often happens, she then forgets what she is talking about, beyond a distant sense that she was about to say something important.

  Lavinia’s stomach knots in a familiar way, and she thinks as she has a thousand times before, Thank God, I don’t even look like her.

  She tries then to remind her mother of their earlier conversation, to bring her back. “But we always used to have Christmas at Fredericksburg,” Lavinia states, “and I thought it would be so nice. It has nothing to do with Gordon.”

  That last was a total lie. The fact is that Lavinia is anxious, desperately anxious, that Gordon not visit them in Georgetown, in the huge house in which she and her mother now sit, in what is called the breakfast room, although no one has ever eaten a breakfast there. The Fredericksburg house is big too, but it is simpler; it can be passed off as a farm, and so it is called, by the Harcourts. But this Georgetown house, set back from P Street, with its weight of marble, and family portraits and delicate French antiques and ponderous draperies—this house could intimidate anyone, and especially Gordon, with his strong feelings about being Boston Irish, his father a policeman, living in Dorchester. In a house that Lavinia has never been allowed to see.

  The irony of this fear, this anxiety about the impressiveness of her family house, is not lost on intelligent Lavinia; it is very ironic that she who has always loved her house so much should now be worried about its effect. She has even thought of it as her perfect setting (Harvey used to say, “It’s the perfect house for the childhood of a princess. Now I’ll have to get you an even bigger house, and don’t think I won’t.” Well, probably he would have). And prior to the advent of Gordon in her life, Lavinia also saw her house as her perfect refuge; it kept people away, it put off those whom she chose to be put off. And now, for her to worry that Gordon, whom she absolutely loves, in this setting will love her less—well, it’s very funny, very funny indeed—but whom could she tell?

  “Well,” says Mrs. Harcourt, blinking pale blue eyes in the general direction of some feeble Washington winter sunshine, just visible through one narrow leaded window, “well, I suppose you’d better talk to your father.” And then, with one of her odd lurches into clarity, sobriety: “And in that case I’ll start my packing.”

  The prospect of introducing Gordon to her mother is of course a further source of anxiety to Lavinia, but if her plan of Christmas in Fredericksburg, at “the farm,” succeeds, that too will be resolved: Mrs. Harcourt so dislikes the country, and particularly that house, its wrap of river mists, its drafty rooms, that she generally takes to her bed and stays there, during long family stays in Fredericksburg. With luck, her mother will not even appear for meals, Lavinia calculates; Mrs. Harcourt subsists at such times on bouillon and soft-boiled eggs, which the maid takes up on trays, at intervals. She can easily be described to Gordon as “not very well,” which is, God knows, the truth.

  Another virtue of Fredericksburg is just that, the maid situation: at Fredericksburg there is only one, the inconspicuous brown Bessie. Whereas in town, along with Bessie, there is Clarissa and her husband, Oscar, who is not actually a butler, but he looks and acts like one, in his formal black suits, serving dinner. (Well, at least all of them are Negroes, none of them Irish, Lavinia suddenly thinks, wanting both to laugh and to cry at the very thought of Gordon confronted with Irish help. Jesus, with her luck they would turn out to be his distant relatives. At which Lavinia does laugh a little, to herself. She wishes Kitty were around.)

  Six months of exposure to Boston have instructed Lavinia in certain social truths: while “Gordon Shaughnessey” sounded, at first, so romantic and glamorous to her, and sounds so still—so redolent of kings and castles, Irish poetry—in Boston it is not a “good name.”

  But she does not care anymore about those distinctions, those family-money-position badges that used to mean so much to her, about which she has always been so finely acute. None of that is important, of course it is not; she is so muc
h in love with Gordon, and only love is really important. Only love.

  Besides, Gordon is a National Scholar, and he belongs to the Fly Club, despite his name, and the Fly is really tops.

  Lavinia looks like her father, the same gray eyes, same delicate, fine nose, and longish chin. And perhaps this striking resemblance is one of the things that makes her father adore her; more and more he adores his mirror, this increasingly beautiful young woman, his only child. Middle-aged, almost fifty at her birth (her mother, the beauty, was twenty-five years his junior), Mr. Harcourt’s self-image has been kept young by his daughter, almost atoning for such disappointment with his wife. He is not old and gray and paunchy; he is young!

  But he does not always yield to the whims of his beautiful daughter; of course not, he won’t spoil her.

  And so he now says, “But you know your mother, she isn’t happy at Fredericksburg, Lavinia.”

  He looks at her sternly, and Lavinia returns the look. She does not say, however: Mother isn’t happy anywhere. Neither of them says this, but the sentence lies there between them; it is the truth.

  Mr. Harcourt sighs. “Well, we’ll have to see,” he says.

  Knowing that she has won, they will spend Christmas at Fredericksburg, Lavinia retains a sad smile: it would not do to show triumph over an issue that will surely make her mother unhappier yet.

  But.

  “My mom’s that upset,” says Gordon over the phone, that night. “She’d planned on me being here all the time. And when I said Washington—”

  “Oh, darling,” Lavinia cries out, at this announcement of Gordon’s that he is not, after all, coming down to Washington. It seems the worst thing that has ever happened to her: things gone all wrong, for almost the very first time. “I’ve missed you so much!” she cries out, uncontrollably.

  “I’ve missed you, kid.”

  But something is wrong, Lavinia can hear it in his voice. Is he embarrassed to be giving in to his mother, a man of nineteen? Or could there be something else? Gordon has sometimes mentioned an old girl friend, Marge, whom Lavinia has understood to be his parents’ choice for him. Is Marge around, is she, too, home for the holidays? Is Gordon more interested in her than he has admitted? This possibility causes Lavinia genuine pain, along with quick murderous impulses; however, at the same time she knows that it is extremely important, always, to pretend to believe whatever a man is saying. She figured that out a long time ago, on her own: never accuse them of lying. And so now she says, “Well, darling, maybe I could get my parents to let me come back a day or so early. We could have fun in Boston. Just see each other. You could meet me at South Station.”

  “Oh, great. Say, that would be terrific.”

  Something is wrong; his voice is wrong. However, she will not let herself think about it; that would be fatal. She will go back early to Boston, and when he sees her again everything will be all right, Lavinia is sure of that—sure of her power, in that way. Her beauty.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m coming,” she says to Gordon. “Darling, I can’t wait to see you.” She will get all new clothes, everything new and beautiful, herself all beautiful and new. New lovely underclothes.

  “Kid, me too,” says Gordon.

  It is quite true that she can’t wait to see him again. To kiss him, to be kissed.

  There is no point, then, absolutely no point in going to Fredericksburg for Christmas—and no point either in Lavinia’s not taking moral credit for this shift in plans.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Lavinia says to her father, in the dark red leather library, full of books that no one reads. “You’re really right, Mother does hate it at the farm. It doesn’t seem fair to wish that on her, at Christmas.”

  “Ah, that’s my considerate girl.” Mr. Harcourt suppresses a sigh of relief.

  Her gray eyes meet his, so similar, in a level, serious look. They appear, father and daughter, to be two people speaking the truth; they both appear to be kind and concerned.

  Mr. Harcourt then asks, “How about your young man, though? It won’t be too hard to entertain him here?”

  “Oh no, there’s always something to do. All the parties. You know.” Not quite looking at her father, speaking vaguely, Lavinia adds, “Besides, he might not even be able to come. Those ROTC guys are always getting restricted.”

  “Oh.” If Mr. Harcourt senses duplicity in all of this he gives no sign; perhaps he is relieved not to have to meet the boy? He next asks, “Well, have you given any thought to your Christmas present?” and he smiles.

  Lavinia looks down modestly before she answers, “I really need some clothes. Maybe a coat?”

  In a pleased, surprised way her father’s smile deepens. “You’ve read my mind!” he tells her. “I’ve been giving some thought to coats for young ladies, in all that famous Boston cold. I thought—well, what would you say to a really good fur coat? A good dark mink? It would be a sort of investment.”

  He is always generous with Lavinia; still, this offer comes as a surprise. A couple of years ago, when she was at boarding school, Lavinia wanted a nice fur coat, just a simple sheared beaver, and her father really hit the ceiling: remarks about new-rich Jewish girls (“Jewesses”), vulgar little fifteen-year-olds in fur. So that now, when he offers mink, Lavinia is sorely tempted; she can so easily see herself in mink, she knows that she is perfect for some dark, glossy fur, her hair the perfect contrast, her height perfect to carry it off. Harvey was dying to give her a mink coat. But: she cannot appear in mink, meeting Gordon, mink would be something that neither he nor anyone in his family could afford. She will have to settle for a really good black wool coat; no one not knowing a great deal about clothes, and Gordon knows nothing at all, would guess how expensive it will be.

  Demure, Lavinia says to her father, “Oh honestly, Daddy, I just don’t know. Don’t you think that maybe, with the war on and all, I should just get a plain black wool coat?”

  “Well, of course. Whatever you say, my darling. But come to think of it I’m sure you’re right. And I’m proud that you had the thought.”

  Gazing at each other in mutual satisfaction, Lavinia and her father lift similar long chins, in similar gestures of pride and self-deception.

  “Look, I can’t even listen to your excuses for not doing my coat on time. I am leaving for Boston on Friday morning. I am coming in here on Thursday afternoon to pick up my coat. At that time you will have it ready. Is that clear?”

  Gray eyes flashing, chin raised, Lavinia delivers this not-pretty speech to the large pale-brown woman who is sitting on the floor, her face on a level with the hem of Lavinia’s new coat, her mouth full of pins, her right hand clutching a stubby piece of chalk. Lavinia does not look beautiful, at that moment, but her pale face has terrific power, nobility, almost. At boarding school, in the senior play she was Joan of Arc, and she could be playing Joan right now, so convincing, so driven by a sense of mission is she.

  The pins prevent the Negro woman on the floor from saying anything at all, but her eyes express acquiescence. Resignation (she hardly has much choice).

  Lavinia smiles. “You do the most wonderful work,” she says, and now she is very pretty. “And it’s not quite right around the waist. I want it to fit perfectly. Like all my clothes.”

  Getting off the train, on a Friday night that is also New Year’s Eve, Lavinia is very beautiful. With the perfectly fitted, perfectly simple black coat (that cost more than the month’s salary of the Negro fitting woman), she wears perfect black suede shoes, with high thin heels, and a filmy pale pink scarf at her throat. As she steps down carefully from the high train, off and into Gordon’s arms, she sees her own beauty reflected in Gordon’s eyes. In his kiss.

  Whatever has been wrong will now be all right. He loves her entirely, as she loves him. They are perfect for each other, perfect together.

  They break apart to look at each other, and kiss again.

  Gordon says, “Well, we’d better start. I’ve got the car, old Potter’s
off skiing in New Hampshire, the bum.”

  “Oh, Gordon, that’s perfect.”

  He picks up her bag. “Say, what’ve you got in this thing, your rock collection?”

  She laughs, although she has heard the joke before; it is what Gordon says whenever he carries anything of hers, even the green book bag that he bought for her at the Coop. His first present. Thinking of this, of presents, it comes to Lavinia that later that night, at midnight, maybe, Gordon will give her the tiny gold fly, the emblem of his club. You are not supposed to give them away, and if he did it would mean—not exactly an engagement, but something important. A symbol. A little frightened (suppose he does not give it to her, ever?), Lavinia realizes just how much she wants that tiny fly.

  “Well, how about it?” asks Gordon. “Dinner at the Pudding, okay?”

  Well, it is not okay; they go to the Pudding all the time, and now, in wartime, the Pudding is not an exclusive place; it has been turned into an officers’ club, officers from everywhere, all over the place. All kinds of men, who would not under normal circumstances belong to a club at Harvard, or even be at Harvard. Lavinia is more than a little tired of dinner at the Pudding, although tonight, for New Year’s Eve, there will be a band, and dancing. But she had been hoping, well, hoping for dinner in Boston, maybe dancing there: the Ritz, or at least the Fox and Hounds. However, however, she firmly tells herself, nothing like that is important, really. What matters is how handsome Gordon is, with his thick almost blue-black hair, his lovely fine mouth and clear pale skin. His blue eyes. What matters is love. “Oh, wonderful,” says Lavinia, convincingly, smiling up at Gordon, clutching his arm delicately against her breast.

  At the Pudding Lavinia and Gordon know a lot of people, but tonight fewer than usual of their friends are there for dinner. They are all having dinner in Boston, Lavinia imagines. However, she is pleased to see that Gordon leads them to a small table, where they will be alone. They can talk.