The walls were bare, marked with crumbling nail holes and the ghosts of old picture frames. The windows were curtainless, tall and narrow, letting in a bleached white light. She was sitting in one of those canvas butterfly slings from the sixties, and she would bet that the other pieces came from that era too. Will must have raided his garage or attic before he moved here, unearthing remnants of his student days — a cheap blond coffee table, a matted orange shag rug, a wheeled, adjustable chair meant for an office desk.
“Maybe you could give me some decorating tips,” he said, and he smiled at her hopefully, showing all his teeth.
Rebecca smiled back. “Is Beatrice not here yet?” she asked.
“No, but I expect her any — oh, I’m sorry! What can I bring you to drink?”
“What do you have?” she asked.
“Water, milk…”
“Water, please.”
He left the room. He was wearing slippers, she saw, folded down in back beneath his heels, although otherwise he was neatly dressed in khakis and a white shirt. She could glimpse no more than a sliver of the room adjoining this one — wallpapered with dark, ugly flowers — but she gathered it was a dining room. She heard a faucet running, and then he returned, holding a pink aluminum tumbler. “Here,” he said, giving it to her. When their hands accidentally touched, she was reminded that he hadn’t kissed her hello. He must be anxious. He started raking his fingers through his hair in that agitated way he had, and instead of sitting down himself, he remained standing in front of her. She took a swallow of water. It was room temperature, tasting of chlorine and something sharp, like mildew. She set the tumbler on the floor beside her chair and rose and wrapped her arms around his neck. “What—?” he said, stepping back, looking toward the door even though it was closed.
She didn’t let him go. She tightened her hold and said, “Don’t worry; everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
“Oh, you don’t know Beatrice,” he said, still eyeing the door.
“We’re going to have such fun!”
“I’m serving this nutritious grain dish because she’s vegetarian, and I think I might not have cooked it enough.”
The buzzer rang, making him start. Rebecca dropped her arms, and he went to press a button next to the light switch. “Oh, God,” he said. He raked his fingers through his hair some more. He turned back to her and said, “Also, I used chicken broth. Don’t tell Beatrice.”
“My lips are sealed,” Rebecca said.
“It was what the recipe called for, and I wasn’t sure I could omit it.”
“Next time, I’ll give you the name of a powder you can substitute,” she told him.
She felt peculiarly unconcerned, as if she were playing a part in a play — the part of somebody knowledgeable and efficient. While Will tucked his shirt more securely into his khakis, she just stood waiting, not so much as glancing down at her own clothes. (At least she knew she couldn’t be taken for a hippie.)
Slow footsteps climbed toward them. Will flung open the door. “Hi, there, Beatrice!” he said, in a sprightly voice that Rebecca had never heard him use before.
The person who walked in was small and tidily constructed, of no determinate gender, dressed entirely in black leather although it was a warm evening. Her skin was a stark, chalky white and her barbs of black hair had a dead look, as if they’d been dyed. She endured a brief clasp from Will — less a hug than a momentary spasm of his arm around her shoulders — and then she turned and surveyed Rebecca coolly. She had a gold stud in her nose and a thin gold ring in one eyebrow — the kind of thing that always made Rebecca feel she should diplomatically avert her gaze. Not one feature in this girl’s face brought Will to mind.
Rebecca said, “Hello, Beatrice. I’m Rebecca.”
Beatrice turned back to Will. “You told me to be here at six,” she said, “so here I am.”
“Well, thank you, Bee. I’m awfully glad you came.”
“Are we eating supper, or not? Because I have things to do.”
Will looked over at Rebecca. She smiled at him encouragingly. He looked at Beatrice. “Wouldn’t you like to sit around a while first?” he asked. “Have a little talk?”
“Talk? Talk about what? Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No, just—”
“Who is this lady, anyhow? I don’t get it.”
Will tugged violently at a handful of his hair. Rebecca was the one who answered. “I’m an old, old friend of your father’s,” she said. “He and I grew up together.”
This earned her another cool stare, from head to foot. All at once, Rebecca was less confident of her outfit.
“So,” Beatrice said, “I guess you’re going to tell me next you’ve fallen madly in love or something.”
Will said, “Beatrice!” in an explosion of pent-up breath.
“Well, it’s true we’ve… fallen in fond, I guess,” Rebecca said. “But really I just came here tonight to meet you.”
“Okay: we’ve met,” Beatrice said. “Can I go now?” she asked her father.
“Go?” he said. “But you haven’t eaten!”
“All right. If you insist, let’s eat,” she said.
Will sent Rebecca another look. She said, “Yes! Why don’t we.”
Anyhow, there weren’t enough cleared chairs for the three of them to sit in the living room.
They went out to the dining room, Will leading the way. The table was incongruously elegant — a dark, varnished oval on a pedestal of lion paws — but the chairs were the folding metal kind you’d see in church fellowship halls, and a dozen cardboard boxes partially blocked the window. Will said, “You two sit down and I’ll bring the food.” Then he disappeared behind a swinging door.
“Well!” Rebecca said. “Where’s your usual seat?” Because she wasn’t about to make the mistake of displacing Beatrice.
But Beatrice said, “I don’t have one,” and pulled out the chair at the head of the table.
Rebecca chose the chair to Beatrice’s right. She took some time settling herself, unfolding her napkin (paper) and spreading it in her lap. Three green glass plates had been laid directly on the table, each with a rust-specked knife and fork to its left. Reflexively, Rebecca started to switch her knife to the other side. Then she thought better of it and left it where it was.
“When your dad was your age,” she told Beatrice, “his entire aim in life was to get his driver’s license.” This was one of her preplanned topics — something to break the ice. “He was the only boy in our class who wasn’t driving yet. He kept failing the road test. Has he told you that?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me,” Beatrice said. She seemed more affable now. She had picked up her plate and was holding it in front of her face, either checking her reflection or peering through it. “He’s such a klutz,” she said, setting the plate back down. “Every time he goes anywhere, just about, he comes back with a dented fender or something.”
“Well, he’s thinking,” Rebecca defended him. “He’s got his mind on more intellectual matters.”
Beatrice merely raised her eyebrows. Rebecca wondered if that was painful, considering the gold ring.
Something clanged on the kitchen floor, and Will said, “Drat!” Rebecca smiled conspiratorially at Beatrice. Beatrice remained stony-faced.
“Do you know how I imagined you?” Rebecca asked. “I thought you’d be the scholarly type. I don’t know why, but I used to picture that Will would have a son who was very studious and scientific. Tristram, I decided his name was. And then when he said he had a daughter instead, I sort of turned you into a female Tristram. I imagined you’d wear a long muslin dress and this meek, old-fashioned hair style.”