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.”