She wondered about it for the remainder of the summer. And at last she decided her mother was right. She played piano beautifully, yes, and she had done a few compositions of which she was very proud, but that didn’t necessarily indicate she had any of the real requisites for a career in music. Wasn’t that what Gillian had meant that night? About the falseness of college and the standards of the real world? Wasn’t her mother simply repeating what Gillian had said? And yet, if Gillian had been there, if she could have discussed this with Gillian, she was sure... but of course they both meant the same thing. And of course, she did not have the talent, she simply did not have the real talent.
She faced the knowledge, and somehow the summer went by. She supposed she was relieved. It was good not to have to wonder about something like that. And yet, oh and yet if her mother had only said something other than what she’d said, that was the part that hurt, oh if only her mother had said, Amanda darling go write your music, go write your beautiful music, oh if only her mother had said that, and yet it was good to know, good to have the uncertainty gone if only the other thing wasn’t gone, too. She did not know what the other thing was. It had something to do with her mother’s not wanting anyone to pick up Kate when she was crying, and it had something to do with that deadly awful clicking of the knitting needles, and the way her mother had said, “What do you expect to do, daughter?” — not using her name, not saying “Amanda,” but saying “daughter” instead, and by using that word somehow denying the relationship.
She faced her life. She looked ahead and she faced her life, knowing that something was gone now, something was missing, but facing it nonetheless with a weary sort of sad hurt inside her, looking forward to her return to Talmadge, but not the way she usually anticipated the beginning of school, not with that same rush of excitement she had known even when she was a little girl buying a pencil box and a stiff-backed composition book in the local store, not with that same excitement that seemed to vibrate in the very air of autumn. Something was gone, and she could not escape the knowledge that her own mother had taken it from her, had stolen it from her.
Somehow, the summer went by.
When her mother came into the apartment, Gillian was curled up in one of the living-room chairs, reading Gassner. Her mother’s arms were full of bundles, and there was a curious expression on her face, as if she’d been hit by a bus.
“Hello,” Virginia said cheerily, “hello.” She put down her bag and her packages on the hall table, removed her hat, fluffed her hair, and said, “Were there any calls, Gillian?”
“Nope.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I think I’ll make some.”
“I just had some milk.”
“Oh. Well, I think I’ll have some anyway. My, what a beautiful day it is. All the trees are beginning to turn, Gillian. It’s like a painting. My, what a day.” She walked out of the living room, and Gillian could hear her humming to herself as she began filling the coffeepot in the kitchen. Gillian stared at the empty doorframe, shrugged, and picked up her book again. After a while her mother came back into the living room, sat down with her coffee cup, and began sipping at it, smiling somewhat idiotically. Gillian glanced at her over the top of her book, shrugged again, and went back to reading.
“Gillian, guess what happened to me?” Virginia said.
“What?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Sure I am.”
“I was just coming out of Alexander’s. You know, right on the corner of Fordham Road and the Grand—”
“Mom, I know where Alexander’s is. I was only born in this—”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Virginia said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” almost singing the words.
“Well, you always say things like that. Yesterday you asked me if I remembered Aunt Mary. Well, now how could I possibly forget Aunt Mary, since I only know her from when I was two inches high? I know I’ve been away at college, but—” and she cut herself short, thinking, I’d better get away from that little subject right this minute, and feeling again the fear and guilt within her, the knowledge that everyone in the house still thought she was going back to Talmadge on the fifteenth. She had lied about registering by mail, had lied about her plans, had withheld the fact that she had already placed a deposit on an apartment in Greenwich Village, well not really the Village, more or less the outskirts of the Village, actually if one wished to get fussy, the very tail end of the Village or, to be positively accurate, the waterfront almost, but still an apartment of her own, and lucky to get anything at all these days. Still, she had lied, and she could not find the courage to tell her mother and her father that she was not going back to Talmadge, that she was going to register at a real dramatics school downtown, and that she was moving out so she could be closer to the theater district. That was the part she knew would bring down the roof, the part about moving out.
“You must forgive my little idiosyncrasies,” her mother said, still cheerfully, so cheerfully that Gillian was certain now she’d been struck by a bus and had her brains addled.
“Sure,” she answered.
“Anyway, I was coming out of Alexander’s when I bumped into this man, literally bumped into him, Gillian. One of my packages fell to the sidewalk. There wasn’t very much in it, just some socks I picked up for Monica. She should have come home for the summer, don’t you think? Why was it necessary for her to go to summer school?”
“I guess she wants to finish quicker,” Gillian said patiently.
“For what? What’s her hurry?” Virginia shrugged, as if unwilling to discuss unpleasant subjects, the cheerful smile coming onto her mouth again. “Guess who it was, Gillian?”
“Guess who who was?”
“The man who knocked my package down.”
“Who?”
“Barry Murdock.”
“Who’s he?”
“Barry Murdock,” Virginia repeated, and she opened her eyes wide as if expecting Gillian to recognize the name immediately.
“Well, who’s Barry Murdock?”
“Why, he wanted me, Gillian,” Virginia said, and she lowered her eyes. For a moment Gillian thought her mother actually meant “wanted.” Then she realized that what this Barry Murdock had wanted was to marry Virginia. She remembered hearing her mother mention him once before, and she nodded briefly and raised her book again.
“He’s still very handsome,” Virginia said wistfully. “He picked up my package for me.”
“Did you thank him?”
“Of course I thanked him. We had a drink together.”
“I didn’t know you drank, Mom,” Gillian said, suddenly interested.
“Oh, all I had was a little whiskey sour.”
“I see.” Gillian paused, studying her mother. “Where was this?”
“At Thwaite’s. You know, on the parkway.”
“Yes. You drove there?”
“Mmmm.”
“With this Barry Murdock?”
“Yes.” Virginia paused. “He never married.”
“That’s too bad.”
“He told me he’d never found another girl like me.”
Gillian nodded, studying her mother.
“I was rather pretty, you know.”
“Yes,” Gillian said.
“And slender. Of course, after two children... well, I can’t blame you girls for that. But I used to be very pretty, Gillian. Your father thought so. And Barry, of course.”