Again in the strictest sense, she had thought of nothing which could be accurately described as a virtue, but by six o’clock she had thought of so many things that had at one time or another pleased or amused her that she put her head between her knees and, although she had regularly screamed at him to get away from her and stay away from her, cried for the loss of Ryder Channing.
When she saw the candles lighted in the dining room, she knew that Lily had heard. Lily would have heard and lighted the candles and brought up a bottle of wine and told China Mary to find some artichokes because Martha liked them. Lily and her mother were both great little candle lighters. The river could be in flood, the barn could be on fire, an escaped convict could be holding them hostage: you’d find Lily and Edith Knight in the dining room, lighting the candles and chatting about silver patterns, asking the convict if he would mind a dry white instead of a red with the roast. It was so pronounced an act that Lily’s every gesture toward domestic gaiety or grace aroused the suspicion that disaster was at hand.
Avoiding Lily’s eyes, she let Lily and Everett know, before the artichokes were on the table, that she had known for months. She had not only known for months, but she could not be more pleased. Really. It was exactly what Ryder needed. Of course she had met her. She had met her a year ago, and had hoped then that Ryder would marry her. Lily would have to meet her. They would ask Ryder to bring her out.
Lily thought, although she was not certain, that she had known the girl’s older sister the year she was at Berkeley. Sally Dupree. A Kappa, lived in Piedmont off Mountain, near that circle. Would that be the family, she wondered.
That would be the family.
Money, then.
Construction money, Everett believed. Wartime. It was all mixed up in his mind with Henry Kaiser.
It had, Lily corrected him, nothing to do with Henry Kaiser. It was perhaps the same kind of thing, but not connected in any way. No ships. And although she was perfectly aware that Dupree Development Inc. had gotten big during and since the war, the Duprees had not exactly been on the street when she knew Sally in 1940.
Ships or no, Martha supposed that Nancy Dupree had probably come out at the Fairmont in a white dress ordered from Elizabeth Arden.
Lily was not sure. Those construction people were a little different, particularly if they lived in the East Bay. It was not as if her name were Crocker or Spreckels or something like that.
No, Martha agreed, it was not. It certainly was not as if her name were Crocker or Spreckels or something like that. What a revelation, Lily’s sudden grasp on the San Francisco social scene. Was it possible that Lily had at hand a copy of the 1948 San Francisco Social Register?
Never mind about that, Lily said. Just never mind. Anyway. Sally Dupree, the sister, had been much the same type as that girl of Everett’s who played tennis. Alice whatever her name was.
Annis, Everett said. Annis McMahon.
She had known it was something like Alice.
Perhaps, Everett suggested, Martha would like to take a trip.
A trip. Whenever Everett could think of nothing else to do with her, he urged her to take a trip. There was nothing like a trip.
She could, Everett pressed, visit Sarah in Philadelphia. Sarah could take her to New York and she could buy some new clothes, see some plays.
Philadelphia was not universally considered, or so Martha had heard, the ideal winter vacation spot. She had not heard of the smart San Francisco set — Crocker, Spreckels, names like that — wintering there in years.
Perhaps the Islands, Lily improvised. There were all kinds of people Martha knew in Honolulu right now and she could have a marvelous time. As a matter of fact she might plan to take the Lurline over with Francie Templeton in January.
It was all, Martha said, Del Paso Heights to her.
It was a joke, Lily explained to Everett. It was something funny his father had once said.
Speaking of funny things people said, Martha wanted to tell them something funny Nancy Dupree said the first night she met her. At a party in Piedmont. Nancy (who was, Lily and Everett should know, called “Bugsy,” that’s right, Bugsy Dupree) had told her that the only ships to take in the Pacific were the American President ships, because they were jammed with fascinating people — Japanese engineers, people like that.
There you were, Lily declared. She was exactly like her sister and they were both exactly like that Alice McMahon.
Annis. Annis McMahon.
Well, whatever. She would have said something like that. She would have told you about the fascinating Japanese engineers you met on the American President ships.
What was wrong with Japanese engineers, Everett wanted to know. If you were on a ship going to Japan you presumably liked Japanese people in the first place.
Everett was, Lily said, missing the point altogether. There was nothing wrong with Japanese engineers. It was simply that a certain kind of girl would say that. Sally Dupree. That tennis player.
Everett did not recall that Lily had even met Annis McMahon.
Well, she had. And if she was not mistaken Martha had too. Hadn’t Martha met Annis McMahon?
Martha did not know. Possibly she had.
She did not raise her eyes from her own hand on the table, as if she could scarcely summon up enough interest to answer at all.
After Lily had left the table to put Knight and Julie to bed, Martha lit a cigarette from the candles and then blew them out one by one.
“I wish we had some brandy.”
“We drank two bottles of wine between us.”
“That’s not the same thing, Everett. Get with it.”
“You drink too much.”
“Now Everett. Sometimes I drink too much. Sometimes you drink too much. But neither of us quote unquote drinks too much. Francie Templeton is practically the only person you know who categorically drinks too much.”
“You are tight right now.”
“All right,” Martha said without interest, scraping candle wax off the tablecloth with her fingernail.
“I never did like Channing,” Everett said suddenly. “I never did think you should be messing around with him.”
“Everett. Ryder Channing has been and is now my best friend.”
She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Now you sing some Christmas carols with me.”
Everett stood behind her at the piano, singing an occasional phrase of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” as she picked out the notes with her right hand.
Still playing, she said abruptly: “Remember before Sarah got married when we used to go to Carmel at Christmas time?”
“Yes,” he said. “I remember.”
“You remember we’d go to the graveyard first and put a holly wreath on Mother’s grave, then drive on down to Carmel?”
“I remember,” he repeated. “Why?”
“It was nice then, that’s all.”
Over and over Martha played the same phrase: Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by. Because she had not turned on the lights, the blaze from the fireplace and the colored lights on the Christmas tree flickered all around the room.
“I always think about how nice it was at Christmas, that’s all.” She stopped playing. “I always thought it was you and me together, against Sarah and Daddy. Because they remembered Mother and you really didn’t. I always figured they thought she wouldn’t have died if it hadn’t been for me.”