“We were married in Maryland,” Hank said.
“Then you were married illegally,” Gottleib said triumphantly. “The Maryland state law requires that the girl—”
“We know the state law,” Hank said firmly.
“Then you must know that your wife committed perjury when she falsely represented—”
“We’re married now,” Hank said.
“I want it annulled,” Mrs. Harder said quietly.
Linda turned to her mother. “Why?” she asked.
“Because you’re both children. We’ll have no trouble annulling the marriage. You’re underage. Once we point this out to—”
“I’m not a child, Mama,” Linda said with calm dignity.
“Just because you spent a few nights in a hotel room—” Mrs. Harder started, and Mr. Harder sharply said, “Patricia! Stop it!”
“I want it annulled,” Mrs. Harder repeated.
“And we don’t,” Linda said.
“It doesn’t matter very much what you want, young lady,” Gottleib pointed out.
“Now, now,” Henry MacLean said, “I think the kids should decide for—”
“Mr. MacLean,” Mrs. Harder said, “Let’s not complicate the issue. My daughter is underage. That’s quite enough for me, and quite enough for Mr. Gottleib, and quite enough for the state of Maryland. There’s no reason to—”
“Patricia, you are talking like a fool,” Mr. Harder said.
“Alex—”
“Now just keep quiet for a minute, can’t you?” He frowned at his wife, and she looked up at him with her own frown. “The kids got married. All right, let’s not jump off the deep end screaming annulment, annulment.” He turned to Hank. “How do you expect to support her, Hank?”
“I’ve already got a part-time job, Mr. Harder,” Hank said. “And I’ll be graduating next semester.”
“I’ll work too,” Linda said. “Until Hank graduates.”
“For that matter,” Mr. MacLean said, “I’ll help Hank until he gets on his feet. I think Linda’s a fine girl, and I wouldn’t want—”
“She’s not even out of high school,” Mrs. Harder said. “Suppose she has a baby?”
“So she’ll have a baby,” Mr. Harder said. “Is there anything wrong with married people having babies?”
“I’ll be a grandmother who never even attended her own daughter’s wedding. How could you do this to me, Linda? Am I a bad mother? Have I ever—”
“Mama, Mama.”
“Eve didn’t do this. Why did you have to do this?”
“Mama, I love him,” Linda said.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about love,” Mrs. Harder said.
“What’s wrong with their being in love?” Mrs. MacLean wanted to know.
“They’re children! What do they know about—”
“But they’re old enough to have babies, huh?” Mrs. MacLean asked, raising her eyebrows, her face getting redder.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Mr. Harder said. “I refuse to treat my own daughter like a criminal.”
“I want it annulled,” Mrs. Harder said.
“Even if we can decide among us,” Gottleib said, “that the marriage might work?”
“There are only two people who should decide that,” Mrs. MacLean said.
Mr. Harder smiled at her. “Right! My daughter and your son. The rest of us are just excess baggage. I suggest we break out the whisky and drink to the bride and groom.”
“Alex!” Mrs. Harder said sharply. “This thing is not settled!”
“What do you want to do? Call in the district attorney? Send Linda to jail? For God’s sake, look at her, Patricia. She’s a woman, your married daughter. Kiss her, hold her, Patricia. Love her.”
“I want it annulled,” Mrs. Harder said firmly.
“Could I... could I talk to Eve, please?” Linda asked.
Eve looked up. She was beginning to shake her head, but Linda took her hand and led her from the room. They went directly to the bedroom that had been Eve’s when she lived with the family. The room was now a second television room, but some of Eve’s old decorations were still on the wall — a pennant Larry had bought her at a Randall’s Island football game, a Lexington Avenue Express sign which she and Larry had stolen on a scavenger hunt, a framed photograph of her and Larry taken at Palisades. Amusement Park, a program from the Junior prom Larry had escorted her to at the Astor. Linda closed the door.
There was something of the past attached to the room, something of the innocent teen-ager lingering about the transformed room, something of the memory of Linda coming in to talk to her when she’d been a little girl, to talk to Eve before a date or sometimes when she returned home late at night. And suddenly, in the room that used to be hers, she could remember a Saturday in spring, the window open and the curtains rustling in a mild breeze. She could remember French notes spread open on her desk by the window, could remember the sound of Beethoven in the living room. And she thought...
Linda came to her.
“Eve?” she said.
She embraced her sister with sudden ferocity. “Oh, my baby,” she said. “Are you happy, Linda? Are you happy darling?”
“Yes, Eve. Eve, I love him so much. What’s wrong with Mama? Doesn’t she know we’re in love? Can’t you talk to her, Eve? Can’t you make her see?”
“Darling, darling...” Linda sat on the floor at her feet now, and Eve stroked the long black hair and then lifted Linda’s chin and looked into her eyes. “Does he love you very much, Linda?” she asked.
“Yes, Eve.”
“Are you sure, Linda? Be sure. I feel so old. I feel so goddamn old.”
Linda looked at her, puzzled. She took Eve’s hand and said, “Is something wrong?”
“No. I’m very glad you’re married. It’ll be nice having a married sister. It’ll be nice being an aunt someday.”
“Do you like him, Eve?”
“Do you like him, baby? That’s what counts.”
“Yes, yes. Oh, yes.”
“And you love him? You’re sure? You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
“Linda...”
She wanted to tell her sister about marriage. There were so many things Linda should know about marriage, the wonderful things and the horrible things, the security and the uncertainty, the tenderness and the cruelty, the excitement and the boredom, the ease and the difficulty. She wanted to tell her sister whom she loved very much in that instant, who seemed to her clean and untouched, young and innocent, about this wonderful and terrible thing called marriage. And when she tried to tell her, there was nothing she could say.
She could remember events in her own marriage, remember them as if they were happening right then, but they didn’t seem important enough to transmit; they seemed only highly personal incidents which were a part of her and Larry but which could not possibly apply to anyone else’s life. And again she was confused because an impersonal note had been introduced into the life she shared with Larry, a secretive note which, intruded upon the highly personal and private thing which was marriage. She felt almost complete soaring joy for her sister, and only despondent sadness for herself and her own baffling marriage. She wanted to laugh and she wanted to cry, and she did neither. She sat in undecided stunned silence, not knowing what to say or what to do. Her sister was starting upon a cycle the very cycle she herself had entered eight years before. What could she tell her? How could she prepare her?