A pantomimic buttoned lip. A nod. A hand upon the teapot. A declining wave from her daughter.
“So. Anyway. We exchanged a polite greeting, and she asked me if the music from the party the night before had bothered us, and I could hardly keep from smiling, because I do remember how loud it was — the music and the sound of the motor cars coming and going — and, yes, there was drinking, and how does one defend something like that — well, of course you can’t because it’s against the law — I’m not saying anything you aren’t already thinking, Mother, in big bold letters, but the way she said it, it was almost as if she were wishing I had come over and told her to soften the gramophone and make her raucous guests behave themselves.”
“And why do you say this?”
“Because I think she was looking for an excuse to invite me to her party.”
“And why ever would you say that? Oh dear, is that another smudge? Have you been playing Cinderella in the fireplace, sweet?”
Mrs. Hale licked a finger to saliva-dab away the offensive speck, but Carrie pulled herself out of reach, drew a handkerchief from her strap purse, and applied it to the cursed spot. “I’m sure it’s cinders in the air. Zenith has dirty air from all of its factories. Or haven’t you noticed? Sometimes I think your face looks smudged as well.”
Mrs. Hale sighed. “I’d like us to move to California someday. I think you should be in pictures. I think you’d be divine in pictures.”
“Thank you, Mother. That was very supportive. May I go on?”
“By all means.”
“I say she might have wanted to ask me in the other night because I actually did get an invitation — to her next party. It came right after I smiled and said, ‘No, your music never bothers us.’”
“Now why on earth would you say such a dishonest thing as — wait! — did I just hear you say you’ve been invited to the Prowses’ next bacchanal? By that hell-kitten? By that baby-vamp the professor snatched for himself from the bassinet?”
“Oh Mother, sometimes you sound exactly like Mrs. Littlejohn.”
“On this point, I shall take that as a compliment.”
“The party is Friday night. Bella’s birthday. And I want to go. She said I’m to invite my ‘four girlfriends’ as well, and I think I’d very much like to do that.”
“I am absolutely flabber—”
“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought over the last two—”
“—gasted. You know exactly the sort of crowd that will be there: all the professor’s long-hair friends, and, and all the local Bohemians, and every happy violator of the Volstead Act from here to Mohalis—”
Carrie, taking her mother literally for the moment, responded by shaking her head. “I don’t think anyone’s coming from Winnemac U. She did say she’s planning to invite some boys from the A&M here in town. And she told me with all candor the reason she’s inviting those boys. It’s because she thinks it’s time for We Five to come out of our clamshells like Venus on the beach — but here’s the part I really wanted to talk to you about, Mother.”
“The invitation alone isn’t sufficient to send me into apoplexy?”
“No, there’s more — a little more that was said that day at the candy store which I need your opinion on. And this is about you too, Mother. She said — well, she said we’re boring. She just came right out with it.”
“Well I never!”
“She said you and I are the most drab, the most boring people on the block, and this even includes Mr. Gruber with his string collection. She said it’s probably too late for you.”
“To do what? To stop being boring?” Sylvia Hale’s jaw was set. She could hardly get the words out.
“That’s right. But maybe there was hope for me. I still had a chance to kick up my heels for a few years before the Grim Reaper came knocking — because wasn’t that the purpose of life, after alclass="underline" to make a little noise before we go quiet into the grave?”
“Good God.”
“Well, I’m quoting her, of course. Like how she quoted Edna St. Vincent Millay — that little poem she wrote a couple of years ago.”
Wearily: “What little poem?”
“‘My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night. But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends — it gives a lovely light!’”
“Oh sweet Jesus. She wants you to be like her!”
“No, Mother. She wants me to live.”
“Live fast and die young. I’m faint. Hand me that Town & Country. I want to fan myself.”
Carrie handed her mother the magazine, but Mrs. Hale didn’t make a breeze with it. Instead, she pointed to the photograph on the cover and said, “Isn’t that a pretty gazebo?”
“We are boring, Mother. You know we are.”
Sylvia tossed the magazine aside with an indignant snort. “Well, we can’t all drink from ankle flasks and dance on tables. Is that really something you’d like to do, darling?”
“I don’t know just what I’d like to do, except sometimes I think I’d like to do a little more than sit at home nearly every night.”
“Well, if you’ll permit me to be candid, may I just say that your four friends aren’t any more exciting than I am. Mark my words: you’ll drag them to this orgy on Friday night and they’ll just — why, they’ll just recede into the upholstery.”
“But that’s my point. I have found friends — whom I love, please don’t misunderstand me, Mother — who are just younger versions of — well—you.”
“I may be mistaken, but I think you just insulted me.”
“I love you so much, Mother. But let me kick up my heels just a little and see what it feels like.” Carrie got up from her chair so she could put an arm around her mother’s shoulder. Through the embrace she could feel her mother trembling slightly. “I promise not to write you out of my life.”
“I don’t believe it. That isn’t how this scenario usually plays itself out. The daughter skips away and she forgets to write and she doesn’t even remember to send her mother a wire on her birthday. Then one day she reappears. Out of the blue. Now she’s pregnant with a Negro man’s baby or shaking with delirium tremens or some other such ghastly thing. And she isn’t the woman’s loving daughter anymore.”
“I’ll always be your loving daughter, Mother. Whether I choose to bruise my heels on tabletops or not.”
Mrs. Hale took a deep breath and smiled.
“What is it?”
“Something Reverend Mobry said in one of his sermons. He said, ‘God doesn’t wish us to embrace life with one finger.’ Is this what we’ve been doing, dear? Have I held you too close? Do people laugh at the mother and daughter homebodies behind their backs?”
“If they’re laughing, Mother, then they’re rude not to be minding their own business. Because I happen to think I’m the luckiest daughter in the world. I have a mother whom I love and who I know loves me with all her heart.”
“And when someday you find yourself a beau—”
“You do want that for me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. But the right boy. And you know you aren’t likely to find ‘the right boy’ among a bunch of roughneck Aggies coaxed into attending one of Mirabella Prowse’s wild parties with promises of contraband Canadian whiskey.”