Ellen came after all, in a pink sundress that showed off her tan, wearing high-heeled sandals. She went to the baby and lightly touched its shoulder. She said that the baby was miraculous and fawned over him, no doubt embarrassed that she had made a scene with Z earlier.- She did not seem to want to look at Z. He was obviously surprised that she had come.
They were drinking Soave, with a little Cointreau mixed in. A big glass pitcher of golden liquid sat on the center of the table. The food was vegetables that had been sautéed in an olive oil as green as Max’s treasured jade, a plate with three kinds of sausages, a wooden tray with bunches of radishes (she had placed scissors on the board, to see if Len would say anything, just as a reminder of the day), strawberries, sourdough bread, cornbread, and honey.
Everyone was exclaiming. Several hands reached for the pitcher at once. Beads of sweat streamed down the glasses. Z complimerited Elizabeth on the meal as he poured more of the wine mixture into her glass. It was so easy to please people: to take advantage of a summer day and to bring out attractive food, with trays rimmed with sprigs of mint, studded with daisies. Even Louisa cheered up. She lifted a sausage with her fingers and smiled. She relinquished the baby to Ellen, and soon Ellen’s lips were resting on the baby’s tiny pink ear. Pretty, pretty, Elizabeth thought — even though she did not like Ellen much. Pretty the way her lips touched the baby’s hair. Pretty the way her diamond sparkled.
She looked around the table, and thought silently: Think only about the ways in which they are wonderful. Henry’s cheeks, from the long morning in the sun, were pink enough to make his eyes appear more intensely brown. Next to him, Z raised the lid off the honey pot and she looked at those fingers she loved — the ones that, as he gestured to make a point, seemed to probe the air to see if something tangible could be brought forward. Margie and Joe were as attuned to each other as members of a chorus line (he looked at the cornbread, and her hand pulled the tray forward). Max was so complacent, so at ease, that any prankster would have known where to throw the firecracker for best results. Len, sitting next to Ellen, edged his shoulder a little closer and — as Louisa had done earlier — cupped his hand protectively behind the baby’s head. And Louisa, though there were dark circles under her eyes, was still the child — half — charming, half-exasperating — who picked out her favorite vegetables and left the others.
Next door the brothers, again lighting the barbecue, again tossing the softball, shouted insults to each other and then cracked up at their inventiveness. One threw the ball and it rolled away; the other threw it back underhand, to make it arch high.
What happened then, out on the lawn, was this: Henry swatted at a bee with a roll of paper towels, and suddenly three or four more buzzed low over the table. Hardly had any of them begun to realize what was happening when bees began to appear everywhere, dropping down on the table like a sudden rain, swarming, so that in a few seconds anyone who had not seen the honey pot on the table to begin with would have seen only a cone of bees the size of a pineapple. And then — however wonderful they had been — Max became in an instant the coward, chair tipped back, colliding almost head-on with Margie Ferella; Henry reached for his cane and was stung on the wrist; as a bee flew past Ellen’s nose, she screamed, shooting up from the chair, knocking over her glass of wine. Joe Ferella put his hands over his head and urged the others to do the same. Louisa snatched the baby back from Ellen, hate in her eyes because Ellen had been concerned only with her own safety, and it had seemed certain that she would simply drop the baby and run.
When Elizabeth remembered the afternoon, late that night, in bed, it was as if she had not been a part of it. She had the sense that the day, like a very compelling movie, was something half dreamed. That there was something inevitable and romantic about the way she and Z had risen in unison and reached toward each other reflexively.
Later, Henry had told her that her hand and Z’s, clasped across the table, had reminded him of the end of a tennis match, when the winner and the loser gripped hands perfunctorily. And then he had stopped himself. What an odd thing to think of, he had said: clearly there had been no competition at all.
THE LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR
Toward the end of my third marriage, when my husband and I had enough problems on our hands, the Welcome Wagon lady began to call on us. It was just a rented house — more than we could afford, too, so we were going to have to give it up before summer was over. The first time she came I told her it was an inconvenient time to talk, and that we were going to be moving, anyway. Still, she came back the next day, saying that she hoped I had a minute. That day had been helclass="underline" my husband arguing about who should get the dog (he brought it home, but I was the one who wanted to keep it in spite of how much shots cost), the dog running and cowering when we raised our voices, the upstairs john backed up. My husband had no idea where the plunger was, although a plunger is a pretty big thing to lose. I had to tell her that it wasn’t a good time. Not to be put off, she asked when it would be. I’m not good at putting people off. I start to feel guilty, which I know is unnecessary, but still I do. “Friday,” I told her, and I made it a point to be out when she came. My husband cooked soil at the greenhouse on Fridays and Saturdays. He wasn’t home either: just the dog, who had looked from the moment we got him as if he could use a friend. He would have been happy to hear her rap and to be let outside for a few minutes, but all that happened was that she went away.
The next week she came back. She was a tall woman, quite heavy, wearing a white poncho with black stars woven into the wool and ratty-looking fur tails. She had on a black skirt that I knew the dog would get hairs all over, and a ring on her wedding finger that looked like something Richard Burton would have bought Elizabeth Taylor. It was so large that the diamond had fallen sideways, and rested against her baby finger. She was trying to flick it straight when I opened the door.
“Come in,” I said. It had to be done sometime.
She came in and the dog dashed to greet her. He’d just had two teeth pulled, and we owed the vet for one of them. He seemed fine, though, in spite of what he’d been through the day before.
I thought I should be polite and offer her coffee, although since I’d stopped drinking it, the aroma wasn’t too pleasant to me. Naturally, she said she’d have some, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. “What’s boiling water?” I said. Something like that.
She eyed the pictures in the side room, where I meant for us to sit. They were hand-colored engravings of trout. My husband was a fisherman. He bought them for a dollar each, from people who didn’t know any better. They were the nicest things we had.
She took off the rat-tail poncho and draped it over one of the chairs. I had to force the dog to back off from sniffing it. The sniffing would have been all right, but he was a licker, too.
“As you can probably tell, I love this community and want to serve it,” she said. She told me she had lived down the road — she pointed, as if I didn’t know where the road was — for almost twenty years. “I came here as a bride,” she said. “You know those happy days. Everything looks good to you. But this community kept on looking good.” She laughed. “Now I’m almost a dowager,” she said. She fiddled with the poncho, tapping her fingers over the stars as if they were checkers and she were debating her move.