Souvenir of Cold Springs (7 page)

Heather asked, “Could you turn that down, Margaret?”

“Oh—sure.” Margaret turned the volume down to a whisper. “What about you? Are you still going out with that same guy? The one in law school?”

“Yes. Actually, we're living together.”

“In a dorm? They let you live together?”

“No, in an apartment off campus.”

“Wow. That sounds serious.”

Heather laughed. “I give us two months.”

“Why two months exactly?”

“What? Oh, I don't know. We're going to this big bash on New Year's Eve, for one thing. This dance. Strauss waltzes and champagne and pink balloons released at midnight. I'm on the committee, so I'm really obligated to show up with a date.”

“Do you know how to waltz?”

“Of course.”

Margaret stared at her. “You guys waltz? Wow. What is this—a new thing?”

“It's not that big a deal, Margaret. It's kind of fun, and it's very good exercise.” She picked at the chenille bedspread. “Timmy's not crazy about it, actually, but what the hell.”

“So—you mean you want to break up with this guy but you can't because you're on the committee for this dance and you've got like—tickets for it?”

“Yeah—that's roughly it. The tickets are fifty apiece.”

“Fifty dollars?”

“And I have this dress.”

“What kind of dress? A formal?” Margaret sat up, as if she were about to take notes. What a pain in the neck she must be in class.

“Well, it's long.” Heather thought of what the dress had cost her—the hole it had put in her checkbook. It had been a mistake—all of it: tickets, dress, Timmy, life. There they'd be at the dance, herself in the dress, Timmy bored and refusing to talk to anyone. The hell with him. She would talk to Rob Berglund, her committee head. And after the dance she would tell Timmy: Happy New Year, the time has come. “And I've got long white kid gloves to go with it,” she said.

“Oh my God.” Margaret flopped back on the bed again. “This is another world. I don't think I want to go to college.” She reached under the pillow and brought out a flat tin box. Inside were three neatly rolled joints and a book of matches. “Want some?”

“Actually, they sent me up here to get you.”

“They can wait.” Margaret held out the box. “Here.”

“I'm not really into this stuff at the moment, Margaret.”

“You don't do drugs out there?”

“Not really.”

“Not even pot?”

Heather said, “Frankly, I've got better things to do.” This was intermittently true.

“I suppose you can't get high and waltz at the same time.” Margaret held out the box. “Come on. You don't have to be into it to smoke it once in a while. On special occasions, like when your relatives are bugging you.”

“Oh, all right.” The matchbook said Café Algiers in gold script on black. Heather knew that was a place in Cambridge. She wondered what Margaret's life was like. She struck a match and inhaled, passed the joint to Margaret. She hadn't smoked pot in a while, and she hoped desperately that it wouldn't make her sick. She still felt queasy from the breakfast she'd had at the motel.

Margaret inhaled like a pro and said, “Potent stuff,
n'estce pas
?”

“Where do you kids get dope?”

“My friend Tara's brother brought this back from Mexico.”

“What a coincidence. My brother's in Mexico right now.”

Margaret pretended to cough and pounded herself on the chest. “Excuse me, Heather, but I really can't stand your brother, if you want my honest opinion.”

“I don't, thanks, actually.”

They smoked in a slightly hostile silence. The dope was making Heather feel better, oddly enough, but it seemed wrong to her that Margaret had been the one to offer it—this teenage whiz kid who, except for the weird hair and makeup, looked like she should still be playing with her Barbies—except that she knew perfectly well Margaret had never played with a Barbie doll in her life.

“How's Ann doing?” Margaret asked.

Heather shrugged. She wasn't going to tell Margaret about Lambert Prep. “All right, I guess. They don't get a Thanksgiving vacation at her school.”

“They don't? Wow. What is it? Reform school?”

“Ha ha,” Heather said. “Not quite. Actually, my mother was up there a couple of weeks ago, but I haven't had a report from her lately. She's in Florida at the moment.”

She had the postcard in her purse. Blue pool, palm trees, tanned people on chaise longues. The card read:

Honey, I'll miss you at Thanksgiving (so called) but when I get a chance at some sun I'm not about to pass it up. I'll be here 2 wks, then back to S.C., then who knows. See you Xmas I hope. I'll call. XXX. Mom

Margaret said, “I kind of miss your mother being here on Thanksgiving. She always livened things up.” She chuckled. “Is she still casting spells on Uncle Teddy? I remember she had that voodoo doll she used to stick pins in. And she was consulting with some gypsy fortune-teller.”

“God, Margaret—that was a joke. One of my father's weird routines.” This was a lie: Heather had seen the doll. Her mother had mailed it to her father, a yellow-haired figure made out of one of his old shirts, stuck through with straight pins. Her father had opened the package and stared at it speechless, then he'd begun to laugh uncontrollably. Shortly after that he got his ulcer. Heather said, “My mother's bad, but she's not that bad.”

“Oh well,” Margaret said mildly, obviously sick of the subject. She squeezed out one more drag and crushed the remains in the tin box. She turned off the tape in the middle of a song. “I guess we should go down. What do you think of Sandra?”

“I still haven't met her. What's she like?”

“Sort of snobby. She hates America, especially Syracuse.”

“Who can blame her?” Heather asked.

Uncle Jamie had
found the old sketches he'd been looking for: pencil drawings from ten, twelve years ago of Heather and Peter and Margaret and Ann. He had set them up on the chair rail around the dining room, and they all exclaimed over them as they lit into the turkey and potatoes and lentil loaf.

Weren't they cute.

Will you look at little Heather—those eyes.

I know I've said this before, but Margaret's the spitting image of Peggy, you've really captured it in that sketch, Jamie.

As always, when Peggy's name was spoken, there was a melancholy moment of silence. Aunt Nell bowed her head, then looked up again at the sketches and said, “And Ann—the sweetest face.”

Heather looked at small, blonde Ann, smiling out at the world. The picture gave her an actual pain between her breasts, like indigestion. Looking at the sketches of herself wasn't much better.

Uncle Jamie wanted them for a show of his drawings at some gallery in London. “You're going to put me up in a gallery?” Margaret asked. “These old pictures of me?”

“Why not?” Sandra said. She smirked around at the table. “I should think you'd be flattered, Margaret.” Mawgrit, she pronounced it. Heathah, she had said when they were introduced. I've been dying to meet you, I hear you're the absolute hope of the family.

“I hate being conspicuous,” Margaret said.

Sandra laughed. “Well, I hardly think any of your little friends are likely to stroll into a gallery in London and see your portrait there.”

“No, but I can sympathize,” said Lucy. “It's just knowing that you're on public exhibition. And it reminds me of those primitive peoples who don't want their photographs taken, they think it takes away a part of themselves. I really try not to photograph people unless I have their permission and explain to them exactly what they're getting into.”

“But these are so sweet,” Thea said. “They really express what childhood is all about.”

“I do think pencil sketches are rather a different thing from photographs,” Sandra said. “We really are talking about fine art.”

Heather sighed. “There we were—innocent babes trusting our dear old Uncle Jamie to draw our pictures. Little did we know what we were getting into.”

She had meant to joke, to lighten things up, but Jamie put down his fork and folded his hands tightly in front of his chest. “It seems to me that you're making rather a big deal out of nothing,” he said stiffly. He jerked his head when he talked, like Sandra did, and little Britishisms were creeping into his speech—all those rathers. “This is a completely insignificant exhibit, and this is insignificant early work.”

“Hardly, darling,” Sandra murmured.

“I'm only including them because I was specifically asked to. I can easily leave them out. They certainly don't represent my best efforts.”

“Could you all argue about it after dinner?” Nell asked. She passed the turnips across the table. “Here, Jamie. Please. Have some turnips.”

“And let me give you some more turkey,” Thea said. “I know you like dark meat, Jamie. And what about you, Heather? Did you get enough?”

“But it's a family tradition,” Teddy said. “We always argue at Thanksgiving dinner. Come on. Don't stop there. Let's talk about Thatcher. Let's talk about Reagan.”

“Oh God, don't get Teddy going on Reagan,” said Lucy.

“What's the matter, Ted? You're not better off than you were four years ago?” asked Mark.

“Not bloody likely,” said Teddy.

“And whose fault is that? Reagan's? Isn't there a more obvious candidate?”

Sandra broke in. “Reagan's a good man at heart, don't you think?” She cut a piece of turkey and put it in her mouth, still talking. “Getting on a bit, perhaps, but he's such an inspiring figure.”

“He's a younger fella than I am,” Mr. Fahey said. When Mr. Fahey chuckled he showed crooked yellow teeth, browning at their roots. “Spring chicken compared to me.”

“He's an old fascist,” Margaret said.

“Please,” said Nell. “My dears. Don't start. My digestion isn't what it was.”

“It's the meat,” said Lucy. “It makes people aggressive.”

“Then what makes you and Margaret aggressive?” Mark asked her. “Lentils?”

“Am I being aggressive? I thought I was being a model of self-control.”

“Maybe it's the champagne,” Aunt Nell said, looking tired. “Teddy, you should quit bringing champagne. It gets us all fired up. We should drink something milder.”

“Pepsi,” Mr. Fahey said, and they all laughed.

Sandra said, “I do think American holidays are fascinating. The idea of getting together for the sole purpose of overeating.”

“Oh my God!” Lucy put her hands over her mouth. They all looked at her. Her cheeks flamed red. She gave a little laugh. “I just ate a piece of turkey. Just absentmindedly took it off the platter and put it in my mouth and chewed it and ate it. Oh God, I can't believe I did that.”

“It won't kill you,” Mark said.

“That's not the point. I haven't touched a piece of meat in—how long? Nearly eight years.”

Heather said, “See, Aunt Lucy? What did I tell you? The world is full of ex-vegetarians.”

“I'm not an ex-vegetarian, Heather. I'm—God, this isn't funny, it's terrible, I feel awful.”

“Oh Mom.” Margaret reached across Mr. Fahey to pat her mother's arm. They had exactly the same nose and mouth, Heather noticed. Tiny and prim. Lucy was actually prettier—though if Margaret would do something with her hair it would help a lot. “Maybe you should go rinse your mouth out with water,” Margaret said. “At least you'll get the taste out.”

Lucy stood up. Mark said, “Lucy, forget it, for Christ's sake. There's no need to make a scene.”

Heather agreed: it occurred to her that Lucy had caused nearly as much trouble at these dinners as her own mother had. The year she had the miscarriage and went into hysterics. The time she made a long, sermony public declaration of her vegetarianism that had given Heather and Peter a fit of the giggles. The time she insisted on organizing a sledding party no one wanted because she thought they all sat around too much. The way she always intervened when the kids fought, taking Margaret's side, making everything worse. Not to mention plenty of nasty exchanges with Mark. Why they stayed married to each other was anybody's guess.

“I'm not making a scene, Mark,” Lucy said. “This is none of your business, anyway.”

“It is if you keep yakking about it.”

She left the room and they heard water running in the kitchen.

“I quite agree,” Sandra said. She smiled at Mark. She thinks he's attractive, Heather thought. Good God. “A lot of fuss over nothing, if you'll pardon my opinion,” Sandra went on. “Not that I don't think she has a point, in a way.”

“I have to respect a strong belief,” Aunt Nell said. “I can see where she'd be upset.”

“Right on,” Teddy said. “I don't blame her a bit.”

“Really?” Mark reached for the champagne bottle and poured some into Sandra's glass, then his own. “And what strong beliefs do you have, Ted?”

“I didn't say I had any. I just respect them.”

“I thought you might have one or two.”

“Nope. Want to pass that bottle over here, sonny? Anybody want more besides me?”

“There you go, Ted,” Mark said, tapping the bottle with his finger before he handed it over.

“There I go what?”

“There's your strong belief. You believe in booze.”

Nell said, “Mark.”

Teddy looked at the champagne bottle, surprised. “Do I? No, I don't think so. Booze isn't a belief. It's more like a way of life. A whatchamacallit—coping strategy. Helps me cope with my in-laws, for instance.” He poured more champagne into Sandra's glass and it fizzed and slopped over. “I don't mean you, of course, fair one.”