formed a fountain along one wall, the tiny tables were coral-colored wood and black-and-purple lacquer. The waitresses were all Japanese, dressed in shroud-like Japanese designer outfits. They managed to appear like superior entities despite their lowly status as waitresses. She supposed it was cultural; they must feel superior simply by virtue of being Japanese—things could always be worse, at least they were not loud, oversized, pasty-faced Caucasians, reeking of milk and meat. A couple of menus were delivered to their table; Allison, who had clumsily parked the stroller alongside, knelt to show one of them to the infant. "Look!" She pointed to a picture. "Doesn't this cake look nice? Pink and green! Or would you rather have bean-curd ice cream in the shape of a bunny rabbit, Plum-bun?" The child's bright blue eyes widened slightly—his or her red hair stuck straight up like a Kewpie doll's—but it said nothing.
"How old is . . . he?"
"George's two and a half," Allison said, sitting down on the tiny pink three-legged stool that passed as seating. "He still hasn't spoken a word and his hair has never grown—he was born with it—but the psychologists at his school say he's incredibly bright. So it's just a wait-and-see, at this point. Einstein didn't speak a word until he was five years old. Isn't that right, Plummy?"
"And how old are your other two now?"
"May is seven, Thomasina is five."
Allison was a couple of years younger than she, about thirty. For a brief period they had been friends—they went out at night trying to pick up men, they went to the races at Saratoga Springs and stayed with friends of Allison's. In her early twenties Allison worked for a downtown newspaper, but she was living with a much older wealthy man who owned an Upper East Side restaurant. She wore thrift-store motorcycle jackets and her hair chopped off in
----
spikes. Then she met Archie: he made her move in with her parents. Almost overnight she traded in her goofy glasses for contact lenses, grew her hair into a respectable chin-length and married Archie in a quiet ceremony—"for the immediate family only, Florence, I'm sorry, but that's Archie!" She had the first baby at twenty-three. And their friendship, for all intents and purposes, was over. When they were both single they could go out hunting for men, a pair of cheetahs; without this pursuit there was nothing to keep them together.
Arch was twenty years older than Allison and managed a hugely successful mutual fund. Florence couldn't understand it. It was true that Allison came from a very good family, but why had Archie selected someone not a part of his world and then made her conform to it? He had basically forbidden Allison to see her again; in fact, Allison had to drop all her old friends—everyone she associated with now had to be selected or vetted by Arch. It seemed that Archie had decided, somewhere along the line, that when he reached a certain age he would find a zany girl from a good background and marry her. And Allison must not have been quite so unusual as she wanted people to believe or she wouldn't have let herself be molded quite so quickly.
Yet why hadn't Archie wanted her? She remembered she had screwed him a couple of times before he moved on to Allison. She could have been living Allison's existence, happily married—or at least married and established, never needing to worry about money again—if Archie had chosen her over Allison. He had seemed so dry and deadly at the time; he reminded her of an insect casing. Now, nearly ten years later, she would have taken financial security and social respectability even if dry-and-deadly came buttered alongside.
"Look, Pup-cake, isn't the cake pretty?"
The waitress had delivered a quivering mound of artificially colored cake—or perhaps it was some kind of pudding carved to resemble a sand castle with turrets. Florence had ordered a sea-weed-and-carrot-flavored shake; a shred of kelp spumed out
"How old is . . . he?"
"George's two and a half," Allison said, sitting down on the tiny pink three-legged stool that passed as seating. "He still hasn't spoken a word and his hair has never grown—he was born with it—but the psychologists at his school say he's incredibly bright. So it's just a wait-and-see, at this point. Einstein didn't speak a word until he was five years old. Isn't that right, Plummy?"
"And how old are your other two now?"
"May is seven, Thomasina is five."
Allison was a couple of years younger than she, about thirty. For a brief period they had been friends—they went out at night trying to pick up men, they went to the races at Saratoga Springs and stayed with friends of Allison's. In her early twenties Allison worked for a downtown newspaper, but she was living with a much older wealthy man who owned an Upper East Side restaurant. She wore thrift-store motorcycle jackets and her hair chopped off in
----
spikes. Then she met Archie: he made her move in with her parents. Almost overnight she traded in her goofy glasses for contact lenses, grew her hair into a respectable chin-length and married Archie in a quiet ceremony—"for the immediate family only, Florence, I'm sorry, but that's Archie!" She had the first baby at twenty-three. And their friendship, for all intents and purposes, was over. When they were both single they could go out hunting for men, a pair of cheetahs; without this pursuit there was nothing to keep them together.
Arch was twenty years older than Allison and managed a hugely successful mutual fund. Florence couldn't understand it. It was true that Allison came from a very good family, but why had Archie selected someone not a part of his world and then made her conform to it? He had basically forbidden Allison to see her again; in fact, Allison had to drop all her old friends—everyone she associated with now had to be selected or vetted by Arch. It seemed that Archie had decided, somewhere along the line, that when he reached a certain age he would find a zany girl from a good background and marry her. And Allison must not have been quite so unusual as she wanted people to believe or she wouldn't have let herself be molded quite so quickly.
Yet why hadn't Archie wanted her? She remembered she had screwed him a couple of times before he moved on to Allison. She could have been living Allison's existence, happily married—or at least married and established, never needing to worry about money again—if Archie had chosen her over Allison. He had seemed so dry and deadly at the time; he reminded her of an insect casing. Now, nearly ten years later, she would have taken financial security and social respectability even if dry-and-deadly came buttered alongside.
"Look, Pup-cake, isn't the cake pretty?"
The waitress had delivered a quivering mound of artificially colored cake—or perhaps it was some kind of pudding carved to resemble a sand castle with turrets. Florence had ordered a sea-weed-and-carrot-flavored shake; a shred of kelp spumed out
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