hungry—always starving —Ed finally said, “I apologize.” But it lacked a certain sharpness.
“That’s okay,” Hugh replied. But it wasn’t, not exactly.
Chapter Four
Spring
Guy Ordway had succeeded in life despite his education. His business credentials and background were the subjects of much speculation, but because he had married Helen’s mother, whose family was one of the best on the East Coast, the speculation could go only so far. He’d married into a good family; he was protected, and because he’d never forgotten his shaky origins, he was adamant in wanting his daughter to marry someone if not of Wall Street and the Ivy League then certainly of the Ivy League. He made no secret of wanting to protect his legacy, to bolster it with the appropriate names.
He’d forbidden Helen to live in Manhattan, where (he reasoned) there was far too much trouble for someone like her, but he’d approved of Helen living on the bottom floor of a Brattle Street townhouse with her cousin Lolly (whom he remembered as always having been a well-behaved and frankly bland little girl) and her cousin’s husband, Raoul Merva.
Raoul was Hungarian, twenty years older than Lolly, and chair of the Harvard mathematics department. After meeting Raoul at Lolly’s father’s funeral on Fishers Island, Mr. Ordway had gotten it into his head (and Hugh had a difficult time imagining how) that Raoul Merva—though problematically Catholic by birth if not practice—possessed atraditionalist sensibility that had boded well for keeping Helen out of trouble. That, and he was industrious; he’d come to the United States—to Harvard—to escape the clutches of Communism and had—as Hugh could best understand it—done something revolutionary with triangulation in applied mathematics as well as investing some of Lolly’s money, which had made them a modest fortune. Part of Helen convincing her father to let her live with her cousin Lolly had involved Raoul phoning Guy and offering reassurance that he would keep a strict eye on Guy’s daughter. Which was, of course, patently untrue. Raoul thought Helen should live however she liked. His only suggestion was that she go and get analyzed, after being brought up by a father like that.
Lolly was an excellent cook. There was always a glass pitcher of home-brewed iced tea in the refrigerator, along with roasted chicken and potato salad she’d learned to make when she and Raoul had lived in France, with mustard and oil and fresh dill that she grew in their back garden, along with grapes that, come August, would be fecund and fallen to the ground. Lolly acknowledged that her plants were overgrown and attracted bugs, but she was terrible at pruning.
“I’m afraid that nothing will grow back,” she explained one evening, as they all sat outside under the burgeoning grapevine, drinking a bitter Hungarian liqueur.
Raoul took her hand. “My mouse. She is afraid of death.”
“Everyone is,” said Helen sweetly—thought Hugh—and reassuringly.
“Raoul isn’t,” said Lolly. “When he told me he didn’t want children—you know, soon after we’d met—he said he had a similar certainty about not needing to continually publish.”
Raoul solemnly nodded, not letting go of her hand.
“A similar certainty?” asked Helen.
“No fear of death,” Lolly gently explained.
Each Thursday evening, Helen went to typing class (she really was a hopeless typist; in class she would eschew the instructive exercises, instead typing up lengthy descriptions of the people around her, which were rife with errors but amusing to read), Lolly went to her analyst,and Raoul invited a remarkably diverse group of professors to the house. His only requirement of the evening was that everyone had to drink the disagreeable liquor of his homeland and actively try not to be boring. His theory was that, by the end of two months, 50 percent would become Unicum drinkers for life. In addition to Raoul’s
“That’s okay,” Hugh replied. But it wasn’t, not exactly.
Chapter Four
Spring
Guy Ordway had succeeded in life despite his education. His business credentials and background were the subjects of much speculation, but because he had married Helen’s mother, whose family was one of the best on the East Coast, the speculation could go only so far. He’d married into a good family; he was protected, and because he’d never forgotten his shaky origins, he was adamant in wanting his daughter to marry someone if not of Wall Street and the Ivy League then certainly of the Ivy League. He made no secret of wanting to protect his legacy, to bolster it with the appropriate names.
He’d forbidden Helen to live in Manhattan, where (he reasoned) there was far too much trouble for someone like her, but he’d approved of Helen living on the bottom floor of a Brattle Street townhouse with her cousin Lolly (whom he remembered as always having been a well-behaved and frankly bland little girl) and her cousin’s husband, Raoul Merva.
Raoul was Hungarian, twenty years older than Lolly, and chair of the Harvard mathematics department. After meeting Raoul at Lolly’s father’s funeral on Fishers Island, Mr. Ordway had gotten it into his head (and Hugh had a difficult time imagining how) that Raoul Merva—though problematically Catholic by birth if not practice—possessed atraditionalist sensibility that had boded well for keeping Helen out of trouble. That, and he was industrious; he’d come to the United States—to Harvard—to escape the clutches of Communism and had—as Hugh could best understand it—done something revolutionary with triangulation in applied mathematics as well as investing some of Lolly’s money, which had made them a modest fortune. Part of Helen convincing her father to let her live with her cousin Lolly had involved Raoul phoning Guy and offering reassurance that he would keep a strict eye on Guy’s daughter. Which was, of course, patently untrue. Raoul thought Helen should live however she liked. His only suggestion was that she go and get analyzed, after being brought up by a father like that.
Lolly was an excellent cook. There was always a glass pitcher of home-brewed iced tea in the refrigerator, along with roasted chicken and potato salad she’d learned to make when she and Raoul had lived in France, with mustard and oil and fresh dill that she grew in their back garden, along with grapes that, come August, would be fecund and fallen to the ground. Lolly acknowledged that her plants were overgrown and attracted bugs, but she was terrible at pruning.
“I’m afraid that nothing will grow back,” she explained one evening, as they all sat outside under the burgeoning grapevine, drinking a bitter Hungarian liqueur.
Raoul took her hand. “My mouse. She is afraid of death.”
“Everyone is,” said Helen sweetly—thought Hugh—and reassuringly.
“Raoul isn’t,” said Lolly. “When he told me he didn’t want children—you know, soon after we’d met—he said he had a similar certainty about not needing to continually publish.”
Raoul solemnly nodded, not letting go of her hand.
“A similar certainty?” asked Helen.
“No fear of death,” Lolly gently explained.
Each Thursday evening, Helen went to typing class (she really was a hopeless typist; in class she would eschew the instructive exercises, instead typing up lengthy descriptions of the people around her, which were rife with errors but amusing to read), Lolly went to her analyst,and Raoul invited a remarkably diverse group of professors to the house. His only requirement of the evening was that everyone had to drink the disagreeable liquor of his homeland and actively try not to be boring. His theory was that, by the end of two months, 50 percent would become Unicum drinkers for life. In addition to Raoul’s
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