wondered if she’d be able to get out of it.
“That one’s broken,” Ian whispered at her, extending his hand to help her up. “Sit there.” He pointed to a thronelike carved wood chair.
“Mrs. Schmidt,” Elm began, “I’m a huge fan of your work. You know, I’m on the board of the New Jewish Institute, though I’m not myself Jewish. Your genius has—”
Mrs. Schmidt held up her hand in a “spare me” gesture. “This is not a case where the one I’m most fond of will get to sell my art, Mrs. Howells. When I am ready to part with it, the one who can offer me the most favorable terms will be my proxy, even if they are a one-armed ax murderer. You are here because I enjoy meeting new people. What can you tell me?”
“Beg your pardon?” Elm asked.
“I spent World War II in a hayloft in France,” Mrs. Schmidt said. “I walked into Texas from Mexico. I once met Elvis Presley.”
Elm began to say “Wow,” then realized these were examples, not actual experiences. The sound that emerged was “Whoa.”
“My family has land on this island off the coast of Connecticut,” Elm began. She very rarely parted with this information. She was never invited to the island now that her mother was dead, and she felt it gave people the wrong impression of her. They imagined a silver spoon. But all the silver had long since been hocked. “We used to go there in the summers when I was a child. Dinners were formal for the adults, but the children were served in a separate dining room, Tater Tots and miniature hamburgers. Paradise. The summer I turned twelve I was dying to be let into the adults’ room. The official age was thirteen, but I begged and begged, reminded them my birthday was coming up in October. Finally, on the last night, they let me. Mother gave me one of her old dresses to wear. It fit like a gunnysack. She put the necklace her mother had given her around my neck, an add-a-pearl necklace that no one ever added pearls to. She did my hair in a high bun and stuck a small sunflower into it, and I was convinced I was a grown-up.
“At dinner, we were served steak medallions and potatoes au gratin. I concentrated on not spilling. I had half a glass of wine. Then a nice man came around to shake hands and when he got to me I gave him the handshake my father had taught me, firm but not rough, look the person in the eyes. He had nice blue eyes, very bright, or maybe it was just the light in the lodge. He said to me, ‘Lovely to meet you. What grade are you in?’ I told him, ‘Sixth grade.’ Then I responded how my father always did. ‘And what do you do?’
“The man laughed and my father laughed, and my mother turned bright red and clutched me to her. The man said, ‘A little of this, a little of that. Nothing of any great importance.’ And then he walked away. Later I learned he was President Reagan.”
Mrs. Schmidt smiled, but Elm was unable to tell what the smile meant. Had she passed the test? Ian, who had heard the story many times before, nodded encouragingly. Without turning to him, Mrs. Schmidt said, “Young man, would you please run out and get some half-and-half? This milk that the woman brings me is too watery.”
“I think I saw some in the refrigerator,” Ian said. “I’ll check the expiration.”
“Young man,” Mrs. Schmidt sighed, “I’m trying to get rid of you. Bea dear and run to the deli and get us some half-and-half. And go to the Korean one, not the Pakistani one.”
Elm thought she saw Mrs. Schmidt wink at her. The woman was a web of tics; no wonder she was so thin. Ian shrugged and stood up. Elm could hear him as he banged into the piles of paper and bric-a-brac, beating his way to the front door.
Mrs. Schmidt lifted her teacup to her lips. It shook, but she managed a loud slurp before it spilled. The teacup banged loudly as it hit the saucer, and, before she knew what she was saying, Elm sputtered, “My son died.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Schmidt said.
“Do you
“That one’s broken,” Ian whispered at her, extending his hand to help her up. “Sit there.” He pointed to a thronelike carved wood chair.
“Mrs. Schmidt,” Elm began, “I’m a huge fan of your work. You know, I’m on the board of the New Jewish Institute, though I’m not myself Jewish. Your genius has—”
Mrs. Schmidt held up her hand in a “spare me” gesture. “This is not a case where the one I’m most fond of will get to sell my art, Mrs. Howells. When I am ready to part with it, the one who can offer me the most favorable terms will be my proxy, even if they are a one-armed ax murderer. You are here because I enjoy meeting new people. What can you tell me?”
“Beg your pardon?” Elm asked.
“I spent World War II in a hayloft in France,” Mrs. Schmidt said. “I walked into Texas from Mexico. I once met Elvis Presley.”
Elm began to say “Wow,” then realized these were examples, not actual experiences. The sound that emerged was “Whoa.”
“My family has land on this island off the coast of Connecticut,” Elm began. She very rarely parted with this information. She was never invited to the island now that her mother was dead, and she felt it gave people the wrong impression of her. They imagined a silver spoon. But all the silver had long since been hocked. “We used to go there in the summers when I was a child. Dinners were formal for the adults, but the children were served in a separate dining room, Tater Tots and miniature hamburgers. Paradise. The summer I turned twelve I was dying to be let into the adults’ room. The official age was thirteen, but I begged and begged, reminded them my birthday was coming up in October. Finally, on the last night, they let me. Mother gave me one of her old dresses to wear. It fit like a gunnysack. She put the necklace her mother had given her around my neck, an add-a-pearl necklace that no one ever added pearls to. She did my hair in a high bun and stuck a small sunflower into it, and I was convinced I was a grown-up.
“At dinner, we were served steak medallions and potatoes au gratin. I concentrated on not spilling. I had half a glass of wine. Then a nice man came around to shake hands and when he got to me I gave him the handshake my father had taught me, firm but not rough, look the person in the eyes. He had nice blue eyes, very bright, or maybe it was just the light in the lodge. He said to me, ‘Lovely to meet you. What grade are you in?’ I told him, ‘Sixth grade.’ Then I responded how my father always did. ‘And what do you do?’
“The man laughed and my father laughed, and my mother turned bright red and clutched me to her. The man said, ‘A little of this, a little of that. Nothing of any great importance.’ And then he walked away. Later I learned he was President Reagan.”
Mrs. Schmidt smiled, but Elm was unable to tell what the smile meant. Had she passed the test? Ian, who had heard the story many times before, nodded encouragingly. Without turning to him, Mrs. Schmidt said, “Young man, would you please run out and get some half-and-half? This milk that the woman brings me is too watery.”
“I think I saw some in the refrigerator,” Ian said. “I’ll check the expiration.”
“Young man,” Mrs. Schmidt sighed, “I’m trying to get rid of you. Bea dear and run to the deli and get us some half-and-half. And go to the Korean one, not the Pakistani one.”
Elm thought she saw Mrs. Schmidt wink at her. The woman was a web of tics; no wonder she was so thin. Ian shrugged and stood up. Elm could hear him as he banged into the piles of paper and bric-a-brac, beating his way to the front door.
Mrs. Schmidt lifted her teacup to her lips. It shook, but she managed a loud slurp before it spilled. The teacup banged loudly as it hit the saucer, and, before she knew what she was saying, Elm sputtered, “My son died.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Schmidt said.
“Do you
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