those chesterfields, with a black velvet collar—the ones so popular last year. Deirdre had on a hat with a heavy black veil; she could have got it out in Hollywood, like one of those women had worn to the funeral of Valentino, or maybe that Scott Fitzgerald that died awhile ago. But if Deirdre was crying no one could see a thing. Melanctha’s hat was small, sort of perky on top of all that curly hair, Russ’s hair—and if she cried no one saw her either.
Cynthia Baird, who, if anyone knew her history with Russ (and plenty of people did, a whole lot more than she thought)—Cynthia could have been expected to be thinkingof Russ, at least, but she was not; she thought of Harry, over there in London with all those Nazi bombs coming down and God knows what horrible wartime dangers (not to mention the temptations of all those English girls with their ravishing clear bright skins). Cynthia superstitiously felt—though she knew it was crazy—that Russ’s death was an omen, a warning that Harry could be next, and she thought: Harry’s death would be the one unbearable thing for me. And she well knew that thought to be dangerous, and she knew too—of course, how could she not know these days?—that many women were bearing losses just as bad for them, husbands and sons and lovers. Parents, in bombing raids. Children, anywhere. Why should God not ask her to give up Harry, to whom she had not even been faithful? There had been Russ, and now Derek, who was not even in love with her, as he too often made clear. She tried to bargain with God: If You don’t kill Harry, I’ll be faithful to him. After the war.
But she noted that she was saying after the war, not now. Thus not ruling out Derek. Oh Jesus, she was hopeless, she knew she was—as she thought too that even if English girls had lovely skin their legs were often terrible, whereas she herself had very good skin, and her legs were exemplary. Gorgeous gams, Harry often said, to tease. And he said, I love your lazy legs.
“O Almighty God, the God of the spirits of all flesh, who by a voice of heaven didst proclaim, Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.… ”
After all that, and so ladened with their thoughts and memories of Russ, everyone needed a drink, and there were plentyof good things to eat and drink at Dolly and Willard Bigelow’s house—they had kindly, insistently offered to do that honor, and so Deirdre, along with a reluctant Melanctha, had let them.
The furniture was all pushed back, as though for a dance, and the French doors that separated the living room from the dining were flung open, revealing a large and festive spread, almost covering all the white linen space.
“Well, I just thought to have all the things that Russ was most partial to, even if strictly speaking that does not make good sense. But isn’t that what the Egyptians did, or somebody back then? Funeral meats? I wonder whatever those were, nothing to do with cannibals, I hope. Well, Willard would know—here I am married to what they call a classicist and I don’t know the first thing about ancient days. And no, Cynthia, you can’t help me one little bit, me and Odessa have got it all so organized you wouldn’t believe. If she can just stop her sniffling. I declare, seems like she’s more upset over Russ than there’s the slightest cause for her to be. First we think we understand all about the colored, and then we turn around for a minute and we don’t understand the first thing. And speaking of that, what on earth was Russ doing out on a railroad platform or whatever it was, out there drinking with a colored man, even if it was a sergeant in the Army? I just don’t believe that, not for one blessed minute. Even if there is a war on, there’s just got to have been something funny going on, by which I mean something bad, like that Nigra thought Russ had a lot of money on him.”
Only Cynthia observed the quick look, the instant of pure hatred, that flashed across
Cynthia Baird, who, if anyone knew her history with Russ (and plenty of people did, a whole lot more than she thought)—Cynthia could have been expected to be thinkingof Russ, at least, but she was not; she thought of Harry, over there in London with all those Nazi bombs coming down and God knows what horrible wartime dangers (not to mention the temptations of all those English girls with their ravishing clear bright skins). Cynthia superstitiously felt—though she knew it was crazy—that Russ’s death was an omen, a warning that Harry could be next, and she thought: Harry’s death would be the one unbearable thing for me. And she well knew that thought to be dangerous, and she knew too—of course, how could she not know these days?—that many women were bearing losses just as bad for them, husbands and sons and lovers. Parents, in bombing raids. Children, anywhere. Why should God not ask her to give up Harry, to whom she had not even been faithful? There had been Russ, and now Derek, who was not even in love with her, as he too often made clear. She tried to bargain with God: If You don’t kill Harry, I’ll be faithful to him. After the war.
But she noted that she was saying after the war, not now. Thus not ruling out Derek. Oh Jesus, she was hopeless, she knew she was—as she thought too that even if English girls had lovely skin their legs were often terrible, whereas she herself had very good skin, and her legs were exemplary. Gorgeous gams, Harry often said, to tease. And he said, I love your lazy legs.
“O Almighty God, the God of the spirits of all flesh, who by a voice of heaven didst proclaim, Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.… ”
After all that, and so ladened with their thoughts and memories of Russ, everyone needed a drink, and there were plentyof good things to eat and drink at Dolly and Willard Bigelow’s house—they had kindly, insistently offered to do that honor, and so Deirdre, along with a reluctant Melanctha, had let them.
The furniture was all pushed back, as though for a dance, and the French doors that separated the living room from the dining were flung open, revealing a large and festive spread, almost covering all the white linen space.
“Well, I just thought to have all the things that Russ was most partial to, even if strictly speaking that does not make good sense. But isn’t that what the Egyptians did, or somebody back then? Funeral meats? I wonder whatever those were, nothing to do with cannibals, I hope. Well, Willard would know—here I am married to what they call a classicist and I don’t know the first thing about ancient days. And no, Cynthia, you can’t help me one little bit, me and Odessa have got it all so organized you wouldn’t believe. If she can just stop her sniffling. I declare, seems like she’s more upset over Russ than there’s the slightest cause for her to be. First we think we understand all about the colored, and then we turn around for a minute and we don’t understand the first thing. And speaking of that, what on earth was Russ doing out on a railroad platform or whatever it was, out there drinking with a colored man, even if it was a sergeant in the Army? I just don’t believe that, not for one blessed minute. Even if there is a war on, there’s just got to have been something funny going on, by which I mean something bad, like that Nigra thought Russ had a lot of money on him.”
Only Cynthia observed the quick look, the instant of pure hatred, that flashed across
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