us to come in and sit for a minute. I was so astonished at her behavior that I was happy to think of sinking down into a chair myself. Inside the room she did seem calmer, but I found it odd that while in the restaurant she had been so embarrassed, with a total stranger she seemed to brighten. It ended with the three of us drinking port from a decanter on his desk. I must move on from this description and make a couple of points, lest I forget them. One is that as she became more composed, Alice mentioned that her dear friend Amelia was unhappy in New York and was looking for a way to move to San Francisco. Then she spoke glowingly of S.F. and told the man she and I had discussed a similar move, though I assure you we have not. There it seemed they had something in common, as both had stayed at the same hotel near Union Square, she on a shopping expedition many years ago, he on business. I felt uncomfortable, as she asked him rather personal questions: if he enjoyed practicing law, etc. All the while, she was clasping my hand or letting go of it to glance in the mirror and smooth her hair, which I’m afraid her friends and I had quite wrecked by dabbing her face with a wet napkin in the restaurant .
Martine—only between the two of us: her demeanor changed so that she seemed to me almost flirtatious, so focused was she on the man’s every word. All of it was so curious, though—and after a bit I realized that I was completely exhausted, that the strain had gotten to me, and that if we did not leave the room at once, I might never be able to rise. By then, though, the two of them were firm friends. To my relief, Alice seemed willing to move along quite soon thereafter, so we stood and thanked him for his most generous hospitality .
In our room, she insisted I call to find out how to reach this man in the future. I told her that if she found him so interesting, she should place the call herself, since she had not minded at all dragging him into our affairs in the first place, and we had something of a row. She said I was not receptive to new friendships and then—with a clarity I couldn’t deny—she said it would be far better if I called than she, because he would see that what we wanted in the future was a social interaction, whereas if she called it might seem improper. As it was, neither of us called. I thought I could be much more coherent about Alice’s strange behavior and our odd encounter, but details already slip my mind as I write. That night, I had a dream of trees being planted. In the dream, I realized they would not take root because concrete lay below the grass. The whole house rested on concrete, which extended far beyond the house’s foundation, and what that meant was that we would never be able to dig but so deep, and then things would be impossible. (Clearly, your point about my visiting Dr. St. Vance myself, about which I was once so perturbed with you, is not a bad idea.)
This is so sentimental, Martine, but I keep having an image of you when you’d only recently arrived in our home, running from Alice around the dining room table because you did not want her to braid your hair, sunlight streaming into the room—more of the nonsense you and Alice often engaged in. That particular day, the sun bleached out your features, so that you seemed quite surreal. I felt very distant from the two of you, much older than I should like to feel .
Affectionately ,
M .
6
“THERE WAS A COUPLE I was showing houses to last winter who’d adopted two children,” Sonja said to Jenny Oughton. “They let both kids rename the dog. Don’t laugh—it’s true. The wife explained to me that when they adopted the first child, they wanted to give him the same name they’d given the dog. The dog’s name was Jonathan. The husband changed the dog’s name to Sparks, because he said when it ran across the floor, sparks flew from under the dog’s toenails. Then when the kid was five, the father told his son about
Martine—only between the two of us: her demeanor changed so that she seemed to me almost flirtatious, so focused was she on the man’s every word. All of it was so curious, though—and after a bit I realized that I was completely exhausted, that the strain had gotten to me, and that if we did not leave the room at once, I might never be able to rise. By then, though, the two of them were firm friends. To my relief, Alice seemed willing to move along quite soon thereafter, so we stood and thanked him for his most generous hospitality .
In our room, she insisted I call to find out how to reach this man in the future. I told her that if she found him so interesting, she should place the call herself, since she had not minded at all dragging him into our affairs in the first place, and we had something of a row. She said I was not receptive to new friendships and then—with a clarity I couldn’t deny—she said it would be far better if I called than she, because he would see that what we wanted in the future was a social interaction, whereas if she called it might seem improper. As it was, neither of us called. I thought I could be much more coherent about Alice’s strange behavior and our odd encounter, but details already slip my mind as I write. That night, I had a dream of trees being planted. In the dream, I realized they would not take root because concrete lay below the grass. The whole house rested on concrete, which extended far beyond the house’s foundation, and what that meant was that we would never be able to dig but so deep, and then things would be impossible. (Clearly, your point about my visiting Dr. St. Vance myself, about which I was once so perturbed with you, is not a bad idea.)
This is so sentimental, Martine, but I keep having an image of you when you’d only recently arrived in our home, running from Alice around the dining room table because you did not want her to braid your hair, sunlight streaming into the room—more of the nonsense you and Alice often engaged in. That particular day, the sun bleached out your features, so that you seemed quite surreal. I felt very distant from the two of you, much older than I should like to feel .
Affectionately ,
M .
6
“THERE WAS A COUPLE I was showing houses to last winter who’d adopted two children,” Sonja said to Jenny Oughton. “They let both kids rename the dog. Don’t laugh—it’s true. The wife explained to me that when they adopted the first child, they wanted to give him the same name they’d given the dog. The dog’s name was Jonathan. The husband changed the dog’s name to Sparks, because he said when it ran across the floor, sparks flew from under the dog’s toenails. Then when the kid was five, the father told his son about
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