doing.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“That I was.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“I told you: She’s hauling your parents to Rockville.”
She kissed me, but gave me a squinty look.
Chapter 14
F OR THE REST OF the morning, things went nice for us. We stopped in Salisbury, where I bought flowers, corsages for the ladies, boutonnieres for Mr. Lang and me, and while they were being done up, rings for Sonya, at a jewelry store a few steps from the florist. I got her a sapphire solitaire engagement ring that cost more than I want to say, and a platinum wedding ring, a chased band with our initials engraved inside, in such a way as to intertwine. All that they did while we waited, and took my check without even calling up about it.
Sonya was pleased as a child with a rattle, and held the sapphire up for the sunlight to catch it, all during the drive home. We arrived around twelve-thirty, running into no delay on the bridge, and left the flowers in the car while she went to change to her wedding dress. I followed with the bags, and unzipped her and started to peel her. However, she pushed me aside and sat down in the armchair, there in the master bedroom. “Gramie,” she said, “one thing a sixteen-year-old knows, better than other people, because she does it so often herself, is when someone is lying. And you’ve been lying to me, ever since you came back from that call, the one put in to your mother. So I ask you, I ask you once more: What did she say?”
“Sonya, I’ve told you.”
“Call me a cab.”
“...Cab? What for?”
“Go home.”
“I thought we were getting married.”
“We were. Now I’m not.”
I sat down on the bed and tried to think. Pretty soon I said, “She asked about Jane Sibert.”
“In what way, asked about her?”
“Did I realize she likes me.”
“She loves you, is that what she meant?”
Then, one word at a time, jerky and quick, I gave her the whole bit, what Mother had said, what I had said, without holding anything back. She said: “What she thought is what we thought, all of us.”
“Who is we?”
“Us kids?”
“That I was sleeping with her?”
“Well? It’s what your mother thought too.”
“Seems that everyone thought it but me.”
“Are you sure you didn’t?”
“Who knows if I don’t.”
“You know if you’re telling the truth? Gramie, she’s not so old, and she had her mind on you, that we all could see. So you must have let her have it! You—”
“Well goddam it, I didn’t!”
“Okay, then you didn’t.”
She got up, went to the window, and stood looking out. Then she zipped up her dress, the one I’d been taking off. Then she sat down on the bed, picked up the phone, and ordered a cab. Then she unzipped my bag, and switched her nighties to her bag. I reached over, picked up the phone, and cancelled the cab order. She sat down with me, kissed me, and said: “Gramie, it cannot be, we’d just be doomed, we’d be doomed, right from the start. No girl is worth a million dollars.”
“You’re worth a hundred million.”
At that she started to cry, and buried her face on my shoulder. Then, between sobs: “No, I’m not—and not worth this million dollars—which is all hooked up with a dream—about shells and cotton and moonlight.”
“There’s just one thing.”
“...Yes, Gramie, what is it?”
“That kick in the tail—?”
“No, please, I couldn’t say no to that!”
She ranted on, pleading with me, “not to make it so hard for me—so hard to keep my promise—didn’t I say, didn’t I say it, Gramie, that I wouldn’t be inny pest?” And then, whispering: “Gramie, there’s not inny need for us to get married. Because we could see each other. She wouldn’t have to know, Mrs. Sibert I’m talking about. We could meet, on the Q.T.—”
“And do it?”
“Yes! On our same beautiful Cloud Nine.”
“By a funny coincidence, that’s what Mother suggested.”
“Oh, she’s sweet! So
“And what did you say to that?”
“That I was.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“I told you: She’s hauling your parents to Rockville.”
She kissed me, but gave me a squinty look.
Chapter 14
F OR THE REST OF the morning, things went nice for us. We stopped in Salisbury, where I bought flowers, corsages for the ladies, boutonnieres for Mr. Lang and me, and while they were being done up, rings for Sonya, at a jewelry store a few steps from the florist. I got her a sapphire solitaire engagement ring that cost more than I want to say, and a platinum wedding ring, a chased band with our initials engraved inside, in such a way as to intertwine. All that they did while we waited, and took my check without even calling up about it.
Sonya was pleased as a child with a rattle, and held the sapphire up for the sunlight to catch it, all during the drive home. We arrived around twelve-thirty, running into no delay on the bridge, and left the flowers in the car while she went to change to her wedding dress. I followed with the bags, and unzipped her and started to peel her. However, she pushed me aside and sat down in the armchair, there in the master bedroom. “Gramie,” she said, “one thing a sixteen-year-old knows, better than other people, because she does it so often herself, is when someone is lying. And you’ve been lying to me, ever since you came back from that call, the one put in to your mother. So I ask you, I ask you once more: What did she say?”
“Sonya, I’ve told you.”
“Call me a cab.”
“...Cab? What for?”
“Go home.”
“I thought we were getting married.”
“We were. Now I’m not.”
I sat down on the bed and tried to think. Pretty soon I said, “She asked about Jane Sibert.”
“In what way, asked about her?”
“Did I realize she likes me.”
“She loves you, is that what she meant?”
Then, one word at a time, jerky and quick, I gave her the whole bit, what Mother had said, what I had said, without holding anything back. She said: “What she thought is what we thought, all of us.”
“Who is we?”
“Us kids?”
“That I was sleeping with her?”
“Well? It’s what your mother thought too.”
“Seems that everyone thought it but me.”
“Are you sure you didn’t?”
“Who knows if I don’t.”
“You know if you’re telling the truth? Gramie, she’s not so old, and she had her mind on you, that we all could see. So you must have let her have it! You—”
“Well goddam it, I didn’t!”
“Okay, then you didn’t.”
She got up, went to the window, and stood looking out. Then she zipped up her dress, the one I’d been taking off. Then she sat down on the bed, picked up the phone, and ordered a cab. Then she unzipped my bag, and switched her nighties to her bag. I reached over, picked up the phone, and cancelled the cab order. She sat down with me, kissed me, and said: “Gramie, it cannot be, we’d just be doomed, we’d be doomed, right from the start. No girl is worth a million dollars.”
“You’re worth a hundred million.”
At that she started to cry, and buried her face on my shoulder. Then, between sobs: “No, I’m not—and not worth this million dollars—which is all hooked up with a dream—about shells and cotton and moonlight.”
“There’s just one thing.”
“...Yes, Gramie, what is it?”
“That kick in the tail—?”
“No, please, I couldn’t say no to that!”
She ranted on, pleading with me, “not to make it so hard for me—so hard to keep my promise—didn’t I say, didn’t I say it, Gramie, that I wouldn’t be inny pest?” And then, whispering: “Gramie, there’s not inny need for us to get married. Because we could see each other. She wouldn’t have to know, Mrs. Sibert I’m talking about. We could meet, on the Q.T.—”
“And do it?”
“Yes! On our same beautiful Cloud Nine.”
“By a funny coincidence, that’s what Mother suggested.”
“Oh, she’s sweet! So
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