was that roomful of big, hoop-skirted dresses. Posted text described how hurt Mary Lincoln felt when Washington society snubbed her, despite her pretty dresses, which they found provincial.
On the drive home Elaine couldn’t stop thinking about it—Mary Lincoln, sidelined then snubbed, her husband murdered in front of her, three of her four children dead, then committed to a mental hospital by her only surviving son. She was crazy, people said. She had hallucinations. Others claimed it was migraine headaches that made her act that way. Elaine had read that some historian had posthumously diagnosed her with narcissism. Narcissism!
At her lowest, she’d tried to kill herself but eventually managed to get out of the asylum, that cagey gal, after only four months. Her sister ended up with her. As sisters often did if you weren’t careful, Elaine thought, picturing herself her sister’s captive at Sunset Village. Still, what a life. Elaine had nothing against Abe—quite the contrary—but she guessed that part of Mary Lincoln’s problem was being married to a great man.
She hoped Maura had taken note.
• • •
Bellevue Place, the sanitarium where they’d put her, was in Batavia, Illinois, in the Fox River Valley, not so far from Hillary’s childhood home. Elaine remembered going there with her parents once, on a Sunday drive, some fifty years before. They’d taken a picnic, spread a blanket on the riverbank, and eaten ham salad sandwiches out of a basket. For dessert they’d split a Hershey bar three ways, just the three of them—who knows where her sister was that day. Later they’d rented a rowboat.
The memory made Elaine ache with nostalgia and regret. She remembered the day clearly. Frankly, she’d been a pill. She remembered complaining about the flies and refusing to eat her mother’s potato salad because she’d put mustard in it.
That was fun, Mom,
she wanted to say, now.
I loved that ham salad you used to get at Gerhardt’s.
• • •
After the trip to the Lincoln Museum, Elaine looked up Batavia on a map and the next Sunday she and Maura drove there to see the building Mary Lincoln had lived in. (Maura had wanted to go the movies; Elaine had had to talk her into it.) The place was an apartment house now, surprisingly pretty. They’d bought hamburgers at Culver’s on the way into town and parked across the street, ate in the car. If anyone asked what they were doing, Elaine planned to tell them they were researching a book on first ladies and that the chapter on Mary Todd Lincoln was going to be called “From the White House to the Nut House,” but no one asked or even seemed to notice they were there.
• • •
Elaine was sweeping the kitchen floor, imagining her mother sitting at the table, dumping sugar into her coffee.
What if there were two presidents?
she’d say to her.
A woman president and a man president, and to get anything done they’d have to agree?
Her mother stirred and nodded.
Certainly it would slow things down. Elaine understood that. But it might be better in the long run, for women at least. And they’d have to wear robes, she thought, so there’d be no sniping about clothes and figures.
She wouldn’t bring it up tonight, though. People always laughed at her ideas. They thought she was kidding.
Lydia: 4:15 P.M.
Lydia took Maxine for a walk around the block. Neither of them wanted to go far, in this cold. The walk was a preparty routine, started when the dog was young and rambunctious, to settle her. Now it was to energize her, though she just looked exhausted. A neighbor they’d met on the street the other day had said,
Poor Maxine, she’s getting so feeble. How old is she?
Lydia had wanted to kick the woman. People had no idea how much that hurt. Lydia wanted them to see how beautiful she was, how dignified, wanted them to remark that she was aging gracefully.
When they got back, Maxine plodded up the stairs behind Lydia,
On the drive home Elaine couldn’t stop thinking about it—Mary Lincoln, sidelined then snubbed, her husband murdered in front of her, three of her four children dead, then committed to a mental hospital by her only surviving son. She was crazy, people said. She had hallucinations. Others claimed it was migraine headaches that made her act that way. Elaine had read that some historian had posthumously diagnosed her with narcissism. Narcissism!
At her lowest, she’d tried to kill herself but eventually managed to get out of the asylum, that cagey gal, after only four months. Her sister ended up with her. As sisters often did if you weren’t careful, Elaine thought, picturing herself her sister’s captive at Sunset Village. Still, what a life. Elaine had nothing against Abe—quite the contrary—but she guessed that part of Mary Lincoln’s problem was being married to a great man.
She hoped Maura had taken note.
• • •
Bellevue Place, the sanitarium where they’d put her, was in Batavia, Illinois, in the Fox River Valley, not so far from Hillary’s childhood home. Elaine remembered going there with her parents once, on a Sunday drive, some fifty years before. They’d taken a picnic, spread a blanket on the riverbank, and eaten ham salad sandwiches out of a basket. For dessert they’d split a Hershey bar three ways, just the three of them—who knows where her sister was that day. Later they’d rented a rowboat.
The memory made Elaine ache with nostalgia and regret. She remembered the day clearly. Frankly, she’d been a pill. She remembered complaining about the flies and refusing to eat her mother’s potato salad because she’d put mustard in it.
That was fun, Mom,
she wanted to say, now.
I loved that ham salad you used to get at Gerhardt’s.
• • •
After the trip to the Lincoln Museum, Elaine looked up Batavia on a map and the next Sunday she and Maura drove there to see the building Mary Lincoln had lived in. (Maura had wanted to go the movies; Elaine had had to talk her into it.) The place was an apartment house now, surprisingly pretty. They’d bought hamburgers at Culver’s on the way into town and parked across the street, ate in the car. If anyone asked what they were doing, Elaine planned to tell them they were researching a book on first ladies and that the chapter on Mary Todd Lincoln was going to be called “From the White House to the Nut House,” but no one asked or even seemed to notice they were there.
• • •
Elaine was sweeping the kitchen floor, imagining her mother sitting at the table, dumping sugar into her coffee.
What if there were two presidents?
she’d say to her.
A woman president and a man president, and to get anything done they’d have to agree?
Her mother stirred and nodded.
Certainly it would slow things down. Elaine understood that. But it might be better in the long run, for women at least. And they’d have to wear robes, she thought, so there’d be no sniping about clothes and figures.
She wouldn’t bring it up tonight, though. People always laughed at her ideas. They thought she was kidding.
Lydia: 4:15 P.M.
Lydia took Maxine for a walk around the block. Neither of them wanted to go far, in this cold. The walk was a preparty routine, started when the dog was young and rambunctious, to settle her. Now it was to energize her, though she just looked exhausted. A neighbor they’d met on the street the other day had said,
Poor Maxine, she’s getting so feeble. How old is she?
Lydia had wanted to kick the woman. People had no idea how much that hurt. Lydia wanted them to see how beautiful she was, how dignified, wanted them to remark that she was aging gracefully.
When they got back, Maxine plodded up the stairs behind Lydia,
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