Men and Angels by Mary Gordon

century as if it were Russia. And Anne couldn’t go along with Jane’s fantasies of her mother-in-law: that she was alone, uninfluenced, unaided. She had had warm and friendly correspondences with Derain and Vlaminck. They were helpful in getting collectors to look at her work. To say what Jane believed would be dishonest, and in doing service to the work of this woman whom she honored, she must keep her honor. Perhaps that would mean she and Jane wouldn’t be friends. She had gained Jane’s favor through a judgment Jane thought right; she knew that she could lose it just as easily.
    “Enough of this,” said Jane. “This talk about women makes me bad-tempered. Do you cook, Mrs. Foster?”
    “Well, of course, I cook a lot, I have a family. But I don’t know how well.”
    “This cooking can be a dangerous thing for a woman. I used to tell the people at the college I couldn’t cook; I always took people out to dinner when I wanted to entertain them. It worked very well; it made people think I had resources. You must never cook a meal for your colleagues, my dear; it makes them imagine a chink in your armor. It makes them think you have too much free time.”
    “This is all perfect nonsense,” said Ben. “I’ve had meals from Jane for fifty-five years.”
    “Yes, but we trusted you. Caroline more than I.”
    “Thank you very much.”
    “Well, of course, I had reasons she didn’t.”
    “You’ve never had a reason to mistrust me.”
    “Only in the least interesting, least important ways. But we believed you liked women; we never felt you were trying to prove we were sports of nature for your own comfort. Anyway, Mrs. Foster, will you call me Jane now?”
    “And I’m Anne.”
    “Anyway, Caroline and I made each other heavenly meals. Then we’d lie to everyone and say we lived on boiled eggs. Which brings me to my point. Will you come to my house on Long Island for Thanksgiving dinner? Bring your children. It will free you from the burden of that burdensome meal, and you can look at the paintings I haven’t been able to part with, even for the exhibit. Ben will be there too, so you needn’t be terrified.”
    Anne was so pleased with the invitation that she began to blush. “We’d love to come,” she said.
    “And now, Benedict, what time is it?”
    “Two-thirty-five.”
    “I really must go. I haven’t told you all of why I’ve decided to sell the paintings. The climate is receptive now, of course. But, you see, we’re quite old, Ben and I. We’ll probably be dead rather soon. And at least if this exhibit happens while we’re alive and nondecrepit, we’ll have some hand in it. Now I’ve told you that, I really will leave you. You see what I mean, Ben, this meal’s taken far too long.”
    She stood up. “Listen, my dear, this is marvelous. We’ll have a wonderful time. I’ll send the letters and the diaries to you as soon as I get back.”
    She kissed both Anne’s cheeks, kissed the top of Ben’s head, and walked out of the restaurant. For a moment, Anne was surprised that all the seated people didn’t rise and follow her.
    “We’ll have a wonderful time,” she had said. Anne felt her blood lighten; her skin tingled; she wanted to break into a run. Yes, they would have a wonderful time. Jane had said it. She took Ben’s hand and kissed it.
    “Let’s have dessert,” she said.
    The waiter brought the pastry cart. Anne took a piece of Black Forest cake, ate it, and called the waiter back for a slice of walnut pie. Licking her fork, she laughed at Ben, abstemious over espresso.
    “We’re going to have a wonderful time,” she said, as if the words were new to her, a foreigner, learning her first English sentence.
    She walked to the Frick, not opening the high, formal doors, not entering the cool rooms with their greenish light, inhabited by people with mere leisure. Like a servant, she rang at the side library entrance, a small door cut in the wall, the door to a children’s garden.