gets when he looks at you, Daphne. He’s loved you for years.”
“And you and I have discussed this for years. He’s married, Pauline. He’s an honorable man. For that matter, I’m an honorable woman. Oh, let’s eat,” Daphne said, jumping up from the blanket in her sudden impatience.
After the meal everyone relaxed as the sky paled and then darkened with the deepening night, and the babies fell asleep on their blankets. The oldest of the old guard tottered home, and the adults that were left moved among each other, talking, having another drink, one last drink. The end of summer was in the air. Tomorrow there were duties, tomorrow they must face classrooms full of rampant youth who had the world before them, while they, the professors, had already used up a good part of their lives and were entrenched in marriages or relationships that they cherished, or didn’t cherish, buthad chosen and must get on with. But tonight they were outdoors, and the stars came out, more and more of them; tonight was expansive—and kind, and warm. They lingered.
Daphne, another glass of white wine in her hand, approached the Hamiltons, who were sitting on a blanket with Robert Butler. Butler was in the chemistry department, a nice man, but almost astonishingly boring, and once he found someone who would listen to him for a minute, he clung for hours. Jack was nodding and responding politely, but Carey Ann’s eyes were glazing over, and Alexandra had fallen asleep in her lap.
“Hello, everyone,” Daphne said. “No, don’t get up, please. Carey Ann, I thought you might want to come with me and let me introduce you to some of the women who have children Alexandra’s age. They could tell you about play groups and preschools and pediatricians and all that sort of thing.”
In response, Carey Ann looked miserable. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “Alexandra’s sleeping …”
“I’ll hold her,” Jack said, and before his wife could reply, he reached over and took his daughter from her. Alexandra sighed, a singing little sound, nestled against her father’s shirtfront, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
Warily Carey Ann rose to her feet. She and Daphne had not seen each other since the day Alexandra crawled across the piano.
“Do you want another glass of wine?” Daphne asked, thinking: Why don’t you have three or four, maybe you’d relax.
“Well …” Carey Ann said, uncertain.
Daphne took her gently by the arm then—it was the only way, she decided, like leading a timid beast, perhaps one of those quivering, gorgeous, skinny Afghan hounds with lots of messy blond hair (one had to take gentle but firm control)—and half-pulled her to the bar. Daphne chatted the entire way about the mothers Carey Ann would meet, and their children, and finally got Carey Ann to the blanket where the young mothers were gathered, some with babes in arms. Daphne knew some of these women, not all, and she remembered how it had been to
be
one of these women, with life passionately, messily, almost insanely centered on one tiny human being. She introduced Carey Ann and then excused herself to get more wine—she felt that Carey Ann would be more relaxed without her around, and indeed, that probably all those women would. She could remember how she had felt when she was in her twenties and early thirties—women over forty seemed antediluvian.
When she reached the wine table, she realized she really didn’t want any more wine. She was tired. Now she felt her singleness and it weighed her down. When she and Joe had divorced, her friends had at first rallied round her and made her join them on their forays to the faculty-club affairs. At first she had been a “cause” for her friends, and after all that died down, she felt comfortable enough to brave the affairs on her own. She had known so many people. Then she started working for the history department and had her own membership. For a long time she had come with David. And now,
“And you and I have discussed this for years. He’s married, Pauline. He’s an honorable man. For that matter, I’m an honorable woman. Oh, let’s eat,” Daphne said, jumping up from the blanket in her sudden impatience.
After the meal everyone relaxed as the sky paled and then darkened with the deepening night, and the babies fell asleep on their blankets. The oldest of the old guard tottered home, and the adults that were left moved among each other, talking, having another drink, one last drink. The end of summer was in the air. Tomorrow there were duties, tomorrow they must face classrooms full of rampant youth who had the world before them, while they, the professors, had already used up a good part of their lives and were entrenched in marriages or relationships that they cherished, or didn’t cherish, buthad chosen and must get on with. But tonight they were outdoors, and the stars came out, more and more of them; tonight was expansive—and kind, and warm. They lingered.
Daphne, another glass of white wine in her hand, approached the Hamiltons, who were sitting on a blanket with Robert Butler. Butler was in the chemistry department, a nice man, but almost astonishingly boring, and once he found someone who would listen to him for a minute, he clung for hours. Jack was nodding and responding politely, but Carey Ann’s eyes were glazing over, and Alexandra had fallen asleep in her lap.
“Hello, everyone,” Daphne said. “No, don’t get up, please. Carey Ann, I thought you might want to come with me and let me introduce you to some of the women who have children Alexandra’s age. They could tell you about play groups and preschools and pediatricians and all that sort of thing.”
In response, Carey Ann looked miserable. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “Alexandra’s sleeping …”
“I’ll hold her,” Jack said, and before his wife could reply, he reached over and took his daughter from her. Alexandra sighed, a singing little sound, nestled against her father’s shirtfront, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
Warily Carey Ann rose to her feet. She and Daphne had not seen each other since the day Alexandra crawled across the piano.
“Do you want another glass of wine?” Daphne asked, thinking: Why don’t you have three or four, maybe you’d relax.
“Well …” Carey Ann said, uncertain.
Daphne took her gently by the arm then—it was the only way, she decided, like leading a timid beast, perhaps one of those quivering, gorgeous, skinny Afghan hounds with lots of messy blond hair (one had to take gentle but firm control)—and half-pulled her to the bar. Daphne chatted the entire way about the mothers Carey Ann would meet, and their children, and finally got Carey Ann to the blanket where the young mothers were gathered, some with babes in arms. Daphne knew some of these women, not all, and she remembered how it had been to
be
one of these women, with life passionately, messily, almost insanely centered on one tiny human being. She introduced Carey Ann and then excused herself to get more wine—she felt that Carey Ann would be more relaxed without her around, and indeed, that probably all those women would. She could remember how she had felt when she was in her twenties and early thirties—women over forty seemed antediluvian.
When she reached the wine table, she realized she really didn’t want any more wine. She was tired. Now she felt her singleness and it weighed her down. When she and Joe had divorced, her friends had at first rallied round her and made her join them on their forays to the faculty-club affairs. At first she had been a “cause” for her friends, and after all that died down, she felt comfortable enough to brave the affairs on her own. She had known so many people. Then she started working for the history department and had her own membership. For a long time she had come with David. And now,
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