Object lessons by Anna Quindlen Page B

the cigarette, her cheeks filling and deflating like those of a little animal. Connie looked up and saw Maggie staring at her. “Aren’t you going swimming?” she said.
    “I guess,” said Maggie.
    “Well, have a good time.”
    Maggie did not move.
    “Vamoose, kid,” said Celeste. “I hope you like your lip pomade.” She put her cheek out for a continental kiss. “You smell good,” Maggie said. “Tabu,” said Celeste. “That’s what Monica wears,” Maggie said. “Shit,” answered her aunt. “Celeste!” said Connie.
    Maggie went upstairs to get her bathing suit and towel. Her face still smelled like perfume on one side; whenever she turned her head she got a whiff of it, making her feel grown-up and a little bad.
    Her room was the nicest one in the house. It had gingham curtains at the window and a gingham spread on the canopy bed, a bulletin board over the desk, and a little dressing table with a gingham skirt. It was like a magazine photograph of a little girl’s room; in fact her mother had painstakingly copied it out of a magazine when Maggie was still young enough to be sleeping in a crib. On the floor next to her bed was an old yellow-and-brown striped suitcase filled with the clothes she was taking to the beach. In the middle of July each summer, Mary Frances took all her female grandchildren of a certain age to a seaside town called South Beach. She thought of this as a great excursion they would remember the rest of their lives. Maggie thought of it as sharing a bedroom with Monica for a week. She remembered that there had been times when she was very young when the trip had actually been fun—the restaurant meals, the hotel sheets smelling of starch, the long days jumping breakers on the beach. Now all she could think of was Monica looking her up and down with that smile.
    She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and started to close her door when she saw it was Celeste. Her aunt was carrying a brown bag and grinning. She slipped inside and closed the door. “Santa Claus is coming to town,” she said, picking a piece of tobacco from her smile with the end of one long fingernail. She reached inside the bag and pulled out a jumble of green-and-orange print fabric and spread it on the bed. It was a two-piece bathing suit, the top strapless, with small arcs of bone inside so that it looked as if there was a bust in it, even lying there on the bed. Celeste turned the bottom over. The back was covered with row upon row of tiny ruffles. It was the showiest bathing suit Maggie had ever seen, and she could tell by looking at it that it was just her size.
    Celeste suddenly seemed embarrassed by her own audacity. She winked at Maggie. “Can’t go to the beach looking like Shirley Temple when you’re really Lana Turner,” she said, while Maggie tried to remember which one Lana Turner was. She looked down at the suitcase open on the floor. “That’s the bag your mother took on her honeymoon,” Celeste said. “I remember because I filled it with rice. God, she just about killed me. She told me she pulled out her peignoir that first night and the place looked like a Chinese restaurant.” Celeste’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Anyhow, wear this in good health, kiddo. I’m not sure it’s the kind of suit you want to do the breaststroke in. For one thing, you might lose the top. But I can guarantee that everybody will look twice at it.” She kissed Maggie on the cheek and moved to the door, crumpling the bag as she went. “Go easy on your old mom,” she said. “She’s having a tough time these days.”
    “Why?” said Maggie, holding the suit against her chest.
    “One thing and another.”
    “Grandpop says she has to get on board,” Maggie said.
    “Sometimes I wish somebody would squish your grandfather like one of those bugs your brother’s got outside,” Celeste said. “He thinks he can run everybody’s life.”
    “He does run everybody’s life,” Maggie said.
    “I’d like to see him