downstairs, I thought, some guest would be questioning me about school—my favorite class, whether or not I was studying a language, what sport I most enjoyed. I would be introduced to one of my parents’ chatty acquaintances and then another. I unfurled my napkin and sniffed the roll, then rewrapped it. It was already ten minutes to nine. No one had crossed the hallway for some time.
“Franny?”
My heart pounding, I rose to my feet. Was it Mother calling to me from downstairs, angrily, having realized my absence? Or had it been another name? Another woman’s voice? It was so difficult to tellamong the chaos of words. Then:
“Dan-ny?”
I heard it again, not my name at all. I squeezed the napkin wrapping the roll into a wad and shifted in my seat on the steps. The hard wood had begun to numb my backside, and I wanted to stretch my legs. If I tiptoed quietly along the stairs and poked my head into the living room for just an instant, who would catch me? Just a quick peek at the dresses and suits, the plates of food.
There were even more guests than I had imagined. How was it possible my parents knew so many people? And they seemed to know one another, too, weaving from living room to library to terrace to greet one another, the men clapping shoulders, the women kissing cheeks. There were even a few children, some close to my age. I recognized two boys from Christopher’s school and a girl who had been in my art class years before. One girl wore a dress similar to mine in pastel yellow. Her arms, her waist, her hips were as slender as flower stems. She was nibbling a tiny cookie, running a finger around her mouth every so often to check for crumbs. Father was at the far end of the living room, only the back of him visible in his navy jacket. Christopher was beside him, one fist thrust into his pants pocket as Father’s was. Father patted the elbow of the man on his right, and Christopher offered his hand, too, for an introduction. The room seemed a blur of sequined blouses and shimmering skirts, jeweled wrists and drink glasses, so it was hard to focus, hard to concentrate on any one person in the crowd.
Eventually I spotted Mother among a circle of women, a champagne flute in her right hand, a small plate in her left. Even from a distance, I could see her cheeks glowed pink. The red hem of her gown fluttered above her feet as she laughed with the women around her. Then she turned and began searching the room. I followed her gaze as it swept over each band of guests, each face. And it was not impatience or irritation I saw in her eyes but concentration. Or was it concern? Oh! I would permit her to find me where I stood.
No
. No, I would rush to her! But then I saw her eyes fix on Father instead. He was stepping over to Mrs. Mitchell, whose hair was loose for a change and whose black gown had a longslit along her right leg. So it was
he
Mother had been checking for, and she did not look away until one of the caterers moved to the center of the room with a tray of stuffed pastries. Then Mother seemed suddenly to remember something, and setting her dish on the coffee table, began to thread through the guests. Smiling, the burgundy of her lipstick glittering against her teeth, she waved to the caterer, and he followed her through the crowd, balancing his silver moon of a tray high in the air.
When they returned to the group of women, the caterer, with a bow of his chin, gently lowered the tray. Fingers reached for napkins and pastries. Mother handed an hors d’oeuvre to a woman in a sheer sleeveless blouse—the mother of the girl in yellow, I decided, since the girl seemed always to be standing behind her, blotting her lips carefully, taking cautious sips from a clear plastic glass. Then Mother leaned toward the girl, speaking something near her. When the girl nodded, Mother motioned to the caterer and gracefully lifted a pastry from his tray, then placed it into the girl’s open palm. They stood so close their blond
“Franny?”
My heart pounding, I rose to my feet. Was it Mother calling to me from downstairs, angrily, having realized my absence? Or had it been another name? Another woman’s voice? It was so difficult to tellamong the chaos of words. Then:
“Dan-ny?”
I heard it again, not my name at all. I squeezed the napkin wrapping the roll into a wad and shifted in my seat on the steps. The hard wood had begun to numb my backside, and I wanted to stretch my legs. If I tiptoed quietly along the stairs and poked my head into the living room for just an instant, who would catch me? Just a quick peek at the dresses and suits, the plates of food.
There were even more guests than I had imagined. How was it possible my parents knew so many people? And they seemed to know one another, too, weaving from living room to library to terrace to greet one another, the men clapping shoulders, the women kissing cheeks. There were even a few children, some close to my age. I recognized two boys from Christopher’s school and a girl who had been in my art class years before. One girl wore a dress similar to mine in pastel yellow. Her arms, her waist, her hips were as slender as flower stems. She was nibbling a tiny cookie, running a finger around her mouth every so often to check for crumbs. Father was at the far end of the living room, only the back of him visible in his navy jacket. Christopher was beside him, one fist thrust into his pants pocket as Father’s was. Father patted the elbow of the man on his right, and Christopher offered his hand, too, for an introduction. The room seemed a blur of sequined blouses and shimmering skirts, jeweled wrists and drink glasses, so it was hard to focus, hard to concentrate on any one person in the crowd.
Eventually I spotted Mother among a circle of women, a champagne flute in her right hand, a small plate in her left. Even from a distance, I could see her cheeks glowed pink. The red hem of her gown fluttered above her feet as she laughed with the women around her. Then she turned and began searching the room. I followed her gaze as it swept over each band of guests, each face. And it was not impatience or irritation I saw in her eyes but concentration. Or was it concern? Oh! I would permit her to find me where I stood.
No
. No, I would rush to her! But then I saw her eyes fix on Father instead. He was stepping over to Mrs. Mitchell, whose hair was loose for a change and whose black gown had a longslit along her right leg. So it was
he
Mother had been checking for, and she did not look away until one of the caterers moved to the center of the room with a tray of stuffed pastries. Then Mother seemed suddenly to remember something, and setting her dish on the coffee table, began to thread through the guests. Smiling, the burgundy of her lipstick glittering against her teeth, she waved to the caterer, and he followed her through the crowd, balancing his silver moon of a tray high in the air.
When they returned to the group of women, the caterer, with a bow of his chin, gently lowered the tray. Fingers reached for napkins and pastries. Mother handed an hors d’oeuvre to a woman in a sheer sleeveless blouse—the mother of the girl in yellow, I decided, since the girl seemed always to be standing behind her, blotting her lips carefully, taking cautious sips from a clear plastic glass. Then Mother leaned toward the girl, speaking something near her. When the girl nodded, Mother motioned to the caterer and gracefully lifted a pastry from his tray, then placed it into the girl’s open palm. They stood so close their blond
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