if it was all right with us, he would spend the morning making some repairs on the houseboat and collect Becky in the afternoon.
This change of plans, along with the rain, upset the household. Becky pouted because her father always took her out to lunch on Saturday. Jem was grumpy because he could not play outside. Aunt Mona worked half-days on Saturdays at the travel agency in Kingston, and after that she always had her hair done, so my mother was pretty much stuck with the job of amusing us. She suggested we all help her go through some boxes from Fredericksburg she hadn’t yet unpacked, and see what we could find.
As the things came out of the boxes, I could remember my mother hastily packing them in, almost vengeful in her grief. Supposedly I had been helping, but even at that zero hour, with our reservations already booked on the train to Aunt Mona’s, I had been trying to talk her out of going. Now, as each thing was withdrawn from the boxes, I could remember arguments I had been making as it had been put in. There was my old paint set,my father’s shoeshine kit, the Ink Spots album they had loved to dance to, and the little enamel-topped card box in which my grandmother had kept her solitaire deck: that had been when we were packing up things we had used on the sun porch. I had been standing by the open windows (for it was already quite warm) and gazing out on my grandmother’s garden, where, from the middle of March to the middle of October, there was a succession of flowers. I had been advancing my arguments for that small house, somewhere in town, where we could live in cheerful frugality and still have all our old friends and landmarks. Finally, having heard all she could stand, my mother told me I was “too young” to have thought out all the complications of staying in a place when your supports were gone. Rather than being reminded constantly of how much better things used to be, she said, it was far better to start over again where nobody knew you. And just as I was going to protest that there was no reason to go to such extremes, she silenced me with the adult’s ultimate ploy: she had made the decision, she said, and, since I was still a child, I would have to abide by it.
So, when my mother, beginning on another box, to divert Jem and Becky on this rainy Saturday, pulled out a yellow taffeta evening dress that she had worn as a girl, and said she had saved it for me, and asked me to try it on, I was still smarting from our argument on the sun porch back in Fredericksburg. I said I didn’t “feel like it, right now,” even though I had been the one who had begged her to save that dress when she was about to put it in the Salvation Army box with my father’s and grandparents’ clothes.
“I’ll try it. Let me try it on,” said Becky, who had been eyeing the dress with a grudging respect ever since my mother had unfolded it and shaken out its creases. She disappeared into the utility room (now Jem’s bedroom), and we heard the rustling of the taffeta and fast breathing from her exertions. Then she called out to my mother, “Can you come and help me zip this up?” Becky never used anyone’s name when she was addressing them, but she had perfected her omission to such an art that everybody always knew whom she meant. My mother, with her new humble manner, went at once to zip up Becky.
“I’ll never forget the first time I wore that dress,” my mother told Becky, as my cousin stalked back and forth in front of the mirror, holding the dress to her nonexistent bosoms to keep it from falling down. “I was sixteen and my mother had taken me down to South Carolina to visit some of her people. A cousin gave a dance in my honor, and there was this perfectly gorgeous boy at that dance, his name was Craven Ravenel. In those days, we had cards at dances and the boys would come up to you and write their names beside the dances they wanted. I was almost all filled up—I was the guest of honor, after
This change of plans, along with the rain, upset the household. Becky pouted because her father always took her out to lunch on Saturday. Jem was grumpy because he could not play outside. Aunt Mona worked half-days on Saturdays at the travel agency in Kingston, and after that she always had her hair done, so my mother was pretty much stuck with the job of amusing us. She suggested we all help her go through some boxes from Fredericksburg she hadn’t yet unpacked, and see what we could find.
As the things came out of the boxes, I could remember my mother hastily packing them in, almost vengeful in her grief. Supposedly I had been helping, but even at that zero hour, with our reservations already booked on the train to Aunt Mona’s, I had been trying to talk her out of going. Now, as each thing was withdrawn from the boxes, I could remember arguments I had been making as it had been put in. There was my old paint set,my father’s shoeshine kit, the Ink Spots album they had loved to dance to, and the little enamel-topped card box in which my grandmother had kept her solitaire deck: that had been when we were packing up things we had used on the sun porch. I had been standing by the open windows (for it was already quite warm) and gazing out on my grandmother’s garden, where, from the middle of March to the middle of October, there was a succession of flowers. I had been advancing my arguments for that small house, somewhere in town, where we could live in cheerful frugality and still have all our old friends and landmarks. Finally, having heard all she could stand, my mother told me I was “too young” to have thought out all the complications of staying in a place when your supports were gone. Rather than being reminded constantly of how much better things used to be, she said, it was far better to start over again where nobody knew you. And just as I was going to protest that there was no reason to go to such extremes, she silenced me with the adult’s ultimate ploy: she had made the decision, she said, and, since I was still a child, I would have to abide by it.
So, when my mother, beginning on another box, to divert Jem and Becky on this rainy Saturday, pulled out a yellow taffeta evening dress that she had worn as a girl, and said she had saved it for me, and asked me to try it on, I was still smarting from our argument on the sun porch back in Fredericksburg. I said I didn’t “feel like it, right now,” even though I had been the one who had begged her to save that dress when she was about to put it in the Salvation Army box with my father’s and grandparents’ clothes.
“I’ll try it. Let me try it on,” said Becky, who had been eyeing the dress with a grudging respect ever since my mother had unfolded it and shaken out its creases. She disappeared into the utility room (now Jem’s bedroom), and we heard the rustling of the taffeta and fast breathing from her exertions. Then she called out to my mother, “Can you come and help me zip this up?” Becky never used anyone’s name when she was addressing them, but she had perfected her omission to such an art that everybody always knew whom she meant. My mother, with her new humble manner, went at once to zip up Becky.
“I’ll never forget the first time I wore that dress,” my mother told Becky, as my cousin stalked back and forth in front of the mirror, holding the dress to her nonexistent bosoms to keep it from falling down. “I was sixteen and my mother had taken me down to South Carolina to visit some of her people. A cousin gave a dance in my honor, and there was this perfectly gorgeous boy at that dance, his name was Craven Ravenel. In those days, we had cards at dances and the boys would come up to you and write their names beside the dances they wanted. I was almost all filled up—I was the guest of honor, after
Similar Books
