aunt Isabel; she loved being useless and decorative, all the while talking about the sacrifices she had made for her family. Janice’s life at first glance looked like the complete opposite of Helen’s—but came to the same result of having accomplished nothing. And Peter was doing well professionally, but years ago had built a wall between himself and Eleanor that was seemingly impassable.
The rest of that day Eleanor sat reading, dozing, and watching the birds at her feeder. For dinner she heated herself some soup and toasted an English muffin. She ate a bowl of peppermint ice cream while watching a show on television about China, then filled a kettle of water to boil for tea. Around nine o’clock she started thinking about June’s gifts to her, the birdseed and the lights, and wondered if she should give the girl something for Christmas. She had of course planned to write her a check as a seasonal gratuity, something on the order of thirty dollars, but that alone seemed too impersonal for June, who had been so thoughtful. She had no idea what a nineteen-year-old girl could use. In her day, monogrammed handkerchiefs would have been an appropriate gift for a young person at college, or perhaps a volume of poetry—Shakespeare or Millay.
Eleanor wondered if she might order her tickets to some dance troupe that was coming to town, but that seemed complicated to get right. The more she racked her brain, the more she leaned toward giving money. Money never disappointed. The thing was, Eleanor would have liked to do more than merely not disappoint; she hoped to please. What pleased June? She wore outlandish clothes sometimes, and told Eleanor that she combed thrift shops for vintage items. She loved that forties suit of Eleanor’s that she saw in the photo, which amused Eleanor because Eleanor had loved it, too. She remembered buying it with her mother on a shopping trip to Manhattan to outfit her trousseau. The suit was French, and handsewn in an atelier. When the saleswomanbrought it out for them to examine, Eleanor and her mother stroked the silk lining and admired the tiny precise stitches and horn buttons. Eleanor went into the fitting room, and when she emerged, her mother and the saleswoman actually applauded.
Eleanor remembered her mother’s pleasure in buying it for her, and the way they giggled at lunch over the price tag and her father’s probable reaction. She remembered wearing it on the steamer she and Robert took across Lake George on their honeymoon, and then again when they motored to Montreal. The suit was of a slim fitted style that served her well into the fifties. She wore it to her law-school interview at Harvard in ’56, and then again, with minor alterations, to her interview at the Department of Public Welfare in ’59. Quite simply, the suit was the kind of garment that you know on sight was made for you, fits you perfectly when you try it on, and brings you luck every time you wear it. Picturing herself in it again, Eleanor could taste the dry martinis she had sipped wearing it at the Union Oyster House with Robert on nights when they splurged for a baby-sitter. It symbolized, in a way, the best moments of her life.
She wanted to see it again. Eleanor went to the spare room and flipped on the light. She smiled. June had been in here vacuuming, and had stacked the boxes neatly against the wall, with the labeled sides facing out, so that you could find at a glance what you were looking for. It was just the way Eleanor would have done it if she had had the energy after pushing and lugging the boxes to the room. Eleanor surveyed the listed contents and was amazed to discover all the things she owned, and the pictures of her former self that leaped to life at the mere mention of certain objects: a flour sifter; gardening shears; Christmas crèche; briefcase.
Luckily, the box she wanted was not at the very bottom of a stack. C LOTHING: KEEPSAKES . She went to get a pair of scissors and slit the
The rest of that day Eleanor sat reading, dozing, and watching the birds at her feeder. For dinner she heated herself some soup and toasted an English muffin. She ate a bowl of peppermint ice cream while watching a show on television about China, then filled a kettle of water to boil for tea. Around nine o’clock she started thinking about June’s gifts to her, the birdseed and the lights, and wondered if she should give the girl something for Christmas. She had of course planned to write her a check as a seasonal gratuity, something on the order of thirty dollars, but that alone seemed too impersonal for June, who had been so thoughtful. She had no idea what a nineteen-year-old girl could use. In her day, monogrammed handkerchiefs would have been an appropriate gift for a young person at college, or perhaps a volume of poetry—Shakespeare or Millay.
Eleanor wondered if she might order her tickets to some dance troupe that was coming to town, but that seemed complicated to get right. The more she racked her brain, the more she leaned toward giving money. Money never disappointed. The thing was, Eleanor would have liked to do more than merely not disappoint; she hoped to please. What pleased June? She wore outlandish clothes sometimes, and told Eleanor that she combed thrift shops for vintage items. She loved that forties suit of Eleanor’s that she saw in the photo, which amused Eleanor because Eleanor had loved it, too. She remembered buying it with her mother on a shopping trip to Manhattan to outfit her trousseau. The suit was French, and handsewn in an atelier. When the saleswomanbrought it out for them to examine, Eleanor and her mother stroked the silk lining and admired the tiny precise stitches and horn buttons. Eleanor went into the fitting room, and when she emerged, her mother and the saleswoman actually applauded.
Eleanor remembered her mother’s pleasure in buying it for her, and the way they giggled at lunch over the price tag and her father’s probable reaction. She remembered wearing it on the steamer she and Robert took across Lake George on their honeymoon, and then again when they motored to Montreal. The suit was of a slim fitted style that served her well into the fifties. She wore it to her law-school interview at Harvard in ’56, and then again, with minor alterations, to her interview at the Department of Public Welfare in ’59. Quite simply, the suit was the kind of garment that you know on sight was made for you, fits you perfectly when you try it on, and brings you luck every time you wear it. Picturing herself in it again, Eleanor could taste the dry martinis she had sipped wearing it at the Union Oyster House with Robert on nights when they splurged for a baby-sitter. It symbolized, in a way, the best moments of her life.
She wanted to see it again. Eleanor went to the spare room and flipped on the light. She smiled. June had been in here vacuuming, and had stacked the boxes neatly against the wall, with the labeled sides facing out, so that you could find at a glance what you were looking for. It was just the way Eleanor would have done it if she had had the energy after pushing and lugging the boxes to the room. Eleanor surveyed the listed contents and was amazed to discover all the things she owned, and the pictures of her former self that leaped to life at the mere mention of certain objects: a flour sifter; gardening shears; Christmas crèche; briefcase.
Luckily, the box she wanted was not at the very bottom of a stack. C LOTHING: KEEPSAKES . She went to get a pair of scissors and slit the
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