tall and a little plump, and a good fifteen years older than she looked to be.
Several times in the course of that walking around Miles asked her, “But was there something particular you wanted to see? I could take you—”
“Oh no.” Her throaty voice hesitated. “Oh no, I just wanted to see—everything. The way we’re doing. And of course I wanted Jon to see it too.”
Miles asked her, “How about the cemetery? These days I know more people there than I do downtown.”
She laughed, but she told him, “Oh, great. Let’s do go and see the cemetery.”
Certainly Grace had been right about the season. The dogwood was just in bloom, white fountains spraying out against thedarker evergreens, and fragrant white or lavender wisteria, across the roofs of porches, over garden trellises. Jonquils and narcissus, in their tidy plots, bricked off from the flowing lawns. As Grace several times remarked, the air simply smelled of April. There was nothing like it, anywhere.
“You should come back more often,” Miles chided.
“I’m not sure I could stand it.” She laughed, very lightly.
The cemetery was old, pre–Civil War; many of the stones were broken, worn, the inscriptions illegible. But there were new ones too, that both Grace and Miles recognized, and remarked upon.
“Look at those Sloanes, they were always the tackiest people. Oh, the Berryhills, they must have struck it rich. And the Calvins, discreet and tasteful as always. Lord, how could there be so many Strouds?”
It was Jonathan who finally said, “Now I see the point of cemeteries. Future entertainment.”
They all laughed. It was perhaps the high point of their afternoon, the moment at which they all liked each other best.
And then Grace pointed ahead of them, and she said, “Well for God’s sake, there they are. Why did I think I could miss them, totally?”
An imposing granite stone announced LAFFERTY , and underneath, in more discreet lettering, Hortense and Thomas. With dates.
Grace shuddered. “Well, they won’t get me in there. Not with them. I’m going to be cremated and have the ashes scattered off Malibu. Or maybe in Central Park.”
Five o’clock. Already they were a little late. It was time to go for tea, or rather to be there. Grace had taken even longer than usual with makeup, with general fussing, though Jonathan had reminded her, “At ninety-two she may not see too well, you know.”
“Nevertheless.” But she hadn’t laughed.
Miles lived in a small house just across the street from Miss Dabney’s much larger, grander house. It was thus that they knew each other. As Grace and Jonathan drove up he was out in front poking at leaves, but actually just waiting for them, as they all knew.
“I’m sorry—” Grace began.
“It’s all right, but whyever are you so nerved up?”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
Inside Miss Dabney’s entrance hall, to which they had been admitted by a white-aproned, very small black woman, where they were told to wait, Jonathan tried to exchange a complicitous look with Grace: after all, she was with him. But she seemed abstracted, apart.
The parlor into which they were at last led by the same small silent maid was predictably crowded—with tiny tables and chairs, with silver frames and photographs, loveseats and glassed-in bookcases. And, in the center of it all, Miss Dabney herself, yellowed white hair swathed about her head like a bandage but held up stiff and high, as though the heavy pearl choker that she wore were a splint. Her eyes, shining out through folds of flesh, were tiny and black, and brilliant. She held out a gnarled, much-jeweled hand to Grace (was Grace supposed to kiss the rings? She did not). The two women touched fingers.
When Miss Dabney spoke her voice was amazingly clear, rather high, a little hoarse but distinct. “Grace Lafferty, you do look absolutely lovely,” she said. “I’d know you anywhere; in a way you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Oh well, but
Several times in the course of that walking around Miles asked her, “But was there something particular you wanted to see? I could take you—”
“Oh no.” Her throaty voice hesitated. “Oh no, I just wanted to see—everything. The way we’re doing. And of course I wanted Jon to see it too.”
Miles asked her, “How about the cemetery? These days I know more people there than I do downtown.”
She laughed, but she told him, “Oh, great. Let’s do go and see the cemetery.”
Certainly Grace had been right about the season. The dogwood was just in bloom, white fountains spraying out against thedarker evergreens, and fragrant white or lavender wisteria, across the roofs of porches, over garden trellises. Jonquils and narcissus, in their tidy plots, bricked off from the flowing lawns. As Grace several times remarked, the air simply smelled of April. There was nothing like it, anywhere.
“You should come back more often,” Miles chided.
“I’m not sure I could stand it.” She laughed, very lightly.
The cemetery was old, pre–Civil War; many of the stones were broken, worn, the inscriptions illegible. But there were new ones too, that both Grace and Miles recognized, and remarked upon.
“Look at those Sloanes, they were always the tackiest people. Oh, the Berryhills, they must have struck it rich. And the Calvins, discreet and tasteful as always. Lord, how could there be so many Strouds?”
It was Jonathan who finally said, “Now I see the point of cemeteries. Future entertainment.”
They all laughed. It was perhaps the high point of their afternoon, the moment at which they all liked each other best.
And then Grace pointed ahead of them, and she said, “Well for God’s sake, there they are. Why did I think I could miss them, totally?”
An imposing granite stone announced LAFFERTY , and underneath, in more discreet lettering, Hortense and Thomas. With dates.
Grace shuddered. “Well, they won’t get me in there. Not with them. I’m going to be cremated and have the ashes scattered off Malibu. Or maybe in Central Park.”
Five o’clock. Already they were a little late. It was time to go for tea, or rather to be there. Grace had taken even longer than usual with makeup, with general fussing, though Jonathan had reminded her, “At ninety-two she may not see too well, you know.”
“Nevertheless.” But she hadn’t laughed.
Miles lived in a small house just across the street from Miss Dabney’s much larger, grander house. It was thus that they knew each other. As Grace and Jonathan drove up he was out in front poking at leaves, but actually just waiting for them, as they all knew.
“I’m sorry—” Grace began.
“It’s all right, but whyever are you so nerved up?”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
Inside Miss Dabney’s entrance hall, to which they had been admitted by a white-aproned, very small black woman, where they were told to wait, Jonathan tried to exchange a complicitous look with Grace: after all, she was with him. But she seemed abstracted, apart.
The parlor into which they were at last led by the same small silent maid was predictably crowded—with tiny tables and chairs, with silver frames and photographs, loveseats and glassed-in bookcases. And, in the center of it all, Miss Dabney herself, yellowed white hair swathed about her head like a bandage but held up stiff and high, as though the heavy pearl choker that she wore were a splint. Her eyes, shining out through folds of flesh, were tiny and black, and brilliant. She held out a gnarled, much-jeweled hand to Grace (was Grace supposed to kiss the rings? She did not). The two women touched fingers.
When Miss Dabney spoke her voice was amazingly clear, rather high, a little hoarse but distinct. “Grace Lafferty, you do look absolutely lovely,” she said. “I’d know you anywhere; in a way you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Oh well, but
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