you look—” Grace started to say.
“Now now. I’m much too old to be flattered. That’s how come I don’t have handsome men around me anymore.” Her glance flicked out to take in Miles, and then Jonathan. “But of course no man was ever as handsome as your daddy.”
“No, I guess—”
“Too bad your mother wasn’t pretty too. I think it would have improved her character.”
“Probably—”
Miss Dabney leaned forward. “You know, we’ve always been so proud of you in this town. Just as proud as proud.”
The effect of this on Grace was instant; something within her settled down, some set of nerves, perhaps. She almost relaxed. Miles with relief observed this, and Jonathan too.
“Yes, indeed we have. For so many, many things,” Miss Dabney continued.
A warm and pleasant small moment ensued, during which in an almost preening way Grace glanced at Jonathan—before Miss Dabney took it up again.
“But do you know what you did that made us the very proudest of all?” Quite apparently wanting no answer, had one been possible, she seemed to savor the expectation her non-question had aroused.
“It was many, many years ago, and your parents were giving a dinner party,” she began—as Miles thought, Oh dear God, oh Jesus.
“And you were just this adorable little two- or three-year-old. And somehow you got out of your crib and you came downstairs, and you crawled right under the big white linen tablecloth, it must have seemed like a circus tent to you—and you bit your mother right there on the ankle. Good and hard! She jumped and cried out, and Buck lifted up the tablecloth and there you were. I don’t remember quite how they punished you, but we all just laughed and laughed. Hortense was not the most popular lady in town, and I reckon one time or another we’d all had an urge to bite her. And you did it! We were all just so proud!”
“But—” Grace protests, or rather, she begins to protest. She seems then, though, to remember certain rules. One held thatSouthern ladies did not contradict other ladies, especially if the other one is very old. She also remembered a rule from her training as an actress: you do not exhibit uncontrolled emotion of your own.
Grace simply says, “It’s funny, I don’t remember that at all,” and she smiles, beautifully.
Miles, though, who has known her for so very long, and who has always loved her, for the first time fully understands just what led her to become an actress, and also why she is so very good at what she does.
“Well of course you don’t,” Miss Dabney is saying. “You were much too young. But it’s a wonder no one ever told you, considering how famous—how famous that story was.”
Jonathan, who feels that Grace is really too old for him, but whose fame he has enjoyed, up to a point, now tells Miss Dabney, “It’s a marvelous story. You really should write it, I think. Some magazine—”
Grace gives him the smallest but most decisive frown—as Miles, watching, thinks, Oh, good.
And Grace now says, abandoning all rules, “I guess up to now no one ever told me so as not to make me feel small and bad. I guess they knew I’d have to get very old and really mean before I’d think that was funny.”
As Miles thinks, Ah, that’s my girl!
T he L ast L ovely C ity
Old and famous, an acknowledged success both in this country and in his native Mexico, though now a sadhearted widower, Dr. Benito Zamora slowly and unskillfully navigates the high, sharp curves on the road to Stinson Beach, California—his destination. From time to time, barely moving his heavy, white-maned head, he glances at the unfamiliar young woman near him on the seat—the streaky-haired, underweight woman in a very short skirt and green sandals (her name is Carla) who has somewhat inexplicably invited him to come along to this party. What old hands, Benito thinks, of his own, on the wheel, an old beggar’s hands. What can this girl want of me? he wonders. Some
“Now now. I’m much too old to be flattered. That’s how come I don’t have handsome men around me anymore.” Her glance flicked out to take in Miles, and then Jonathan. “But of course no man was ever as handsome as your daddy.”
“No, I guess—”
“Too bad your mother wasn’t pretty too. I think it would have improved her character.”
“Probably—”
Miss Dabney leaned forward. “You know, we’ve always been so proud of you in this town. Just as proud as proud.”
The effect of this on Grace was instant; something within her settled down, some set of nerves, perhaps. She almost relaxed. Miles with relief observed this, and Jonathan too.
“Yes, indeed we have. For so many, many things,” Miss Dabney continued.
A warm and pleasant small moment ensued, during which in an almost preening way Grace glanced at Jonathan—before Miss Dabney took it up again.
“But do you know what you did that made us the very proudest of all?” Quite apparently wanting no answer, had one been possible, she seemed to savor the expectation her non-question had aroused.
“It was many, many years ago, and your parents were giving a dinner party,” she began—as Miles thought, Oh dear God, oh Jesus.
“And you were just this adorable little two- or three-year-old. And somehow you got out of your crib and you came downstairs, and you crawled right under the big white linen tablecloth, it must have seemed like a circus tent to you—and you bit your mother right there on the ankle. Good and hard! She jumped and cried out, and Buck lifted up the tablecloth and there you were. I don’t remember quite how they punished you, but we all just laughed and laughed. Hortense was not the most popular lady in town, and I reckon one time or another we’d all had an urge to bite her. And you did it! We were all just so proud!”
“But—” Grace protests, or rather, she begins to protest. She seems then, though, to remember certain rules. One held thatSouthern ladies did not contradict other ladies, especially if the other one is very old. She also remembered a rule from her training as an actress: you do not exhibit uncontrolled emotion of your own.
Grace simply says, “It’s funny, I don’t remember that at all,” and she smiles, beautifully.
Miles, though, who has known her for so very long, and who has always loved her, for the first time fully understands just what led her to become an actress, and also why she is so very good at what she does.
“Well of course you don’t,” Miss Dabney is saying. “You were much too young. But it’s a wonder no one ever told you, considering how famous—how famous that story was.”
Jonathan, who feels that Grace is really too old for him, but whose fame he has enjoyed, up to a point, now tells Miss Dabney, “It’s a marvelous story. You really should write it, I think. Some magazine—”
Grace gives him the smallest but most decisive frown—as Miles, watching, thinks, Oh, good.
And Grace now says, abandoning all rules, “I guess up to now no one ever told me so as not to make me feel small and bad. I guess they knew I’d have to get very old and really mean before I’d think that was funny.”
As Miles thinks, Ah, that’s my girl!
T he L ast L ovely C ity
Old and famous, an acknowledged success both in this country and in his native Mexico, though now a sadhearted widower, Dr. Benito Zamora slowly and unskillfully navigates the high, sharp curves on the road to Stinson Beach, California—his destination. From time to time, barely moving his heavy, white-maned head, he glances at the unfamiliar young woman near him on the seat—the streaky-haired, underweight woman in a very short skirt and green sandals (her name is Carla) who has somewhat inexplicably invited him to come along to this party. What old hands, Benito thinks, of his own, on the wheel, an old beggar’s hands. What can this girl want of me? he wonders. Some
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