Mushroom Society—a group that listened to Mahler recordings in the Tech Area late in the evening. And since many of us were not allowed in the Tech Area we stood outside the fence, near the north-facing windows, in the snow, to listen to the deeply serious and the utterly commonplace. The tentative measure of something slow to wake. The dark forest rumblings. Mahler’s sad, beautiful, and expansive music.
S ANDY’S FAMILY WAS moving into Bathtub Row and for housewarming presents we bought her towels with our own initials embroidered on them and said, In case you want to invite us over!
W AS LOS ALAMOS a summer camp for adults? Some of us felt helpless at the arrival of unexpected guests, constant knocks on the door to borrow flour or to invite us to a bridge game, while others felt invigorated by it. But sometimes when our husbands tried to cajole us to go out and socialize with their friends we said, I’m in for the night—not feeling well, smiled, and settled back into the couch with a novel.
I N MANY WAYS , life on the Hill was the same day again and again. In a closed-off community, small misunderstandings could quickly become melodrama. A couple of surely innocent details said to one person became a subplot worthy of Tolstoy, a subplot written and rewritten by other members of the town. If a few facts had to be overlooked for the purposes of good storytelling, they would be.
A T A PARTY at the Director’s house Katherine pretended she was part of a conversation about potato casseroles but instead we watched her out of the corner of our eyes. She arranged herself to be standing alone with Henry, and we heard her ask, How’s Starla? with concern in her voice that we were sure she did not feel. Just fine, Katherine, just fine. If he got her hint, he rejected it.
I N AUGUST WE heard news that Paris was liberated. Paris , we said, recalling the place fondly—the spring we studied abroad and shared a studio flat with a balcony only two could stand on, a loveseat of a balcony that looked into the attic apartments of the building across the way, where we could see, even if we did not want to, a particularly pale man who seemed to enjoy not wearing clothing. Even if we never lived there, even if we never visited, even if we knew Paris only in books, we thought we knew the café life of the 14th arrondissement, the academic life of the 5th. Paris, liberated, their motto standing true— tossed by the waves but never sunk . Though we loved Paris, when a parade was called that evening, only twelve people participated—suggesting how far inward we had turned, or suggesting we were tired of the Hill’s alternating routine of trumpeting and nail-biting.
Exceptions
O UR MOTHERS WERE ill or our fathers had birthdays and we could not visit. But we learned—in a way that we never wanted to—that there was an exception. We packed our suitcases and took trains to Duluth, to Los Angeles, past the soda shop where our first loves kissed us, past the service flags and blue stars hanging in windows—we could see who had gone off to war while we were gone—and past windows where blue stars were replaced with gold. Back into our parents’ houses, back into our mothers’ arms, to the funeral parlors of our hometowns, where we stared into the faces of our own dead brothers.
A FEW OF us got an exception of a different nature. Our sisters announced their sweethearts were coming home and they were getting married. Though our husband’s request for both of us to travel to San Francisco for the wedding was denied, a wife was permitted to go, and we busied our summer with correspondence to our sister about color schemes, florists, and menus. It was the first time in a long time we’d thought about the outside world. Searching through boxes in the back of our closet for nice gloves and a presentable dress for the wedding brought back memories of home. We could smell the sea again. How were the neighbors
S ANDY’S FAMILY WAS moving into Bathtub Row and for housewarming presents we bought her towels with our own initials embroidered on them and said, In case you want to invite us over!
W AS LOS ALAMOS a summer camp for adults? Some of us felt helpless at the arrival of unexpected guests, constant knocks on the door to borrow flour or to invite us to a bridge game, while others felt invigorated by it. But sometimes when our husbands tried to cajole us to go out and socialize with their friends we said, I’m in for the night—not feeling well, smiled, and settled back into the couch with a novel.
I N MANY WAYS , life on the Hill was the same day again and again. In a closed-off community, small misunderstandings could quickly become melodrama. A couple of surely innocent details said to one person became a subplot worthy of Tolstoy, a subplot written and rewritten by other members of the town. If a few facts had to be overlooked for the purposes of good storytelling, they would be.
A T A PARTY at the Director’s house Katherine pretended she was part of a conversation about potato casseroles but instead we watched her out of the corner of our eyes. She arranged herself to be standing alone with Henry, and we heard her ask, How’s Starla? with concern in her voice that we were sure she did not feel. Just fine, Katherine, just fine. If he got her hint, he rejected it.
I N AUGUST WE heard news that Paris was liberated. Paris , we said, recalling the place fondly—the spring we studied abroad and shared a studio flat with a balcony only two could stand on, a loveseat of a balcony that looked into the attic apartments of the building across the way, where we could see, even if we did not want to, a particularly pale man who seemed to enjoy not wearing clothing. Even if we never lived there, even if we never visited, even if we knew Paris only in books, we thought we knew the café life of the 14th arrondissement, the academic life of the 5th. Paris, liberated, their motto standing true— tossed by the waves but never sunk . Though we loved Paris, when a parade was called that evening, only twelve people participated—suggesting how far inward we had turned, or suggesting we were tired of the Hill’s alternating routine of trumpeting and nail-biting.
Exceptions
O UR MOTHERS WERE ill or our fathers had birthdays and we could not visit. But we learned—in a way that we never wanted to—that there was an exception. We packed our suitcases and took trains to Duluth, to Los Angeles, past the soda shop where our first loves kissed us, past the service flags and blue stars hanging in windows—we could see who had gone off to war while we were gone—and past windows where blue stars were replaced with gold. Back into our parents’ houses, back into our mothers’ arms, to the funeral parlors of our hometowns, where we stared into the faces of our own dead brothers.
A FEW OF us got an exception of a different nature. Our sisters announced their sweethearts were coming home and they were getting married. Though our husband’s request for both of us to travel to San Francisco for the wedding was denied, a wife was permitted to go, and we busied our summer with correspondence to our sister about color schemes, florists, and menus. It was the first time in a long time we’d thought about the outside world. Searching through boxes in the back of our closet for nice gloves and a presentable dress for the wedding brought back memories of home. We could smell the sea again. How were the neighbors
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