they’d understand each other perfectly. She made me morose.
On the other hand, Liddy Moffat would probably make her a goddess. After all, Ingrid’s face had been recycled enough times to win an ecology prize.
“I’ll bet Ingrid would love one of these cucumber sandwiches. Wouldn’t you, Li’l Thing?” Cornelius piped his voice up an octave.
Penelope K. sighed dramatically.
Cornelius ignored her, and didn’t wait for Li’l Thing to answer, either, but used the silver tongs to pluck a waferlike sandwich onto a small plate he passed to her. She took the plate and beamed upon him.
I wondered if she was under sedation.
Cornelius was a surprise. I didn’t have the sort of bank account or interests that exposed me to a lot of gigolos, so my imagery’s out of date. I’d imagined Ramon Novarro or Valentino—a lounge lizard complete with pencil-thin mustache. Cornelius Westerly was nowhere near my fantasies. Given a room of men from which to choose my fortune-hunting fake, he’d have been close to my last choice.
He was strikingly average. He had sandy hair, a somewhat rosy complexion, and not a single feature you’d single out. Average height. Average weight. I could more imagine him coaching Little League than courting a woman who could be his grandmother and attempting to con her out of millions of dollars’ worth of real estate.
Ingrid beamed at him.
Penelope fumed. I half expected steam to emerge from her ears.
Cornelius smiled back at Ingrid, patted her hand, and fed her bits of cucumber sandwich.
Ingrid’s tiny right wrist held ivory bracelets that made muffled clunks when she returned the china plate to the coffee table. The bracelets were the only jewelry she wore except for a large emerald-cut diamond ring on her left hand. I glanced at Cornelius, wondering how he’d afforded it. Perhaps in arrangements such as this, it was customary for the bride to buy her own ring. To engage herself. Maybe all rules and customs were off when there was this much of a disparity between means and age.
“Cornelius always knows precisely what I want, doesn’t he, Penelope? Isn’t he amazing?”
Her mind might be going, but she remembered how to needle and torment. The wink she gave her social secretary emphasized the fact that she knew precisely what she’d said and meant.
“Have we met before?” Ingrid lifted her teacup, and holding it at chest level, paused to ask her question in a sociable melodic voice with a hint of the crackling of old age. I could imagine her a young hostess, and I could see how lovely she must have been. What was now starved and cadaverous must have once been willowy and svelte, and somewhere beneath the pulled tight, puffed-lipped face, there appeared the vestiges of real beauty. “Pepper, is it? I’ve known a Pepper or two. Are you one of them?”
I don’t know what I had expected her to say or do. I don’t know how families behave when one of them has been abruptly, cruelly, and murderously taken from them. I hope I never have to know it firsthand. But I would have thought the loss would be taken more seriously.
Life must go on, but must it go on quite this superficially, catered and politely low-key, as if purely social? Maybe it was a matter of propriety to keep up appearances, maybe women like Ingrid Severin were trained to keep a stiff—if artificially inflated—upper lip no matter the circumstances. I, however, didn’t get it. The woman’s only child would be buried tomorrow. Did she honestly feel in the mood for cucumber sandwiches, geriatric flirting, and social niceties?
Nobody offered the cakes to me. Perhaps they were saving me from becoming fat, or from Ingrid’s reaction to my accepting one. She seemed numb to human emotions, except on that topic, but on that topic, she had enough emotions to produce a stroke.
“Now what is wrong with silly me? How are you expected to know if you’re one of the Peppers I know?” She trilled a small, insincere laugh.
I
On the other hand, Liddy Moffat would probably make her a goddess. After all, Ingrid’s face had been recycled enough times to win an ecology prize.
“I’ll bet Ingrid would love one of these cucumber sandwiches. Wouldn’t you, Li’l Thing?” Cornelius piped his voice up an octave.
Penelope K. sighed dramatically.
Cornelius ignored her, and didn’t wait for Li’l Thing to answer, either, but used the silver tongs to pluck a waferlike sandwich onto a small plate he passed to her. She took the plate and beamed upon him.
I wondered if she was under sedation.
Cornelius was a surprise. I didn’t have the sort of bank account or interests that exposed me to a lot of gigolos, so my imagery’s out of date. I’d imagined Ramon Novarro or Valentino—a lounge lizard complete with pencil-thin mustache. Cornelius Westerly was nowhere near my fantasies. Given a room of men from which to choose my fortune-hunting fake, he’d have been close to my last choice.
He was strikingly average. He had sandy hair, a somewhat rosy complexion, and not a single feature you’d single out. Average height. Average weight. I could more imagine him coaching Little League than courting a woman who could be his grandmother and attempting to con her out of millions of dollars’ worth of real estate.
Ingrid beamed at him.
Penelope fumed. I half expected steam to emerge from her ears.
Cornelius smiled back at Ingrid, patted her hand, and fed her bits of cucumber sandwich.
Ingrid’s tiny right wrist held ivory bracelets that made muffled clunks when she returned the china plate to the coffee table. The bracelets were the only jewelry she wore except for a large emerald-cut diamond ring on her left hand. I glanced at Cornelius, wondering how he’d afforded it. Perhaps in arrangements such as this, it was customary for the bride to buy her own ring. To engage herself. Maybe all rules and customs were off when there was this much of a disparity between means and age.
“Cornelius always knows precisely what I want, doesn’t he, Penelope? Isn’t he amazing?”
Her mind might be going, but she remembered how to needle and torment. The wink she gave her social secretary emphasized the fact that she knew precisely what she’d said and meant.
“Have we met before?” Ingrid lifted her teacup, and holding it at chest level, paused to ask her question in a sociable melodic voice with a hint of the crackling of old age. I could imagine her a young hostess, and I could see how lovely she must have been. What was now starved and cadaverous must have once been willowy and svelte, and somewhere beneath the pulled tight, puffed-lipped face, there appeared the vestiges of real beauty. “Pepper, is it? I’ve known a Pepper or two. Are you one of them?”
I don’t know what I had expected her to say or do. I don’t know how families behave when one of them has been abruptly, cruelly, and murderously taken from them. I hope I never have to know it firsthand. But I would have thought the loss would be taken more seriously.
Life must go on, but must it go on quite this superficially, catered and politely low-key, as if purely social? Maybe it was a matter of propriety to keep up appearances, maybe women like Ingrid Severin were trained to keep a stiff—if artificially inflated—upper lip no matter the circumstances. I, however, didn’t get it. The woman’s only child would be buried tomorrow. Did she honestly feel in the mood for cucumber sandwiches, geriatric flirting, and social niceties?
Nobody offered the cakes to me. Perhaps they were saving me from becoming fat, or from Ingrid’s reaction to my accepting one. She seemed numb to human emotions, except on that topic, but on that topic, she had enough emotions to produce a stroke.
“Now what is wrong with silly me? How are you expected to know if you’re one of the Peppers I know?” She trilled a small, insincere laugh.
I
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