She glanced at the suitcase, imagining the permanent wrinkles it was grinding in the yellow bridesmaid’s dress. Yellow. Aunt Amanda had either remembered or surmised that Elizabeth looked ghastly in yellow. No, more likely she hadn’t given it a thought. The Chandlers would scarcely consider the country cousin in their choice of wedding colors for dear Eileen.
So here I am, thought Elizabeth, the sacrificial lamb of the MacPherson Clan, shunted down to Chandler Grove and decked out in malarial yellow to see Eileen married off to What’s-His-Name.
At least it would be a distraction. Anything would be better than the postpartum depression of having received a degree in sociology and no job prospects. Her father wanted her to go to graduate school, but she couldn’t face that decision just yet. It felt too much like postponing life. She stared at the rack of travel brochures-there was always the Peace Corps. Reconciling with Austin out of sheer panic suddenly seemed dangerously easy.
After all, Austin was well on his way to becoming an architect. He would soon be so well established that Elizabeth could postpone life-determining decisions indefinitely. Though, of course, marrying Austin would have been a life-determining decision. It would lock her forever into the world of tailgate picnics and country club dances. “You just know there’s always an alligator somewhere on his person,” Bill had said. But she had been able to overlook his conventionality; much is forgiven of tanned, wiry blonds.
Her disenchantment had been gradual. She began to see the birthday and Christmas gifts of Bermuda bags and add-a-beads as a tacit reproach of her own taste. The feeling culminated on a golden April afternoon as they strolled along the path by the campus duck pond. Austin had gazed tenderly into her eyes and said: “If you lose ten pounds, I’ll marry you.” Elizabeth pushed him into the pond and walked off without a backward glance.
“I come from haunts of coot and hern,” said a solemn voice behind her.
Elizabeth turned around to see what was obviously a Chandler. He was in his early twenties, and he had the look of a faun in country tweeds.
“You must be Geoffrey,” she said, after a moment’s study.
“I know. I must. I once thought of being Caligula, but when Alban came back from Europe as Ludwig of Bavaria I gave it up.”
“Alban? Aunt Louisa’s son? I haven’t heard of him since she sent him off to William and Mary to become a ‘suthen’ gentleman.”
“My dear, you are quite out of it,” Geoffrey assured her. “After he graduated-KA with a B.A.-Aunt Louisa took him on the grand tour. The castles and churches of Ye Olde Worlde. Unfortunately, they visited Bavaria, and Alban became smitten with that fairy-tale thing that looks like the Disneyland castle. Built by King Ludwig, who was crazy.”
“And?”
“You’ll know soon.” He sighed theatrically. “Far too soon. Is this blue suitcase yours? Shall I carry it for you and further impress you with my good breeding?”
Elizabeth stood up. “I’m so glad to be rescued, I don’t care who carries it.”
Geoffrey raised one expressive eyebrow. “The prospect of going to Long Meadow strikes you as a rescue?”
There didn’t seem to be an answer to this one. After all, Geoffrey was Aunt Amanda’s son, so it wouldn’t do to tell him the truth-but he seemed to have no illusions about the place. They walked out to the car. Elizabeth decided to change the subject.
“We’ve been so out of touch for the past couple of years that I’m afraid I don’t know what you’ve been up to,” she said brightly.
“People are always afraid they don’t know what I’ve been up to,” Geoffrey replied.
“I mean, are you in school?”
“Hardly. I do have a degree. I hear you’ve just acquired one from the family alma mater.”
“Yes. I majored in sociology.”
“Of course you did. Are you about to ask me what I do?”
“I guess I was.”
“Well… one has one’s hobbies-the theater and so forth. But my main function is that of critic.”
“Of drama?”
“Of life.”
They had passed through Chandler Grove’s downtown, a dozen shabby storefronts, several minutes before, and were now speeding along the county blacktop, which curled through rolling hills, dividing Hereford pastures from Holstein. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do either, Elizabeth thought. But the Chandlers have so much money it doesn’t matter. I, on the other hand, will need either a job or a husband by the end of the summer. The only other alternative is to go to graduate school, which will postpone the whole issue for another couple of years.
“Of course, Captain Grandfather keeps insisting that I join the navy. He says it would make a new man of me. ‘Not unless you believe in reincarnation,’ I told him.”
Elizabeth laughed, filing the military away for further consideration.
“You’re not by any chance an actress, are you?” asked Geoffrey.
“Me? No. I’m too self-conscious. But Bill played in the Shakespeare Festival on campus last year. Why?”
“We have quite a decent little theater group in Chandler Grove. Our director actually had a bit of Broadway experience ages ago, but he’s retired now, and only does this to keep busy. We did
“What are you doing this summer?”
“Sinclair has got it into his head that we must do a classic, though I assure you it will be wasted on the audience in Chandler Grove, who think that Madame Bovary is a type of dairy cow.”
“Are you doing Shakespeare?”
“No. Even more obscure.
“I’d love to see your production,” said Elizabeth politely. “When will it be?”
“Well, we’re not sure. It was going to be in three weeks, but we’ll have to postpone it. With all the uproar at home, I haven’t been able to learn all my lines. We’ve had to cancel a few rehearsals, and Mother has commandeered the only local seamstress, so instead of altering costumes, she is turning out unspeakable yellow dresses!” He shuddered.
“I guess things must be pretty hectic with the ceremony so near…”
“Well, they are for Mother, of course,” Geoffrey replied. “She’s ringmaster of this show. Father confines himself to his study and pretends to be writing his book on colonial medicine; Captain Grandfather affects a masculine disdain for women’s matters; and Eileen is mooning about like a
“And Charles? Did he come home for the wedding?”
“Yes, dear brother Charles is on exhibit. Fresh from his commune. You know, I used to think that a commune was sort of a twentieth-century version of a monastery, but if Charles is any example, I think it must be a twentieth century version of a leper colony.”
“Well, he’s always been a changeling, hasn’t he?” asked Elizabeth.
“Always,” Geoffrey agreed. “When we played Civil War as kids, he always wanted to be Harriet Tubman.”
“I know,” said Elizabeth. “Bill always says that Charles is either going to be famous or notorious before he’s thirty.”
“Sorry Bill couldn’t come. He would have made a nice change.”
“Oh, I know, but he had these tests in law school…”
“Spare me,” said Geoffrey. “I am not a cretin. I have made enough excuses to know one when I hear it.”
“How is Eileen?” Elizabeth blurted out. She had wanted to change the subject, but the subject of Eileen didn’t seem safe either.
“Eileen is vague,” Geoffrey said thoughtfully. “She moons about, and doesn’t say anything significant. She’s lucid, of course, but you can have a conversation with her and come away not knowing anything about what she thinks or feels.”
Elizabeth considered this. “You know, there’s somebody you haven’t mentioned.”
“Captain Grandfather? I told you-”
