Jessica shook her head, smiling. “Grandma just likes to brag on me. No, let’s see, we didn’t read too many books for English, we did more workbooks. The only real book we read is
I nodded. “Of course, where Buck goes to the Yukon.” I turned to Ella. “It’s a book about a dog who helped pull sleds when men went looking for gold.”
Suddenly, and for the first time, Antoine began to cry, and Yvonne said to him in a singsong, “We’ll never send
“Pass him here,” Miss Ruby said. Yvonne rolled her eyes but obeyed her mother, and Miss Ruby walked him around the edge of the patio, gently patting his back. Within a minute, he was quiet.
“Most stuff I read isn’t for school, but I just like it,” Jessica was saying. “I’m into Agatha Christie, you ever read Agatha Christie?”
“Oh, sure, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. I haven’t read those for a long time, but I devoured them when I was a little older than you.”
“I just finished
“Oh, Jessica!” I couldn’t help voicing my disapproval, though I was laughing a little, too. “V. C. Andrews is so creepy.”
“Yeah, but you can’t put it down,” Jessica said. “Grandma, remember you came in one night at three in the morning, there I was in bed, I couldn’t stop reading. I just could
“You know I don’t mean to pick on you, Jessica,” I said. “It’s great you read so much.”
“My dad and me just finished
“He only eats snozzcumbers, but he doesn’t like them,” Ella said, and I said, “Ella, maybe
“Mommy, can Jessica go to the pool with us?” Ella asked.
“Oh, that water is way too cold,” Jessica said. “I dipped my pinkie finger in one time, and I pulled it right back out!”
“Can she?” Ella persisted, and I hoped, with great uneasiness, that it was not evident to anyone else that Jessica was talking about the pool at Harold and Priscilla’s—now that my parents-in-law were in Washington, they left the cover on it year-round—while Ella was talking about the pool at the Maronee Country Club. It wasn’t that black people were officially barred from the club, at least not as far as I knew, but even in 1988, there were no black members; club trustees would have said it was because none applied, because so few blacks lived in Maronee. Even the staff, the waiters and waitresses and bartenders, the lifeguards and the trainers in the weight room, were all white, with the exception of one housekeeper who looked to be Latina. Perhaps twice a summer, you’d see a black person at the pool—it was usually a child who’d been invited to a class birthday party—and around the pool’s perimeter, among the various swimmers and sunbathers, it was possible to feel a discomfited alertness; whether the discomfiture came from shame at the exclusivity of our club or outrage that the gates had been breached no doubt depended on the individual.
“And they have milk shakes, too,” Ella was saying and Jessica said, “Grandma, you been making milk shakes for Ella Blackwell and not for me?”
“No, at the club,” Ella said, and I was already talking over her, saying, “I don’t think anyone will be swimming anywhere today.” It had been sunny when we’d sat, but the sky had grown overcast, a washed-out gray. “Who wants to head inside for rhubarb pie?” I asked.
The Suttons had brought this dessert, and I’d exclaimed over it at length when Jessica handed it to me, then I’d hurried to hide the butterscotch cookies Ella and I had made that morning. We ate dessert in the dining room, and when we’d finished, Ella presented the gifts she and I had picked out the day before: for Antoine, from Miss n’ Master, a yellow romper and a very silly pair of shoes, little red leather booties that had baseballs above the toes —an impractical present that Ella had insisted we buy. For Jessica (it was under the guise of a sixth-grade graduation present, though really I hadn’t wanted her to feel left out when there were presents for Antoine), we’d gone to Marshall Field’s at Mayfair Mall and selected a Swatch watch that had translucent pink plastic straps and a pink flower on the face. Jessica fastened it around her wrist and was holding out her arm for us to admire when I heard Charlie’s voice in the front hall.
“Well, well, well,” he said, and when we all turned to look at him, he was grinning. “Am I allowed to crash a ladies’ lunch?”
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Yvonne said. “We thought you were working, Charlie.”
“How could I stay away?” he said. He had on pale blue shorts—not such a different shade from Antoine’s sleeper—and a white polo shirt and white socks; he’d left his spiked golf shoes in the hall. If there was any doubt about where he’d come from, he still was carrying his clubs, and in that moment, he set the bag against one wall of the dining room. His hair and shirt were damp, I noticed, and when I looked out the window, I saw that it had started to rain. “And this must be the man of the hour,” Charlie continued. He walked toward the car seat on the floor, where Antoine had fallen asleep. Leaning in, Charlie said, “That’s a darn good-looking baby. Nice going, Yvonne. Put it here.” He held up his hand for her to give him five, but before she could, he caught sight of the pie and exclaimed, “Vittles!” It was then that I realized he’d been drinking. After cutting himself a large slice of pie, he proceeded to scoop it up with his fingers. Silently, I stood and passed him my plate and fork, both of which he accepted, although he didn’t use them.
“Charlie Blackwell, you don’t have the manners of a barnyard animal,” Miss Ruby said, which made Ella and Jessica titter.
Charlie, too, was smiling. “Yvonne, if I didn’t have such an exalted mother of my own, I would have stolen yours years ago.” He wiped his hands on someone else’s napkin, then set a palm on Miss Ruby’s shoulder. “Jessica, your grandmother is a national treasure,” he said, and I wondered whether Miss Ruby could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Daddy, listen to this.” Ella, who, during the present-opening, had been standing close to Jessica in a self-
