The Most Dangerous Thing

“But when you marry-”

“I’m never going to marry.” The viciousness of Gwen’s tone almost literally knocks Tally off balance. This is sincere revulsion, not the cool mockery she has been practicing. Tally finds herself placing her right palm on the edge of the stainless steel sink, steadying herself. She hates this sink, cold and industrial. Sinks should be porcelain, like the one in her parents’ home. Her parents’ home, with its pantry and maid’s room off the kitchen, a life she wanted no part of. Why? Why had she traded it for something even lesser? What was she thinking?

Perhaps Gwen realizes she has crossed a line because she softens her tone slightly. “I mean, I’m not going to marry young, or at least not have children young, not until I’m at least thirty. I want to have a career first.”

Her attempt at tact is only more hurtful. Gwen’s words hang in the kitchen, an utterly polite fuck-you to her mother. Why not just say: Upon pain of death , I am not going to be you. Tally wouldn’t mind. Tally doesn’t want to be Tally most days.

But if Tally hadn’t been Tally, then there would be no Miller, no Fee, no Gwen, no in utero grandchild. You can’t hate me for the crime of having you, Tally yearns to tell her daughter. Only it’s not hate, it’s disdain and pity, so much harder to stomach. Gwen, her plaid skirt twitching on her hips, is like some beautiful alien in a science fiction film, briefly looking back in disgust at the primordial ooze from which she has emerged. She wants to believe that she is the author of her own life, that she can take whatever form she chooses and it will have nothing to do with Tally. She needs to believe this, at least for a while. Tally understands, absolutely. She felt exactly the same way at Gwen’s age. I’ll be anyone but you .

Why does understanding only make it feel worse? Forgetting Clem’s plans, she takes the Burgundy from the ice bucket, opens it, and pours herself a healthy slug of wine. Let the celebration begin.

Chapter Twenty-three

F ather Andrew is coming to tea. The invitation occurs to Doris just like that, when she stops by his office after altar guild to ask how Go-Go-Gordon, Father Andrew does not approve of nicknames-has been doing since school started.

“We should talk,” he says. “Not now I’m afraid-I’m due at a meeting-but we should make time to speak privately.”

She knows her heart should sink at those words. No mother-no good mother-wants to hear those words: We should talk . And, somewhere inside her, there is a horrible, pricking worry, something plummeting with the sound of a long, sad cartoon slide whistle. I knew it. Things aren’t getting better. But that pathetic naysayer can barely be heard over the Love, American Style fireworks shooting into the air. They have to talk! Privately!

“The thing is, you are so in demand when you’re here,” she says. “People always seem to be tugging at you. And my husband and I still have only the one car, and he uses it most days. Perhaps you could come to the house. For tea?” Yes, for tea, on an afternoon when Sean has band practice and Tim Junior. is at the library and Go-Go is outside, doing whatever Go-Go does. Doris has never served an actual tea, but how hard can it be? That is, she has drunk tea, but never set the table for tea. She has a proper teapot somewhere and a cozy and a trivet. She can bake cookies if she puts her mind to it, or at least buy fancier ones, Pepperidge Farm, although she bets Father Andrew likes something with more heft-banana nut bread, pound cake?

Father Andrew considers her proposal, probably sifting through his schedule in his head, nothing more, yet Doris can’t help wishing more complicated calculations are going through his head. “That would be nice,” he says at last. “Today?”

“Tomorrow,” she parries, nervous that she will be punished for not accepting immediately what he offered, that it’s wrong to ask Father Andrew to work around her schedule. But she can’t ready the house by this afternoon.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees.

The next morning, she can’t wait for Tim Senior to leave for work. But once the house is empty, she is overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. When did the house get this dirty? How? Why can’t Tim Senior ever put his own coffee cup in the dishwasher?

She decides to start on the first floor and work up, as if it were a mountain to climb, pushing the mess in front of her, like a child rolling the base of a snowman. If she doesn’t finish the second floor, it’s not dire. She scrubs out pots that have been soaking for days, separates the boys’ laundry and folds it, putting it on their respective bureaus instead of leaving it in a heap on the hallway bench. She vacuums, she mops, she cleans the venetian blinds, wondering as she does so why they are called venetian . That could be a nice conversational gambit with Father Andrew. He seems to know such things.

She gets out a cookbook and realizes she has the ingredients to make a pound cake, although it will wipe out the butter and there will be hell to pay when Tim Senior has breakfast tomorrow. She can run up to the corner grocery later. Oh, she should have read ahead: the eggs have to be separated and beaten with a hand mixer. Where is her hand mixer? She finds it in Go-Go’s room, under his bed. She is forever finding things under Go-Go’s bed. She has to wash it, of course, grimed with dust as it is, and she screws up separating the first egg, which means she has none to spare, but she is perfect on the others. The house, neat for the first time in months, soon fills with the smells of vanilla and butter and sugar.

Can Doris work the same transformative magic on Doris? She goes into the master bathroom. Fluorescent light is unkind to everyone, but this is downright cruel. When did her face become gray and sunken, her hair thin and pink? She was one of the prettiest girls in her parish, second only to Sally McCafferty. Doris was like a rose, everybody said so, although her Aunt Ginny always added: “A plucked rose fades fast.” People laughed when Aunt Ginny said that, and Doris, innocent as she was, assumed it had something to do with virginity. Or perhaps it was pregnancy? Or merely marriage? At any rate, she is good and truly plucked, but there must be something she can do. She gives her face a once-over with cold cream, then applies a thin coat to wear the rest of the afternoon. She takes her curlers out and runs a wet comb through her hair. Tally Robison wears her hair loose and smooth. Why shouldn’t Doris? Hmmm, it doesn’t look quite right. Maybe she can tweak the ends into a pageboy. Her nails are a mess, especially after today’s work, but she cleans them, then files and buffs until they are presentable if not notable.

She goes to her closet. What to wear? Father Andrew has seen her mainly in skirts and blouses. Wouldn’t it seem odd if she dresses up for his visit? But there is a wraparound skirt, green with white piping, which pairs nicely with a green-and-white-checked shirt. That works, although it’s a little summery for November.

The timer pings. She brings the loaves out to cool, making a mental note to hide them later. Tim and the boys would go through these like locusts. She feels a twinge of guilt: What kind of woman bakes a delicious dessert and then hides it from her loved ones? But in her mind’s eye, there must be two perfect, uncut loaves on the serving plate. She wants her table to look like a picture out of Better Homes and Gardens . She needs a tablecloth and fresh napkins. She rummages through the dining room’s built-in breakfront and finds a white tablecloth. Stained, of course. She tosses it into the wash with some bleach, hoping for the best.

When she was a newlywed, she didn’t even have a washer-dryer. Also no dishwasher, no venetian blinds, only hand-me-down lace curtains at the windows. All their things were hand-me-downs, with the exception of their bedroom suite, which was a wedding gift from her father. They lived in a simple brick rowhouse off Ingleside, and she kept it spotless. Tim returned from work to home-cooked meals. She washed the dishes by hand while he sat on the back steps, listening to the Orioles game. She was happy. The women’s libbers said she shouldn’t have been, but she was. What happened?