husband had left, and she said they had left at midnight. She did not seem anxious to talk about the party, but she answered all of Mr. Pruitt’s questions politely.
Mr. Bruce told himself that Mrs. Sheridan was wasting her time; Pruitt was a fool and she deserved better. His dislike of Pruitt and his respect for Mrs. Sheridan seemed idle, but he was pleased, one morning, to get to the corner and find that Mrs. Sheridan was there with her two daughters and the dog, and that Pruitt wasn’t. He wished her a good morning.
“Good morning,” she said. “We seem to be early.”
Katherine and the older Sheridan girl began to talk together.
“I think I knew Katherine’s mother,” Mrs. Sheridan said politely. “Wasn’t your first wife Martha Chase?”
“I knew her in college. I didn’t know her well. She was in the class ahead of me. How old is Katherine now?”
“She was eight last summer,” Mr. Bruce said.
“We have a brother,” the younger Sheridan girl said, standing beside her mother. “He’s eight.”
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Sheridan said.
“He was drowned,” the little girl said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Bruce said.
“He was quite a good swimmer,” the little girl went on, “but we think that he must have gotten a cramp. You see, there was a thunderstorm, and we all went into the boathouse and we weren’t looking and?”
“That was a long time ago, dear,” Mrs. Sheridan said gently.
“It wasn’t so long ago,” the little girl said. “It was only last summer.”
“Yes, dear,” her mother said. “Yes, yes.”
Mr. Bruce noticed that there was no trace of pain, or of the effort to conceal it, on her face, and her composure seemed to him a feat of intelligence and grace. They continued to stand together, without talking, until the other parents arrived with their children, just as the bus came up the street. Mrs. Sheridan called to the old dog and went down Park Avenue, and Mr. Bruce got into a taxi and went to work.
Toward the end of October, on a rainy Friday night, Mr. and Mrs. Bruce took a taxi to St. James’s School. It was Parents’ Night. One of the senior boys ushered them into a pew at the rear of the chapel. The altar was stripped of its mysteries, and the rector stood on the raised floor between the choir stalls, waiting for the laggard parents to be seated. He tucked and pulled nervously at his clericals, and then signaled for silence by clearing his throat.
“On behalf of the faculty and the board of trustees,” he said, “I welcome the parents of St. James’s here this evening. I regret that we have such inclement weather, but it doesn’t seem to have kept any of you at home.” This was said archly, as if the full attendance reflected his powers of intimidation. “Let us begin,” he said, “with a prayer for the welfare of our school: Almighty Father, Creator of Heaven and earth!…” Kneeling, and with their heads bowed, the congregation looked indestructible and as if the permanence of society depended and could always depend on them. And when the prayer ended, the rector spoke to them about their durability. “I have some very interesting statistics for you all tonight,” he said. “This year we have sixteen children enrolled in the school whose parents and whose grandparents were St. James’s children. I think that’s a very impressive number. I doubt that any other day school in the city could equal it.”
During the brief speech in defense of conservative education that followed, Mr. Bruce noticed that Mrs. Sheridan was seated a few pews in front of him. With her was a tall man?her husband, presumably?with a straight back and black hair. When the talk ended, the meeting was opened for questions. The first question was from a mother who wanted advice on how to restrict her children’s use of television. While the rector was answering this question, Mr. Bruce noticed that the Sheridans were having an argument. They were whispering, and their disagreement seemed intense. Suddenly, Mrs. Sheridan separated herself from the argument. She had nothing further to say. Mr. Sheridan’s neck got red. He continued, in a whisper, to press his case, bending toward his wife, and shaking his head. Mrs. Sheridan raised her hand.
“Yes, Mrs. Sheridan,” the rector said.
Mr. Sheridan picked up his coat and his derby, and, saying “Excuse me, please,” “Thank you,” “Excuse me,” passed in front of the other people in the pew, and left the chapel.
“Yes, Mrs. Sheridan?” the rector repeated.
“I wonder, Dr. Frisbee,” Mrs. Sheridan said, if you and the board of trustees have ever thought of enrolling Negro children in St. James’s?”
