Читать книгу The Glenwood Treasure - Kim Moritsugu - Страница 6

I first heard about the Glenwood treasure from my father, who liked to deliver lengthy lectures about family lore, on what seemed like a weekly basis, in the cocktail hour before dinner. I was five years old when he started telling me the story of my Morrison ancestors, young enough not to question why I had to endure these history lessons, old enough to figure out that the Glenwood treasure part of Dad’s recitation was the good part.

Picture me at five, sitting in the drawing room amid heavy draperies, stiff upholstered furniture, Persian rugs, mahogany side tables. My dark, shiny hair is held back from my face with a rib-bon. The skirt of my smocked dress is fanned out behind me on the wing chair seat. My hands are folded in my lap, and my feet, clad in lacy-topped ankle socks and polished Mary Janes, are still. Under my mother’s watchful and approving eye, I listen to Dad drone on, and when he takes a breath, I say, “Tell us about the Glenwood treasure, Daddy.”

My brother Noel sits next to me in another wing chair. He is seven to my five, blond to my brunette, and prone to pinching me and leaving presents in my bed of slimy earthworms or stunned bees, but at this stage of the game that will be our relationship, we still collaborate on the occasional parent-manipulation manoeuvre. “Yes, please, Daddy,” Noel says, his eyes big and round — he already knows how to assume a false mask of innocence — “tell us about the treasure.”

Dad obliges, and treats us to his version of the story, which has less to do with the hidden money than with Dad’s father, my grandfather, Robert Thomas Morrison, the executor of Jeremiah Brown’s estate. According to R.T., Jeremiah Brown went a little strange at his end, had started to become so after his three sons died (two in the war, one in a car crash) and declined further when his wife passed away soon after the death of the youngest son. Call it strangeness or senile dementia, but R.T. was convinced Brown fabricated the treasure story, and never buried a cent.

Noel and I listened politely to Dad’s lecture, to the official family line, but we didn’t believe the hoax theory for a second. We both knew that there really was treasure hidden at Glenwood, and when my father’s back was turned, we looked for it. We took our toy spades and shovels over to Highpoint Road and dug around on the Glenwood lawn, close to the street or under the trees, when the owners weren’t watching. We didn’t find anything, but we continued to believe in the treasure, each in our own way, for years to come. Which was remarkable, considering how few beliefs Noel and I ever had in common.

In May of my twenty-ninth year I planned a retreat from California, from the unbroken sunshine and my broken marriage, to home. The thought of living among Rose Park’s deciduous trees, in a temperate climate, was a balm to my wounded expec-tations. When I closed my eyes, I conjured up images of dappled sunshine, of cool breezes causing leaves to dance on their branches, of crabapple trees in bloom, of waves of moral support floated toward me by friends and loved ones. That is, as usual, I was somewhat deluded.

I called my mother and asked if I could take up temporary residence in the coach house at the end of her driveway. “Just for the summer,” I said. “I’ve signed a lease on an apartment in my old building to start September 1.”

She went speechless for a second, and from across the continent, I heard the clacking sound of pearls used as worry beads.

I said, “I’ll pay you rent.”

“Rent? Don’t be silly. Rent’s the least of my worries. But coming home is such a drastic step. Is there no hope you’ll get back together with Gerald?”

Outside the kitchenette window of my sublet, I could see shiny, puffy-leaved foliage and springy tropical grass in my patch of garden, a tiny brown lizard on the windowsill. “No hope. Zero. What’s the most of your worries?”

“None. I have none. Of course you can move in.” The tempo and pitch of her voice had brisked up. From her kitchen, in Rose Park, she would gaze on a wide expanse of thin-blad-ed, northern hemisphere grass, on matte-finish foliage. “I’ll tell your father. He’ll be delighted. When will you be here? I’ll have the place cleaned and aired out.”

I thanked her, told her not to fuss, said I would arrive in early June, right after the Fairfield Day School’s last day of term.

She said, “What should I tell people when they ask why you’re coming back?”

“Who?”

“Friends, neighbours, people at the golf club.” My mother’s coterie.

“Tell them the truth: that Gerald and I have split up, and I’ll be back teaching at my old school and living in my old building in September.”

“What reason should I give for the split?”

“I’d go with incompatibility.” A good one-size-fits-all reason.

“And if anyone asks what you’ll do for the summer?”

“Say — I don’t know. Say I’ll use the summer to regroup.” And to shake off the post-separation lethargy that had made the task of moving home seem like a Herculean labour.

“To regroup,” she said, slowly, as if writing the word down. “Might you take a course? Or go on a trip? You’re not going to just mope around all summer, are you?”

I reminded myself she meant well, that living in close proximity to the parents would be short-term, that they travelled a lot. “How about this? How about if, between moping sessions, I walk the dog for you? Once a day at least. More when you go away.”

“You mean it? That would be a help. I’ll tell Dad.”

She talked on, I made appropriate responses, and I filled my mind with a greeting-card-perfect image of my parents’ house, nestled under the majestic maple trees that form a canopy across their street.

Rose Park is known for its trees. If you look at an aerial photograph of Toronto, you can easily spot, to the northeast of the grey sea of concrete and steel and glass that makes up most of downtown, the green island that is Rose Park. Or rather, the large, flattish hilltop on which Rose Park stands, separated from the surrounding area by the ravines that border it on four sides.

In the mid-nineteenth century, when the city was a small grid of neatly laid out streets clustered around the harbour and named after kings, queens, and English market towns, Rose Park was a wooded area ten miles away where rich people built country houses. By the turn of the twentieth century, once-isolated estates had acquired closer neighbours in newly constructed manors. Soon, roads were laid that linked Rose Park to its environs, and bridges were constructed across the ravines. With access came development, the building of more houses, many grand enough to confirm the neighbourhood’s reputation as an exclusive, moneyed enclave. Emphasis on old establishment money, of my father’s kind.

Dad is a third-generation lawyer. He grew up, as did generations of Morrisons before him, in the large house where he now lives with my mother, a like-minded import from Connecticut. More than a handful of my father’s childhood friends still live nearby — fair-skinned, blue-eyed men who attended the same private schools as Dad, summered in the same lake district up north, belong to the same private clubs, support the same political party. But Dad and his ilk aren’t the sole inhabitants of the neighbourhood. For every stretch of ravine-lot mansions with multiple car garages (and coach houses), there are a few blocks of modest, 1920s-era four-bedroom boxes. A short retail strip features railroad flats above the few stores. And here and there, on Rose Park’s outer, lesser streets, are small, one-storey, never-renovated houses built as workers’ cottages, some the size of a one-bedroom apartment.

Rose Park is not as homogeneous as it may seem, is what I’m trying to say, except when it comes to trees. The trees are everywhere.

My parents’ dog Tup (short for Tuppence) jumped up and wagged his tail on my arrival home, pretended he remembered me and couldn’t wait to begin our daily walks. I patted him in appreciation for this trick, said, “Good boy!,” and turned to my mother. We hugged and air-kissed, and neither of us commented on the other’s appearance. She bit her tongue about the wan, unhealthy look I was affecting, and I didn’t comment that the widening white streak in her professionally coloured auburn hair had increased her resemblance to Cruella de Vil.

The house smelled the same as always — cool and leathery, with a base note of dog. It looked the same, too, notwithstanding the new living room drapes my mother pointed out, drapes that appeared to me identical to the heavy, formal, valance-topped set that had always hung there. I admired them anyway, followed Mom to the kitchen, and, over coffee and banana bread, listened to an update on the block’s real estate transactions, followed by a report on the latest made-in-social-heaven marriages undertaken by the adult children of her friends. To match the job promotions they had recently received in their A-list professions.

A full twenty minutes of this chit-chat passed before Mom thought to mention the welcome back dinner party she’d organized for me, two days hence, when I wouldn’t yet have adjusted to the changes in time, climate, and culture zones.

“How kind of you,” I said. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to socialize.”

“Better to show your face sooner than later. Let the world see that you’re not down and defeated.”

I faked a perky smile. “You advocate up and victorious as the surface mood to aim for, do you?”

“Don’t act depressed and you won’t feel depressed — that’s my advice. How long since you and Gerald separated? Six months?”

“Eight.”

“Definitely time to move on. That’s why you came back, isn’t it? To start over?”

Perhaps, though not so publicly. “Who did you invite?”

“Our usuals.” She rhymed off the names of some of their couple friends, a few neighbours, an aunt and uncle who lived four blocks north, my married cousin and her husband from three blocks east. No one who had ever been close to me. “It’ll be a festive start to your summer,” she said, and stood up. End of discussion. “Shall we go over to the coach house now?”

The flat had been a tack room when the garage below it housed carriages, was converted to a spartan one-person dwelling sometime in the thirties, and had served as a home to various household staff for years after. When Noel and I were kids, a succession of live-in nannies stayed there. In our tween years, it functioned as a playroom, a kind of tree house, and Noel used it as a bachelor pad between terms at university.

The place had been uninhabited in the eight or so years since, so I wondered, when Mom unlocked the door, if I might find any signs of Noel’s debauchery inside — a wrinkled condom wrapper kicked under the bed, maybe, or an empty amyl nitrate vial jammed in behind the fridge, a porn magazine rolled up under the bathroom sink. But no. The three small rooms were pristine, had been thoroughly cleaned by Mom’s cleaning woman. The only visible evidence of Noel’s former tenancy was a small cigarette burn on the arm of the tartanplaid couch.

Mom opened the double-sash windows in the sitting room. “You might find it a little too cozy in here,” she said. “But you can always come stay with us in the big house if you’re not comfortable.”

The old pine kitchen cupboards and the aged hardwood floors were of a worn golden hue, but everything else seemed to be white — white walls, white bedroom furniture, white bathroom fixtures (including a large clawfoot tub with a shower rigged up over top.) The fireplace mantel and surround were also white, and empty of decoration except for an earthenware vase filled with two stalks of white freesia that my mother must have arranged there. I saw her hand too in the placement of a worn leather armchair, perfect for reading, next to a window that gave out onto a beguiling view of sunlight, shadow, and leaves, and near a bookcase filled with the old books I’d stored with my parents when I’d moved to California. The overall impression was of a retreat, like a monk’s cell in its simplicity. All that was missing was the hair shirt, but I already had the figurative one I’d been wearing for months.

My mother followed my eyes around, said, “It’s rather austere-looking, isn’t it? I’ll run out and buy some throw cushions tomorrow to add some colour. In citrus shades, perhaps.”

“No, don’t. I mean, everything’s perfect as is. Thank you. For letting me stay, for fixing up the place, for everything.”This time, my smile was genuine.

Where was I, what day was it, and was I still depressed? These were the questions I was in the habit of asking myself each day before I opened my eyes. And on my first morning back in Rose Park, when I awoke in the chenille-covered double bed in the coach house, I thought the veil of sadness I’d worn for months might have thinned a little. Or maybe I should have pulled down the shades the night before — the sunshine flooding in through the windows was blinding.

I spent the day doing errands of the moving-in kind — I set up bank accounts, arranged phone, cable, and internet hook-ups, foraged among the boxes of my belongings in the parents’ basement for various essential household items I needed, went out and bought a serious bicycle that I intended to use as my major means of transportation. At five o’clock, I walked three blocks to the local grocery store, an upscale emporium referred to by the locals as the Market. It sold flowers, fancy produce, all kinds of meat, sushi, baked goods, prepared food, fifty-dollar bottles of balsamic vinegar, and groceries, including the ingredients I sought for my dinner — pita, goat cheese, cream cheese, and chives. Since the breakup with Gerald, I’d often subsisted on a pathetic but satisfying single person’s meal made by combining the cheeses and chopped chives, and spreading the mixture on toasted pita triangles. My version of comfort food.

I walked home from the store the long way, passed through a park called Cawley Gardens, sat down on a bench there, let the breeze blow my hair and my mind around, and rested my eyes on a house across the road, the house known as Glenwood.

If you didn’t know the story about Jeremiah Brown and the treasure, you’d still notice Glenwood, because it’s so pretty and colourful and ornamented, so different from its plainer neighbours — houses made of grey stucco or dull red brick, their only decorative detail sets of wooden shutters and the occasional concrete lintel. But, to me, who knew the story well, Glenwood was more than an architectural pin-up. I couldn’t look at the house without thinking about Jeremiah Brown and its treasure, or about its current owners, the Greers, whom I’d met some twelve years before, when my mother had organized a welcome-to-Rose-Park brunch in their honour.

As soon as Mom heard that a heart surgeon and his author/illustrator wife had moved into the fiefdom, she contrived an introduction, invited the newcomers over to meet the neighbours who mattered. And vice versa. “They have a daughter your age,” she said, after her initial reconnaissance. “Her name is Hannah. Maybe she’ll be a new friend for you!”

I didn’t bother to reply. I just gave Mom the look every teenage girl favours her mother with sooner or later — the I-can’t-believe-how-much-there-is-to-me-that-you-don’t-understand look. She carried on with her brunch plans regardless. She hired the two blunt-speaking, heavy-smoking, grey-haired ladies in maid’s uniforms that she employed on these occasions to serve, she issued invitations on her monogrammed stationery, and she arranged for her caterer to supply quiches and salads and brown bread and the requisite side of smoked salmon garnished with capers, sliced onions, and lemon wedges. Mom’s version of comfort food.

On party day, I hid out with a book in the glassed-in, fern-filled back room on the main floor that my parents liked to refer to as the conservatory. Soon after the party began, Mom swept into my hideout, trailed by the three Greers, and said, in her over-loud, over-animated social voice, “Blithe, what are you doing in here all alone? Come meet everyone.”

I stood up and said hello. Mrs. Greer had a kind face, of a sparky and keen-eyed variety, as befitted a children’s literature author. Her husband, Dr. Greer, was a polite presence beside her who would meet me ten or twelve more times before deciding that my identity was worth committing to memory.

“And this” Mom said, “is Hannah”

We shook hands, Hannah and me — her grip firm, mine more fish-like — and Mom said, “Blithe’s going into grade twelve at Northside High this September, too!”

Neither of us judged this announcement worthy of a rejoinder. We were too busy assessing each other’s appearance while pretending not to. Hannah was attractive, with naturally curly hair cut short, finely drawn features, and a slim build. She wore shapeless, dun-coloured clothes that seemed to be making a left-wing political statement, possibly related to South American revolutionaries — a folkloric bandanna was tied around her wrist, a hand-beaded belt held up the narrow waist of her pants. I could only imagine what she would make of me, in my more First World attire — a white shirt and khaki skirt.

Before our mutual regard could become awkward, Noel made his entrance and was introduced all around. He showed off his smarmy private school manners with Mr. and Mrs. Greer and favoured Hannah with a roguish grin. “How do you do?” he said. “I’m the more interesting sibling.”

Hannah registered his WASPy, Dad-like looks — the close-set blue eyes, blond hair, princely forelock — glanced back at me, and probably wondered if I was adopted. Or the help. Noel winked at her, said, “I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes I wonder how Blithe and I could be related, too.”

“Oh, Noel,” Mom said. She gave him an affectionate slap on the arm and said, to the room, “He’s such a tease.”

If the Greers drew any conclusions about our family dynamic from this exchange, they hid them well. All Hannah said was, “Blithe, would you mind showing me around the house? It looks so interesting and old.”

Mom said, “I’m sure Blithe would be happy to give you a tour, wouldn’t you, dear?” I agreed, and Mom headed Mr. and Mrs. Greer off to the backyard, where the bar, Dad, and more guests awaited them.

As soon as they’d gone, Noel moved in on Hannah. “Wouldn’t you rather I showed you the garden?” he said. “I could cadge us some champagne on the way.”

I waited to see if this come-on would work — sadly, Noel’s lines usually did — and scored a small victory in our ongoing sibling war when Hannah said, “Maybe later, thanks. Where should we start, Blithe?”

I shooed Noel away and led Hannah into a book-lined room known as the library. Its main feature, other than old books, was a gloomy ancestral portrait over the fireplace. “That’s Hugh Lawrence Morrison,” I said. “He had this house built in 1847”

She looked around, at the picture, the leaded windows, the fireplace, the dark furniture, back at me. “Why are you called Blithe?”

“My parents are big Noel Coward fans. They named my brother Noel, and me Blithe. After the spirit.”

“Poor you,” she said, but she looked more amused than sympathetic.

“It could have been worse. They could have named me Cowardice.”This was an old joke of mine that I trotted out whenever I could, despite the tepid reception it invariably received.

She smiled a brief, lukewarm smile, and said, “So was the guy in the portrait pretty rich?”

“‘Comfortable’ is the term the family’s always used”

“Uh-huh.”

Pause.

I said, “You’re not actually interested in the house, are you?”

“Not really, no — I wanted to get away from my parents. My mother’s been driving me insane with family togetherness since we moved here. I can’t wait till school starts so I can leave the house without having to explain where in hell I’m going.”

Uh-huh back to her. I sat down on one of the saggy leather chairs, gestured for her to sit, tried to think what innocuous but sociable remark my mother would make in this situation. “How’re you liking Rose Park so far?”

“It’s too quiet for my taste. The only people I’ve met are senior citizens and bratty kids. On our street, anyway.”

“What street is that?” I hadn’t listened when my mother had told me.

“Highpoint.”

“Anywhere near number fifty-one?”

“What do you mean? We’re in number fifty-one. In the house with a name: Glenwood”

I sat up. “You’re living at Glenwood? I didn’t know it had been up for sale. What happened to the previous owners?”

“They moved to France. Did you know them?”

“No. I only knew about Jeremiah Brown.”

“Who?”

“You live there and you don’t know about Jeremiah Brown?”

A flash of annoyance. “Obviously not.”

So I told her about Jeremiah and the treasure and the man with a dog who sees light in the valley. “A book was written about the treasure years ago. It should be in this room somewhere.” I stood up and started to search the bookshelves for it.

She put up her feet — clad in rugged, foreign-looking leather sandals that emphasized the slenderness of her ankles — on a cracked leather ottoman. “Tell me,” she said, “what’s Northside High like?”

I didn’t turn around. “It’s the usual collection of cliques. The athletes and the music students rule the place.”Then there was me.

“Is there a darkroom in the school?”

“I don’t know. Why? Are you into photography?”

“Do cats kill mice?”

Interesting analogy. Too interesting to comment on in any polite way. “You could probably start up a photography club at school if you wanted,” I said. “Last year, Noel founded a rugby team there.”

“But he graduated, right? Didn’t my mother say he’s going away to some Ivy League university?”

Where was that book? “Yeah, to Harvard, for economics and political science. Followed by a master’s degree at Oxford, he’s hoping. He has big plans for a foreign service career.”

“Oh, does he.” Not a question. “Is he as untrustworthy as he looks?”

He was worse than untrustworthy. But I’d been brought up to feign family loyalty, at least to strangers. “What do you mean? Did he look untrustworthy to you?”

“Never mind.”

“Here it is. Jeremiah Brown’s Treasure. Would you like to see it?”

She moved to a chair that faced the garden, sat down, opened the book, and read the title page. Through the window, Noel smiled at her, mimed drinking from a wine glass, and beckoned her to him. She turned two more pages before she said, “Do you think I could borrow this book? To show my mother?”

My smile was as thin as her long neck. “Sure.”

“How about we go outside now, get some fresh air?”

“The indoor air suits me fine. You go ahead.”

She got up out of the chair. Her movements were graceful, even in the baggy clothes. “See you later,” she said. “Maybe you can show me the ropes at school.”

I had a feeling she’d be able to handle the ropes fine without me, but to be polite, I told her I could be found, most lunchtimes, under a tree on the school lawn.

“Under a tree,” she’d said,“gotcha.”

Gotcha.

I shook myself free of memory, peeled my legs off the park bench, walked across the street, and rang Glenwood’s doorbell. Maybe Mrs. Greer was home. I hadn’t seen her for years, but I’d followed her literary career, owned all her books, had stocked my classrooms with the popular children’s adventure novels she wrote.

She opened the door. Her hair was greyer than it appeared in her author photo, and her skin more lined. Her eyes were as warm as I remembered, though the friendly but inquiring expression on her face contained no speck of recognition. Probably because of the aged appearance of my hair and skin.

“Hi, Mrs. Greer,” I said. “It’s Blithe Morrison, Hannah’s friend from high school. I was passing by and thought I’d say hello, see if you still lived here.”

Her smile warmed up to match her eyes. “Blithe, of course! How are you? What are you up to these days? Are you living in town? Won’t you come in?”

I declined entry, lingered on her porch, gave her the short answer on my life status — the divorced and back from California to teach in September answer. “I’m glad to see you’re holding the fort here. How’s the writing going?”

“Busy. Actually, more than busy. I’m behind on a deadline and Larry and I are going on vacation soon and I’d be tearing my hair out if I weren’t worried about losing it. How about you? What will you do for the summer?”

“Not much. Take it easy, read, relax”

For no reason I could see, these remarks elicited from her a furrowed brow, a speculative eye, and the comment, “You don’t say.”

“Good to see you. Say hello to Hannah when you —”

“Wait. I’ve just had a brainwave. A crazy one, but what the hell. Would you be interested in working for me part-time? I need a research assistant for a few weeks, and you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Me? Why?”

Her eyes narrowed in concentration, apparently on an interior monologue. “Because the research that needs doing is on Rose Park, and who knows this neighbourhood better than you?”

“Lots of people. My father, for one.”

“Maybe, but I’ll bet your father isn’t available to do some reading and site-visiting right now. And I’ve always thought you were the brightest light in your family anyway. What do you say? How about yes? Yes would be good.”

The brightest light? “I, well, thank you, I mean, I’m flattered, but this is so sudden.” And so difficult for my soggy, tear-logged mind to process. “I haven’t thought beyond next week.”

“When you do, think of me. Better yet, give me your phone number and I’ll badger you till you agree. I’d love to hire someone reliable and smart instead of a callow university student.”

I gave her my new phone number, said thanks and goodbye, took a flummoxed few steps away, and remembered why I’d knocked to begin with. “Oh, Mrs. Greer, have there been any developments with the treasure recently?”

She had on the friendly-puzzled expression again, like when she’d opened the door. “With what?”

“The Glenwood treasure. No one’s found it in the last couple of years?”

Her laugh was chuckly, lively. “No, no one’s found it. You’re one of the few people who even remembers it was rumoured to exist.”

“Other than you? I would have thought being mistress of Glenwood required you to be keeper of the treasure flame.”

“You see?” she said, though I didn’t, yet. “You are the perfect person for the job.”

Ten minutes after the scheduled start time for my welcome back dinner, my mother called. “The guests are starting to arrive, dear.”

“I’ll be right over. Just combing my hair.”

“You’re not nervous, are you? Nothing to be nervous about. Chin up.”

Cocktail chatter was underway when, chin aimed at the ceiling, I walked into a room occupied by about fifteen people, some of whom I knew. As soon as she saw me, Mom stood up from the sofa arm on which she perched with gin and tonic in hand, said, “Here she is!” and sent me a multi-part message with her facial expression and body language that included directives to smile wider and fix my posture. I attempted both corrective actions, and suffered the arm she placed around my shoulders.

“To Blithe, everyone,” Mom said. “And to regrouping.”

Dad said, “Hear, hear,” and swilled back his own gin.

My father brought me a drink, my aunt asked me about earthquakes and California weather, other conversations picked up where they’d left off, and I was soon cornered by my cousin Kerry, who saw in me a new audience for a recital of the many achievements of her four children, ages seven to fourteen. She spoke at length of private schools, academic prizes, ski teams, squash tournament wins, and horseback riding ribbons, and described a summer to come in which her kids would race sailboats and competitively wakeboard at the family cottage. Throughout the one-sided conversation, she showed no interest in my life, past, present, or future, a level of self-absorption that for once I welcomed. I nodded, said “Really?” at regular intervals, and let my mind wander back to my porchfront conversation with Mrs. Greer of the day before. Let myself bask for a moment in the glow generated by her random words of praise.

Kerry wrapped up her monologue with a question. “How’s your gorgeous brother these days? Is he still in Geneva?”

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Noel since his fly-in for my wedding, also known as the beginning of my marriage’s end. “He’s posted in London, now, I believe,” I said, but Kerry’s attention had shifted. “Look,” she said. “Jane Whitney and her husband just came in. Do you know them?”

A fortyish couple was being greeted by my mother across the room. “No. Who are they?”

“James is a lawyer at your dad’s firm. Jane is a curator of something or other at the museum. I’ve known her since we were kids, but they just moved onto this block a few months ago. Their daughter is in my Heather’s class at Rose Park Elementary.” She lifted her hand to her mouth, spoke from behind it. “I always feel awkward when I see Jane, because her daughter’s a bit of a strange bird. To be perfectly frank, Heather and her friends can’t stand her.”

I looked down at the floor, diverted the glare meant for Kerry towards the faded patterns on the rug. Kerry was enough older than me, and enough uninterested, not to remember that I had inhabited my own strange bird phase during my elementary school career. “I guess someone always has to be excluded so the rest can feel superior,” I said, and the taste of childhood hurt was so strong on my tongue I wondered if Kerry could smell it on my breath.

But Kerry yakked on as if she were named Blithe. “This Alexandra is a bright girl, no question, but she just doesn’t fit in. She just doesn’t get it. You know?”

I knew all too well, and was saved from making further barbed comment on the subject by the ringing of the silver bell that my mother used to announce the serving of dinner. The guests drained their cocktails and began to make slow progress towards the dining room, directed by Mom, who assumed a rear guard position from which she used both arms to make forward pushing motions. With a hitherto unnoticed third arm, she hailed me to come within muttering distance.

“You see my friend Marge there?” She indicated with a head gesture a well-groomed, Hermès-scarf-wearing woman of her generation, who was leading the charge.

“Is she the golfer or the bridge player?”

“The golfer. And she has a recently divorced son. His name is Phil. He’s thirty-six, a lawyer, attractive. He has two small children, but he only sees them every other weekend. Should I pass on your number?”

“Are you kidding? No. Please. I do not want to be set up.”

“Why not go out with him? One time. For fun. Take your mind off things.”

“Mom, I said no.”

She pursed her lips. “I was just trying to help. If you want to spend the summer sulking, go ahead.”

The setting, my irritation with Kerry, my mother’s tone, my insecure state — they all combined to make me rise to her bait. “I won’t have time to sulk. I’ve lined up a summer job.”

Mom’s lips relaxed. “Why, that’s wonderful, dear. What kind of job?”

Researching for Mrs. Greer, apparently.