Maine: A Novel Part 5

The AM radio was playing, though she didnat remember turning it on. A young-sounding fellow whose voice she rather liked was interviewing a professor about post-traumatic stress disorder among the soldiers coming back from Iraq.

aItas more important than we can possibly say to get it out, to talk to someone,a the professor said. He cited a study.

Alice shook her head. It was all the rage now to talk, talk, talk, though she couldnat see how talking about real tragedy did much good. What would her brothers have to say about it? Probably that those boys ought to man up and shut up, though now shead never know for sure.

Her daughter Kathleen had once said that the fellas who came back from World War II might have been saved if only they had been allowed to tell a professional about what they had seen. But thatas not how they were making men back then, and so you ended up with an entire generation of sad secret-keepers and angry drunks. Alice thought that sounded more like Kathleenas cohorts than her own. A cousin Kathleen was fond of from Danielas side, Bobby Kelly, had returned from Vietnam to a party full of balloons and ice cream, looking like Errol Flynn in uniform, and then, two days later, shot his wife and himself to death.

What Kathleen never seemed to understand was that World War II was a different sort of war. Everyone was a part of it, every last boy you knew. Now, when Alice asked her grandchildren if any of their old schoolmates were fighting in Iraq, they all said no in an incredulous sort of way, as if she were an idiot to even ask. When she was young, there was a sense of pride among so many of the boys, a sense of duty and honor. They wanted to serve their country. They wanted to fight.

When Aliceas brothers came home on leave, they were always trying to set her up with their buddies from the army and the navy. Alice went along with it, though she never took those boys seriously. She had no interest in settling down with any of them.

Back then, people said she was beautiful. They complimented her narrow waist and long legs. She had bright blue eyes, fair skin, and dark hair that reached halfway down her back. She wanted to be Veronica Lakea"adored by all for her beauty, her art, her general joie de vivre. She believed that she deserved better. That she, Alice Brennan, was one of the most special young women out there, just waiting for someone to take notice.

The six Brennan children had grown up more or less poor, but they could always be certain of having a roof over their heads and a bit of food on the table. Then, when they were teenagers, the Depression hit. Their fatheras job with the police force came and went and came and went and came and went again. He alternated between working long hours, terrified of the certain lean period to come, and being at home, unemployed, angry, and drunk. He had often spoken to them harshly, especially when he was drinking, and he had hit them as kids, Timmy and Michael always getting the worst of it. Alice remembered bruises, blood. Before they were born, there had been a baby named Declan. One night, their father fell asleep with the infant in bed beside him. At some point, he unknowingly rolled over onto the child and smothered him. He was devastated. aNever the same,a their aunt Rose had said. He blamed himself, and perhaps as a sort of penance or protection, he never bonded with another one of his children.

Aliceas parents prided themselves on being the first homeowners in their family: both sets of grandparents had immigrated to Boston from Ireland, both grandmothers died young, and the grandfathers were mostly useless. Her parents had been raised in boardinghouses and the spare rooms of charitable but not altogether kind cousins. Now they grew frightened of not being able to make the mortgage each month.

Everyone in the family had to contribute. Alice and her sister, Mary, babysat for all the neighborhood kids, making fifty cents for a full dayas work, which they then had to turn over to their mother for the Christmas club. Mary was better at ita"she had infinite patience, and she actually liked children. Alice only enjoyed sitting for the Jewish ones, since their parents had money. The fathers worked all hours and the mothers just wanted to play mah-jongg in peace. So theyad send Alice and the children to the movies, always the movies. They handed out dishes at the Magnet Theater in those days. A cup on Monday, a saucer on Tuesday, a soup bowl on Wednesday, and so on, no matter that hardly anyone had the food to fill them. Between the two of them, Alice and Mary got their mother five complete sets.

Their brothers took on odd jobs after school. Timmy waited tables and Michael cleaned floors at city hall. Even their mother worked for a timea"selling fruitcakes and embroidered handkerchiefs door-to-door like a proper hobo. Alice burned with embarra.s.sment at the sight, hating her father for letting it happen. Their mother had been a schoolteacher before she married, but women were banned from teaching now, since so many men needed the work.

The four boys were made to move into one bedroom, so that the family had a spare room to let. Alice and Mary shared a tiny room already, so at first Alice was pleased to see their brothers similarly cramped together. But the lodgers who came were often frightening: Some cried and moaned over what they had lost. There were women with infants who shrieked at dawn, and men who drank and pawed at Alice and Mary on their way to the bathroom at night or scratched at their bedroom door late, whispering to them to open up and give a guy some happiness.

Mary would whisper back pleadingly from the other side of the closed door to those drunkards, telling them to get some sleep, sir, please call it a night. Alice would shoo her into bed, and then say gruffly, aListen, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, get away from here now or my father will cut you to pieces like he did the other one before you.a Their father had done no such thing. Head hardly care if those men came in and dragged his daughters off by their fingernails.

Maryas eyes widened: aGosh, youare brave!a she would say with a sort of awe.

At eighteen, Mary was older by two years, but even so, Alice felt protective of her sister. Mary was shy and sweet and well-behaved. She waited on their parents like a maid, considering it her duty. She even did Aliceas ch.o.r.es sometimes. She wanted to have a dozen kids someday, and she didnat mind caring for their bratty brothers.

Alice, on the other hand, just wanted to be left alone. She loved to paint and draw. She could escape into a picture for hours if allowed. Whenever she could, she sat by the window in their shared bedroom at the top of the house, painting the street below, their mother in the garden, Mary wearing her Christmas dress and m.u.f.f. Shead hold her breath, waiting for someone to yell out and ruin her peacea"telling her to do something, wash something, mend something.

Her brothers protested when they were left in Aliceas care. She made them eat their dinner one at a time, all off the same dish she had eaten from first, so that shead have to wash only one plate instead of five and would have more time to sit on the stoop and chat with Rita, or to go upstairs and draw.

aThe foodas always cold by the time the plate gets to me!a Timmy would complain to their mother, who would then give Alice a lecture on the virtues of etiquette and cleanliness.

aYouall make an awful housewife with an att.i.tude like that,a her mother said once, and Alice felt almost proud. She couldnat imagine herself as a mother or a wife. She had never taken to children, and she had too often been forced to care for the ones in her housea"to look after them, to feed them, to scold them. By the time she reached high school, she was done with raising kids. She had begun planning her escape. Or, if not planning it exactly, then wis.h.i.+ng for it.

No respectable lady Alice knew had done anything but have children. The only single adult women in their family were nuns, or Aunt Rose, who had divorced her rumrunner husband and moved to New York City, where she now worked at the makeup counter at Macyas in Herald Square. Their father referred to Rose as athat selfish harlota whenever her name came up. He wouldnat allow their mother to see her. Alice wanted to run away to New York and live with her aunt, but Rose had told her in a letter that she slept in a boardinghouse full of derelicts and drunks, and that was no place for a young girl.

When she was fifteen, Alice was painting pictures with a babysitting charge one evening when his mother came home from work. Mrs. Bloom was a sophisticated Jewish lady with dark hair and eyes, and rumor had it she had married down. She and her husband owned a frame shop in Uphamas Corner, which always seemed to close for the day right after lunch.

She put her purse on the table that night and looked at what Alice had done.

aYouare very talented,a she said. aYou know that? With the proper training, I think you might really blossom.a Alice perked up at the comment, but immediately shrugged it off. She imagined her father and brothers laughing when she told them. She left the picture behind on the table when she went home, to show how little she cared.

The next time she came by, Mrs. Bloom said, aI showed that painting of yours to my husband, who may not have an ounce of business sense in his head, but what he does have is an excellent eye. He agreed with me. Youare good, Alice. You should study art.a Mrs. Bloom gave her a quarter to take the boy to the Gardner Museum on the trolley. He fussed all afternoon, but Alice hardly noticed: she had never been there before and she was mesmerized. A plaque that hung in the vestibule revealed that Isabella Stewart Gardner, a great patroness of the arts, had built a mansion in Boston made to look like an Italian palace. Later, her home was turned into a museum and named in her honor. She had been painted by John Singer Sargent, and she threw the most elaborate dinners, full of great thinkers and artists. She traveled the world and studied in Paris.

This was the sort of woman Alice wanted to be. Right then and there, she decided that one day she would become a famous painter. She would attend college in Paris and sell her paintings to wealthy Frenchmen. She could get an apartment on the Seine and live in peace, without a hundred little boy feet rumbling around downstairs.

A year pa.s.sed. The Bloom family moved to Brookline. When they left, Mrs. Bloom gave Alice a beautiful sketch pad with a real leather cover. aDonat give up,a she said.

Alice promised she wouldnat, though Mrs. Bloomas tone sent a chill through her. She filled the entire pad with drawings in the span of two weeks. She went to the library and checked out the only biography they had about Isabella Stewart Gardner, which she had already read twice. She used her brother Timmyas card to get another book, which she had no intention of ever returning. It contained black-and-white photographs of Paris. Alice ripped them out and stuck them to the wall behind her bed.

Her main window onto the existence of the single gal was through a woman named Trudy, who she had never actually met. Their household and Trudyas apartment shared a party line. Most every night you could pick up the phone in the Brennan family kitchen and hear Trudy gabbing away on her sofa in Beacon Hill. Sometimes Aliceas father would need to call in to work, and head try eight or nine times, eventually saying, aPardon me, miss, but this is not a private line. Please keep your conversations brief or Iall alert the telephone company.a Trudy was undeterred and Alice was glad of it, since her favorite pastime was listening in. Mary said she shouldnat eavesdrop, but how could she resist? Trudy was better than any radio soap opera.

Trudy spoke to her girlfriends about all the dates she went on to fine restaurants, and the flowers her suitors sent the next day. She once went to an office party and ended up dancing on a rooftop in Kenmore Square with her married boss, Mr. Pembroke. She hated her hips and had allowed herself to eat only a hard-boiled egg on dry toast for each of the last fourteen days. She was going to Los Angeles in April if her stepfather would cough up the cash already. She had read a book called Live Alone and Like It and decided to decorate her apartment all in lavender and start stocking c.o.c.ktail ingredients, even though some people thought it was tacky for a woman to do that.

Alice listened silently, taking it all in.

One night Trudy mentioned that Mr. Pembroke had brought her along to an art opening in the city, where paintings of naked ladies had graced the walls and waiters in white gloves had handed out tiny pickles and nuts.

aHonestly!a her friend had said. aYour boss is quite fond of you, isnat he? I guess heas just impressed with your typing skills.a aThose, and my impeccable manners,a Trudy had said. aIt must have been the childhood cotillion cla.s.ses my mama made me go to.a Alice was tempted to speak up and ask Trudy what cotillion was, but instead she asked her sister, and when her sister didnat know, she asked the lady next door.

aLessons to make you more sophisticated and polished,a her neighbor explained.

Alice stole a few dollars from her mother and enrolled in cotillion immediately. Most of the other attendees were years younger than she wasa"only twelve or thirteen, the sons and daughters of wealthy lawyers and businessmen. Alice hardly cared. Each Sat.u.r.day morning she took the hour-long streetcar ride into Cambridge and learned the rules for holding a knife and fork, the right posture for sitting and standing, and the proper way to speak, even a few French words.

After cla.s.s, she brought her pastels to the banks of the Charles River and sat in the gra.s.s, sketching the pa.s.sersby. She had swiped the pastels from Sister Florence, her high school art teacher, and they were usually a crumbling mess by the time she pulled them out, having been hidden for days in her coat pockets, where they made rainbows on the satin lining. In her imagination, some wealthy benefactor would stop in his tracksa"Youare too talented for this place, head say. You have a gift, my dear. Let me take you away from here. Let me show you Paris.

But no one ever asked what she was doing, and when she brought her pictures home, only her sister, Mary, ever praised them. Eventually, Alice got the guts to ask her father if she could go to art school one day, and he said yes, sure, if she kept her grades up and did as her mother told her. Alice reminded herself of his promise every morning and night from then on.

She was shocked that he had agreed. Usually, whatever she asked for, he refused. Everyone in the family, other than Mary, seemed to think that Alice was greedy, trying to live beyond what G.o.d had given her.

She liked the finer things, and had her ways of getting them every now and then. She would occasionally order a nice dress from the Lord & Taylor catalog, cash on delivery. As soon as the courier arrived, she dashed upstairs and watched from the second-floor landing as one of her younger brothersa"Timmy, Jack, Michael, or Paula"fought with the kid, saying they hadnat ordered any G.o.dd.a.m.n dress, and they sure as heck werenat going to pay for it.

Theyad shout, aAlice! You know anything about a new dress?a and shead shout back, aHa! I wis.h.!.+a as innocent as a lamb.

The delivery boy would insist he had the right address, tough and unwavering because he knew the fate that awaited him if he returned to the store without the cash. On two separate occasions, her brothers had been so flummoxed that theyad actually paid up, and Alice had gotten a brand-new dress for free.

In her heart, she knew that she was sinning every time she a.s.sumed she was ent.i.tled to another, better life. She knew it because her mother told her so, and because the Bible preached modesty and sacrifice. She had written a quote from Philippians on the inside of her nightstand drawer, and when she opened it to put her rosary away before bed each night, she read the words slowly: Do nothing from selfishness or conceit, but in humility count others better than yourselves.

If only it were that easy. Alice believed in Jesus and knew that he would save her if she could try harder, pray more. She prayed to be selfless and content, like her sister. But the selfish parts of her seemed built in, every bit as much as Maryas kindness.

If Mary ever got a new dress, she was more likely to donate it to the church clothing drive than she was to wear it. Once, she had babysat for a neighboras kids for twelve hours and been paid with a hard-boiled egg. Alice was livid on her behalf, but Mary just said, aI suppose it was all they could afford.a Mary had always been plain. She wore a long gray cotton skirt and a simple old blouse to school every day of the week. She never went on dates, staying home to read a book while Alice and her girlfriends went to the square for ice cream with a group of boys from their cla.s.s. Alice would suggest that Mary come alonga"shead even tell her date that shead go out only if head find someone for her sister. But Mary always refused.

aI donat want to be anyoneas pity date,a shead say. aBesides, all the guys are younger than me. Iad feel ridiculous.a When Alice came home at night, she would tiptoe into their darkened bedroom, pulling her stockings off as Mary whispered, aHow was it?a Alice hoped the stories might spark something in her sister, but Mary would always respond, aI canat imagine what Iad say.a After Mary fell asleep, Alice would pray for her: Let my sister come out of her sh.e.l.l, Lord. Let her be happy.

Once she finished high school, Mary got a typing pool position at Liberty Mutual and started to bring in a bit more money for the family. Their parents were glad, though Alice, still a junior, thought she would die of boredom at such a post. And she believed that the money her sister earned should belong to Mary, not to everyone else. Imagine what the two of them could do with those paychecks! But when she spoke these words aloud, Mary said, aOh, I wouldnat dream of keeping it for myself,a which made Alice feel rotten, all the way through.

Alice saw less of her sister once Mary began working. She liked to go into Boston and pick Mary up at the office on Friday nights. Afterward, theyad go see a movie or split a sandwich in the Public Garden. Sometimes they would walk into a dark bar and drink a beer before heading home, though Mary had to be persuaded to do that.

When Aliceas graduation came around two years after her sisteras, her mother told her to put on a dress. aIam taking you into town today to look for jobs.a Alice shook her head. aPop said I could go to art school.a Her mother sighed and whispered quietly, aNow, honestly, Alice, donat be such a child. You know your father wasnat serious. We donat have the money for that.a So Alice started working at a stuffy law firm in a job she despised, pouring coffee and answering calls for Mr. Weiner and Mr. Kristal, a couple of pudgy, balding blowhards. She made it through the days by socking away a bit of money for herself (she had lied to her mother about the pay) and sketching cartoons on the back of her notepada"Weiner behind the bars of the monkey cage at the Franklin Park Zoo, Kristal being forced to walk the plank of a pirate s.h.i.+p.

The war began. Soon the too-bustling rooms in the house stood empty, all four of their brothers gone off to fight. Even her beloved Paris was under the thumb of the n.a.z.is, and Alice thought shead have to go somewhere else. With so many young men away, their fatheras job grew steadier, and with the extra money coming in from the girls, they were able to stop taking in boarders. They left the boysa bedrooms untouched, as if they might come home any day.

Their fatheras angry drunken fits worsened. He terrorized Alice and Mary some nights, demanding that they give him more money for the rent, calling them lazy, fat, just screaming and screaming until they ran upstairs in tears, or he pa.s.sed out on the love seat.

aIf the boys were here, head never have the guts to speak to us that way,a Alice said, though she knew her strong brothers were scared of him too.

Alice went to church at five oaclock each morning to pray for their safe return. She recited Hail Holy Queen in a dramatic whisper as many times as she could before someone came along and signaled that it was time for Ma.s.s to begin: Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope! To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears a Oh clement, oh loving, oh sweet Virgin Mary! Pray for us, Holy Mother of G.o.d, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

She believed in G.o.d with all her heart, and knew that He would keep the boys safe if she prayed hard enough, if she could only learn to be good. She tried to stuff down all the bad feelings that came so quickly to hera"envy, greed, anger. Something first-rate was coming, she told herself, if she could only wait for it and keep believing.

She kept up with her painting when she could. Mary was always telling her that her work was every bit as good as the Degas drawings they loved at the Gardner Museum, which Alice had copied time and time again, sitting before them, sketching each soft line for hours. Alice was flattered, but sometimes she didnat see what talent had to do with it. Degas had been born to a wealthy French family, and besides, he was a man. So he got great love affairs and Paris, while she got life at home with her sister and parents, each day no different from the one before.

aThe only way anyone in this family sees Europe is if they enlist,a she told Mary one night, and Mary laughed, but then they both fell silent, remembering their boisterous brothers, the peril they might be facing right this moment, while they, Mary and Alice, sat on their beds in cotton nightgowns, their hair still damp from the tub.

The streets and the dance clubs and the movie theaters looked like the house, hardly a young man in sight. Only the Coast Guard boys remained in Ma.s.sachusetts, and everyone said they were a bunch of cowards. None of the girls in town wanted to date them. Alice and her best friend, Rita, sometimes went to dances without a single male in attendance. Theyad laugh, dancing up a storm with each other, doing a sort of foolish and full-hearted jitterbug that theyad never dare to do in front of men. Rita was newly married, her husband on a navy s.h.i.+p, off at sea. She was only biding her time, waiting for him to come back. After that, shead be truly married, poor thing, the fun over for good.

It was that winter, when men were as scarce as lilacs, that Aliceas sister, Mary, finally met one. Henry Winslow had walked into her office for a meeting with her boss late one morning and asked her to have lunch with him that very day. Mary said yes.

When she told Alice about it at home afterward, Alice gave her a look.

aWhat?a Mary said.

aThatas not like you.a aIsnat it?a aHe could be a murderer for all you know!a Alice said. aHe could be from a family of gypsies. All the boys Iave tried to set you up with and youave refused. Now youall suddenly go out with any old stranger?a Mary stuck out her tongue. aMaybe I wanted to meet a boy on my own. He invited me to dinner on Friday night.a aWhy hasnat he been drafted yet?a Alice asked, suspicious. aIs he terribly old or something?a aHeas thirty,a Mary said.

aThirty! Thatas positively ancient. Gosh. But still, why hasnat he gone to the war?a aHeas 4-F,a Mary said.

The same cla.s.sification as Frank Sinatra. Their brother Timmy said he didnat respect Sinatra anymore since head avoided the draft. (aListen to that voice! Does that sound like someone with a punctured eardrum to you?a) This Henry seems like a coward, Alice thought. Like a flat-footed weakling.

aDo you know why heas 4-F?a she asked.

aAn old injury from a bus accident in his Harvard days,a Mary said. aHe walks with a bit of a limp.a Aliceas ears perked up. aHarvard?a She could tell Mary was trying to suppress a smile. aI get the impression heas rather wealthy.a They went out on Friday, and Alice tagged along with the understanding that Henry was bringing a friend for her. The friend, Richard, was a real flat tirea"too old and perspiring, with badly yellowed teeth and a pocket watch that he kept checking every few minutes, as if to make it clear that the tepid feeling between them was entirely mutual. Even though it would have been more trouble had he liked her, Alice felt offended by the reception. She had a policy of never eating on dates, but that night she ordered a martini and a steak.

It was true that Henry walked with a limp, a characteristic that Alice wasnat sure shead be able to tolerate in a date. And he had little specks of gray hair here and there. But he was handsome enough for someone his age. He worked for his father, an honest-to-G.o.d s.h.i.+pping tyc.o.o.n, and was soon to inherit the whole company. Alice watched closely as he interacted with Marya"what did he see in her, anyway? She wasnat beautiful. But Henry seemed smitten. He laughed at all her corny jokes, and he ordered for her when the waitress came.

When Henry asked about Aliceas job, Mary interrupted, aSheas an artist. Very talented. You should see her work.a aIad love to see it,a Richard the dud said, perking up. aIam a budding collector.a It turned out, by his own whispered admission after several more c.o.c.ktails, that he was also light in the loafers. But three days later, Alice sold him her first painting. Falling madly in love with Richard couldnat have brought her half as much joy as watching him hand over the cash that morning on her front stoop. Someday they might hang a plaque: THE ARTIST ALICE BRENNAN LIVED HERE FROM 1921 THROUGH 1941.

aItas beautiful,a he said. Then he lowered his voice as if someone else might be listening: aAlice, Iave adored Henry Winslow since he was my freshman-year roommate, but please watch out for your sister with him. She seems like a sweet girl. And heas a bit notorious for breaking hearts.a aWhat do you mean?a she said, feeling like she wanted to punch Henry all of a sudden.

He shook his head. aI shouldnat have said anything. Keep an eye out, thatas all.a In a matter of weeks, Mary and Henry were inseparable. They went out to dinner and went dancing. Mary seemed filled with a sort of confidence she had never known. She started to wave her hair and began dressing properly. She rubbed a bit of blush on her pale cheeksa"all the things Alice had been telling her to do for years.

In her more charitable moments, Alice was pleased to see her sister so well matched, so happy at last. But sometimes she felt jealous of Mary for finding him. Not that she wanted Henry for herself; she didnat. But someone like him maybe, a bit more handsome, a bit younger. His existence had changed things. Mary had so much less time to spend with Alice now. Occasionally, on the streetcar and sitting at her desk at work, Alice imagined ways she could break them up. Afterward, shead say the Lordas Prayer for forgiveness, burning with shame when she thought of how devastated her sister would be if the relations.h.i.+p were ever to end.

After six months, Henry still hadnat introduced Mary to his family, and this caused her great distress. He said he was only waiting for the right time, but Mary was convinced it meant something more. Alice wondered if this was what Richard had been trying to warn her about.

Finally, he brought them both to what he called his fatheras beach shack in Newport for the day. Mary baked his mother a blueberry cake and spent an hour fixing her hair. aThe shacka turned out to be an enormous ten-bedroom home, complete with its own staff and a tennis court. But Henryas parents werenat there. It was just his sisters and a few friends, one of whom had brought along a pair of chubby, grubby two-year-old sons. On the terrace that afternoon, Henry introduced them as, aMy sweet girl, Mary, and her sister, Alice, the artist.a Henry had been to Europe as a child. That day, when Alice told him how badly she had always wanted to go to Paris, he said, aTell you what, kiddo. Iall take you and Mary there as soon as all this mayhem ends.a She believed that he would. Alice pinched her sisteras arm, imagining the world that was about to open up for them.

Later, the group walked down to the beach. Mary, predictably, ended up with the children. She held the fat hand of one in her left palm and the other in her right.

aHas she always been so perfect?a Henry asked.

Alice grumbled. aYes.a aI take it that bugs you.a aItas just that sometimes next to her, I look like a monster, thatas all.a aI think you and I are alike,a he told her. aWe both need to be the stars.a Perhaps that explained his feelings for Mary. Henry was the type who liked a nice stable girl, someone whoad take care of him and cook for him and fret over him whenever he got so much as a sniffle.

aI suppose so,a Alice said, looking down at the glorious white beach. The rich, it seemed, could even improve upon sand.

aIad be lost without her,a Henry said. aYouad be amazed how cruel women can be. Weare all fragile, but we donat like to be reminded of it.a aWhat do you mean?a Alice said.

He pointed at his foot. aI played baseball at Harvard, and every girl at Radcliffe wanted to date me. But after this happeneda"I felt that my chances for happiness were gone.a Alice shook her head. aSomeone like you? I canat believe it. There must be a million girls out there who would gladly have played Florence Nightingale.a aBut thatas just it,a he said. aI wanted someone who would look at me like women used to look. And thatas what Mary does.a Aliceas jealousy faded then. He was right, of course: her sister never even complained about the limp, or the horrible pains Henry suffered from time to time that rendered him immobile.

She might have said that her jealousy vanished completely after that, if not for the presents. Alice tried not to feel envious over the fact that frumpy old Mary thought nothing of wearing a brand-new mink stole, a silver bracelet with a heart-shaped charm, or a pair of dove-gray suede gloves with fur trim and heels to match, even though such items had never interested her in the slightest before.

aIt must be nice, having someone to buy you whatever you want,a Alice said, watching her sister dress for work one morning.

aOh, you know I donat care about all the fancy things he gives me,a Mary replied, making Alice seethe.

aYou shouldnat brag,a she said.

Mary looked perplexed. aI wasnat. Was I? Besides, the gloves I bought myself, with my own money. Theyare the only objects I really care about. Otherwise, itas just Henry that I want.a Six more months slipped by without a proposal, or even an introduction to his parents.

aMy old manas business is taking a bad hit,a Henry told Mary. aI know heall come to adore you like I do, but nowas not the time to rock the boat.a She loved him terribly; her moods fluctuated between undiluted joy and pure sorrow, always, it seemed to Alice, dependant on him. Mary tried to act calm about it, but she was certain his family would never accept their marriage. Sometimes she wept in bed, and Alice wondered if this was really what being in love did to a person. If so, love seemed downright dreadful.

Alice worried tooa"she wanted her sister to marry him, perhaps as much as Mary herself wanted it. Once Mary married Henry, she would give their mother grandchildren. Then maybe Alice could go off and do as she liked. Henry and Mary would give her money when she was starting out, and Henry might have more friends like Richard, who wanted to buy her work.

Somehow Mary kept up with all her duties around the housea"cooking dinner and sewing and cleaning up the parlor. She rarely invited Henry over. Alice a.s.sumed this was because their home wasnat grand enough, and also because of the way their father was likely to behave. On the one hand, she understood. But on the other, she couldnat help but feel a bit insulted. Mary cared so much about what Henry thought. It was as if she lived in two worlds at once, and Alice just happened to be a part of the world Mary was trying to leave behind. Still, she reminded herself of what Henry had said: One day they would all go to Paris.

Alice had begun to see her friends grow giddy and joyful about their weddings. Even Trudy from the party line had met a nice young army doctor and was moving out to a house in Winthrop (this felt almost like a betrayal to Alice, though she knew her reaction was foolish).

Alice wanted no part of being a wife, cooped up in some house full of rug rats, constantly serving a man you liked less and less with each pa.s.sing year. But she was twenty-two, and it seemed once a girl reached a certain age, thatas what everyone expected her to do. Dating had become a ch.o.r.e because of it. She had always had suitors, and she still went on dates. But the boys who courted her now were mostly the same old ones she had known in high school, and they came through only briefly, on leave, or else there was something plain wrong with thema"a vision defect or a skittishness that meant they werenat even fit for war.

Plenty of boys wrote her letters. A few, who she had been out with only once or twice, now wrote to tell her they were in love and wanted to make an honest woman out of her when they got home. Shead do her duty by writing back, but always remind them that absence made the heart grow fonder, and it had never really been all that rosy when they went to the movies, or to the ice cream parlor, way back when.

In the bedroom closet, Alice had stashed a paperback copy of Live Alone and Like It, the book she had heard Trudy raving about over the phone. She often riffled through its pages, reading a line aloud to her sister: living alone, according to Vogue editor Marjorie Hillis, was aas nice, perhaps, as any other way of living, and infinitely nicer than living with too many people or with the wrong single individual.a One night Alice read to Mary in bed in an exaggerated, glamorous voice, a bit like Trudyas: aYou can, in fact, indulge yourself unblus.h.i.+nglya"an engaging procedure which few women alone are smart enough to follow. Even unselfishness requires an opponenta"like most of the worthwhile things in life. Living alone, you cana"within your own wallsa"do as you like. The trick is to arrange your life so that you really do like it.a She looked up from the pages smiling, imagining an apartment full of clean linens, pink bath towels, and untouched canvases ready to be painted, all hers.

aCan you imagine?a she said to Mary.

Mary shook her head, looking a bit sad. aI wouldnat like it,a she said. aI want to live with someone, always.a Alice sighed. aI know you do.a Her sister grew silent, and after a moment Alice realized that she had begun to cry.

aWhat is it?a she asked.

aNever mind, go to sleep.a aMary. What?a aYou wouldnat understand.a aGo on.a aIave done things a woman isnat supposed to do,a Mary said. aIave sinned in the worst way. But Iam in love, and I donat understand how it can be wrong toa"well, never mind, Alice; go to sleep.a Alice didnat respond. Her body shook with anger. She had kissed her share of boys, but she was saving her virginity until marriage. Everything to do with s.e.x frightened hera"the mechanics of it, the risk. One girl in the neighborhood, Bitsy Harrington, had gotten pregnant in the back of a Plymouth by a sailor who told her it was the only way for him to touch her heart. Rita and the other girls had made terrible fun of Bitsy, but Alice thought that she herself might not have known any better. Things in that department were a mystery to her. When she started her period at the age of fourteen, she had believed that she was dying and run home from school in tears.

Her sister had always seemed similarly foggy, but now here she was, saying that she had gone all the way with Henry. Mary was leaving her behind, making her feel like a stupid heel, when everyone knew that Alice had always been the more sophisticated of the two. More important, there was the issue of eternity to think abouta"her sister was sinning in one of the worst ways, d.a.m.ning herself, and for what?

Alice wanted to know where they had done it. Would he ever marry her sister now? It made her feel queasy, just thinking about it. Mary might have ruined everything for them both.

Alice went to Ma.s.s the next morning and in addition to praying for her brothers, which she always did, she lit a candle for Mary.

A few weeks pa.s.sed. It was October, the first cool evening of fall. They sat down to dinner with their parents after work as usual. Mary had made a roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Alice was eager to get through the meal so she could pick up the extension in the pantry and find out what had happened at the office today when Trudy broke the news to her boss that she was moving to the suburbs to start a family and would have to quit working soon. Trudy had told her friend the night before that today was the day, and she was terribly nervous that head blow a gasket. Why, Alice did not know. How hard could it be to find another secretary?

She turned to Mary. aTrudy told her boss about Adamas proposal today.a aHow did he take it?a aIam waiting until after supper to find out.a Mary grinned. aI canat believe you didnat bring the phone right to the table.a Alice took a bite of chicken. aI would have if I could manage to pull it out of the wall.a aAlice,a their mother said. aYouare awful. Pa.s.s the peas to your father.a He was at the far end of the table, reading the paper, several gla.s.ses of whiskey into the evening. He had strolled in from the bar down the corner a half hour earlier, looking like he wanted a fight. But now he seemed more likely to pa.s.s out in his potatoes.

Alice gave him the peas without even looking at him. She went on, aTrudy suspects Adam only asked her because he knows heall have to s.h.i.+p out soon. Sounds sort of unromantic if you ask me.a aI donat think so,a Mary said. aA proposalas a proposal.a aMaybe if Henry had been drafted, he would have asked you by now.a aAlice!a aWella"when do you think heas going to ask?a Alice said. aItas been a year. Whatas the holdup?a She wondered if perhaps he was one of those wealthy cads who thought he could just string a girl along forever, though Henry didnat seem like the type.

aHonestly, Alice, the things you say!a Mary looked exasperated, but she began to laugh. aWhy are you so excited to get rid of me, anyway?a Alice thought, Because the sooner you get married and start having babies, the sooner Iall be free to live whatever life I want.

But she wouldnat say thata"it would sound selfish. So she only responded, aIam not!a Suddenly there came a harsh voice from the end of the table. aWill you two stop yapping about it?a Their father looked up from his paper, his eyes gla.s.sy. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, cleared his throat. aEvery night, your poor mother has to hear you scheming and planning and it makes me sick. Youare living in a pathetic dreamworld.a Alice found him revolting. He didnat know what he was talking about, and it was wicked of him to pick on Mary of all people. Mary, who would never hurt a fly.