—
I turned the lock on the inside of my room and leaned against the door, hyperventilating. My heart was racing so hard I thought I might actually keel over. If I did, it would not be the first time.
The first time had been when I was having lunch at the Acorn Club with my mother-in-law and five of her friends, including Mrs. Pew.
My marriage was not quite four months old, at a time when I still deluded myself that my mother-in-law’s gift of the hair comb indicated that she might eventually come to accept me, perhaps even grow fond of me. The ladies were discussing the despicable attack on Pearl Harbor, and saying that despite previous reservations, they now agreed wholeheartedly with the President’s decision to become involved. I mentioned the sinking of the Athenia and suggested that we might have gotten involved then, given the number of Americans on board. My remark was met with silence.
After a long, pregnant pause, my mother-in-law said, “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion, dear. Although I, personally, wouldn’t dream of second-guessing the President.” She clapped her bejeweled hand to her bosom, letting her eyes flutter as she warbled the word “dream.”
As the telltale heat rose in my cheeks, she continued, praising the club for reducing its seven-course luncheon to five in the name of the war effort. She encouraged the other ladies to chip in, telling them that she, herself, had instructed the kitchen staff to donate cans, as well as whatever pots and pans they weren’t using regularly. There was a flurry of regret from all of them that they couldn’t do more, especially from such a distance, followed by a discussion of the surprising results of Ellis’s attempts to enlist.
“A complete shock, I can tell you,” said my mother-in-law. “Imagine, all these years, and we had no clue. I suppose it explains why he’s crashed so many cars—he can’t tell if the light is red or green. He’s terribly upset, but there’s nothing to be done. Whitney, of course, is beside himself.”
There were murmurs of sympathy for both Ellis and the Colonel before Mrs. Pew leaned in conspiratorially to say, “Of course, there are those who arranged to be turned down.”
“Do you mean…?” said another in hushed tones. Instead of filling in the blank, she let her eyes flit across the room to where Hank’s mother was having lunch with her own friends.
Mrs. Pew blinked heavily to confirm. The other ladies went wide-eyed, the thrill of their double-cross palpable.
“Absolutely shameful. Flat-footed, indeed.”
“Nothing a pair of good boots wouldn’t fix.”
“That one’s been trouble from the word go,” said my mother-in-law. “It’s somewhere in the blood, even if his mother is a Wanamaker.” She lowered her voice even further. “I wish Ellis would keep his distance, but of course he’s never paid attention to a word I say.”
I was staring at the shrimp and avocado on the fine china in front of me when it hit me that she had almost certainly said those very same things of me, to these very women, perhaps at this very table.
The hair comb hadn’t been a peace offering. I had no idea what it signified, or why they had invited me to lunch, but by then I was entirely sure there was a motive.
I remember staring at the glass bowl of salad dressing, the flute of champagne with lines of bubbles rising from tiny, random geysers on the sides. I remember realizing that I had gone still for so long they were looking at me, and that I should pick up my fork, but could not, because I knew I would drop it. Someone addressed me, but it was impossible to hear over the buzzing in my ears. Then I couldn’t catch my breath. I wasn’t aware of sliding from my chair, but was certainly aware of being the center of attention while lying on the carpet looking up at a circle of concerned faces. And who could forget the embarrassing ride in the ambulance, its siren blaring?
A number of consultations followed, culminating in a visit by a doctor brought in from New York, who took my pulse, listened to my heart, and asked me extensive questions about my family.
“I see, I see,” he kept saying, studying me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses.
Eventually, he folded the glasses and slid them into his breast pocket. Then he informed me—right in front of Ellis and his mother—that I suffered from a nervous ailment. He prescribed nerve pills, and said I was to avoid excitement at all costs.
My mother-in-law gasped.
“Does this mean she can’t…? Does this mean there will never be…?”
The doctor watched as she turned various shades of red.
“Ahh,” he said, figuring it out. “No. She can tolerate a reasonable amount of marital relations. It’s more a matter of avoiding mental excitement. Such a condition is not unexpected, given the maternal history.”
He packed his bag and put on his hat.
“Wait!” said my mother-in-law, leaping to her feet. She glanced at me, prone in the bed. “When you say this is not unexpected, do you mean such conditions run in families?”
After a slight pause, the doctor said, “Not always. Remember that each generation is diluted, and any children of this marriage will have only one grandparent who was, well, how shall I put this? Not quite our kind.”
Edith Stone Hyde let out a cry and sank back into her chair.
My nervous ailment immediately became a heart ailment, and although I rarely felt grateful to my mother-in-law, I did admire how quickly she’d taken it upon herself to rediagnose me—particularly as it maintained at least the illusion of distance between me and my own mother.
—
My mother was a famous beauty, with sea-green eyes, a button nose, and Cupid’s bow lips that parted over teeth like pearls. In some women, perfect features do not add up to an exquisite whole, but in my mother the sum effect was so stunning that when she married my father, a Proper Philadelphian, society seemed willing to overlook that her father was an entrepreneur who dabbled in burlesque (revised for historical purposes as vaudeville) and married one of its stars, and that her grandfather was a rumored robber baron with connections to Tammany Hall. Her family had a fortune; his family had a name. The arrangement was not all that unusual.
I was aware from my earliest memory that my mother was miserable, although the sheer magnitude and artistry of it took years to sink in. It ran through her like rot.
To the outside world, she presented meekness and long-suffering, subtly conveying that my father was a tyrant and I—well, I was defiant at best, and quite possibly criminally malicious, a situation she found even more heartbreaking than my father’s cruelty. She was incredibly nuanced—all it took was a sigh, a slight misting of the eye, or an almost imperceptible pause for everyone to understand the depth of her anguish and how nobly she bore it.
She was excellent at reading a room, and when the atmosphere was not right for garnering sympathy, she was witty and engaging, the center of attention, but never in an obvious way. She’d run a finger up and down the stem of her wineglass slowly, repeatedly, or cross her legs and move her foot in deliberate circles, drawing attention to her exquisitely turned ankle. It was impossible to look away. She entranced men and women alike.
At home, she sulked with extravagance, and I learned early that silence was anything but peaceful. She was always upset about some slight, real or imagined, and more than capable of creating a full-blown crisis out of thin air.
I tried to go unnoticed, but inevitably we came together over the dinner table. I never knew if her displeasure was going to be directed at my father or me. When I was the offender, dinner passed with icy silences and withering looks. I rarely knew what I’d done wrong, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have dared mount a defense. Instead, I shrank into myself. On those nights, I got to eat, although she scrutinized every morsel that went into my mouth, as well as how it got there.
On the nights my father was in her crosshairs, the choreography was very different. Her contemptuous looks and snide remarks progressed to masterfully crafted barbs, which he would ignore until they ripened into cutting sarcasm, which he would also ignore. She would then, her eyes brimming with tears, wonder aloud why we both delighted in torturing her so, at which point my father would say something precise and lethal, usually to the effect that no one was forcing her to stay—she needn’t feel obliged on his account—and she would flee the table weeping.
My father would continue to eat as though nothing had happened, so it fell to me to fix things. I’d abandon my food and trudge upstairs to her locked bedroom, my dread increasing with every step. It always took some negotiating, but eventually she’d let me in and I’d sit on the bed as she regaled me with the ways her life was a wasteland. My father was capriciously cruel and incapable of empathy, she’d tell me. She would have left him years ago, except that he’d sworn she’d never see me again, had even threatened to have her committed to an insane asylum, and did I know what happened in such places? She’d given up every chance of happiness for my sake, out of pure maternal love, although I was clearly ungrateful. But she supposed she had herself to blame for that. I took after my father. I could hardly be blamed for my miserable genes, and since I was there anyway, would I be a dear and fetch her a pill?