“Sure, honey. Just dandy.” I slip inside and close the door behind me.
After taking care of my business, I wash my hands and splash a little cold water on my face. I fish in my purse—it’s quite a cute little thing, gold-sparkled, with a rhinestone clasp—and find a compact and lipstick. I powder my nose, notice the high flush in my cheeks, and carefully fill in my lips with lipstick that matches the color of my dress. I note that my hair looks unusually fabulous. The cowlicks have been tamed and pressed into big waves, held in place with lots of spray. I must have had it set this afternoon, I think, and then I thank the dream gods, or whoever puts me in this crazy world, for at least letting my hair look stunning when I am out of the house for the evening.
I stumble back to the darkened hallway and bump into a shadowy figure making its way toward me. “Lars?” I ask.
“Nope,” says a cheery voice. “Just your friendly host, coming to check on you.” He gets closer, and I see it is George, of the mustache and the spaniel.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, but he blocks my way before I can sneak past him.
“Katharyn,” he says in a low voice. “You look beautiful tonight.” He places a hand lightly but persistently on my right hip.
Startled, I back away from his touch. “Yes, my husband said the same thing.” That word, husband, feels peculiar on my lips; it’s like speaking a foreign language. Yet I recognize the power in it. I am reminded of how satisfied I felt in high school Spanish class when, called upon to recite by Se?ora Torrez, I uttered some Spanish turn of phrase confidently, completely, and correctly.
George lowers his arm. “Oh, come on,” he says. “I’m just paying you a compliment. Don’t take it so seriously.”
“George.” A sharp voice rises behind him, and he steps aside. A woman in a slim-fitting dress, dark-colored with pinstripes, steps quickly down the hallway. “Katharyn, are you all right?”
“Of . . . yes, of course.” Is this my hostess? Good grief, what a sticky situation.
“George, you go on back,” she says. “We need more ice from the cooler on the patio.”
He gives her a guilty look and slinks away.
The woman takes my arm. “Shameful,” she says, shaking her head. “That husband of mine has an eye for pretty women, I’ll tell you that. But you’d think, in his own house . . . and with what you’ve been through, too.” She gives me a long, worried look. “Tell me, dear, how are you coping?”
How am I coping? Does she mean with being drunk? Good heavens, how mortifying.
“I . . . I’m just fine,” I say. “Really. I probably just need some water.”
Her look softens. “Of course. Let’s go back to the kitchen and get you a nice tall glass of ice water.” She takes my arm and steers me down the hall. “And Katharyn,” she says, leaning toward me. “I can’t thank you enough for lending me Alma. What a worker that girl is!”
I do not know Alma’s exact age, but I would guess she is a good five or ten years my senior—and I would guess that I am at least that many years again older than my hostess. Thus I’m unsure how Alma could be considered a “girl.” Nonetheless, I just smile and say, “Any time.”
Not long afterward, the party breaks up. The hostess—whose name, maddeningly, I never did learn—rounds up ladies’ boots and men’s galoshes. The maids bring coats from the bedroom and hand them out; most people take them without a word. Alma hands me mine. “Why, thank you, Alma! Muchas gracias!” I tell her, probably a bit too loudly. People stare at me. I don’t care.
The snow is swirling around us as Lars and I step down the drive. “Easy, there,” he says, holding my arm. “Perhaps we should have brought the car.” He steers me into the street, and we shuffle through the snowpack. It is less than a block to our house. I cannot think of anything sillier than the idea of driving to this party.
At our door, Lars waits outside while I go in. The babysitter, who appears to be high school age, rises from the couch and walks over to the television. “Hi, Mrs. Andersson,” she says, switching it off. Before she does, I catch a glimpse of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward in a steamy embrace. I think the movie might be The Long, Hot Summer, a film adaptation of a Faulkner novel that was made some years ago. Must be Saturday Night at the Movies, a program with which I am unequivocally familiar in my real life. Most Saturday nights I am at home alone, watching whatever movie NBC is showing.
“How was your evening?” the girl asks me.
“Just fine.” I am wondering why Lars does not come inside, and also whether I am expected to pay the girl. And if so, how much? I haven’t a clue about such things.
“How was your evening?” I ask her. I glance out through the storm door and see that Lars is shoveling the front walk with rapid, efficient strokes.
“Everything went well. No problems.” She smiles at me. “They really are good kids, you know,” she says kindly.
Instead of reassuring me, this makes me wonder if other people think they really aren’t good kids. And if so, why?
“Well.” I slide out of my coat. “Thank you.” Through the storm door, I can see that Lars has finished shoveling and is now motionless on the covered front step, staring out into the swirling snow. His shoulders rise and fall quickly with his breath, and I think anxiously about his heart. Again, I wonder why he doesn’t come inside, and then I realize that he must be either walking or driving the babysitter home.
The sitter opens the coat closet and selects a brown girl’s woolen jacket with SPARTANS stitched in gold felt letters across the back. Several small pins that look like they represent various sports and activities—softball, field hockey, cheerleading—decorate the left chest area of the jacket. On the right, TRISHA is embroidered in script of matching gold.
“Thank you, Trisha,” I say. “Oh, and would you ask Mr. Andersson to pay you? I don’t have enough in my wallet.” Silently, I congratulate myself on this inspiration.
Trisha buttons up her coat and slips on her boots. “Sure thing, Mrs. Andersson. You have a nice night.”
“You, too. Stay warm out there.” I open the door for her, and she goes outside to where Lars is stamping the shovel against the concrete step to drive off the packed snow.
“I’ll be back in ten,” he says, leaning in to give me a quick kiss. I point at my purse and shake my head, and he nods in understanding. I marvel at this silent communication between us; if you didn’t know any better, you might think we’ve been doing this for years. I watch as he ushers Trisha down the snowy walk.