Even Penn Station was enchanting that first time, filled with more people than Evelyn had ever seen at once. Barbara had pulled her through the crowd and up to the street, then hailed a cab that smelled of Porta Potty fluid and had a fir-tree-shaped cardboard air freshener dangling from the window that Evelyn had to ask her mother to explain.
They were staying at the Plaza Hotel and, immediately after arrival, went to tea. At afternoon tea—never call it high tea, Barbara had said—Evelyn showed off what she and Barbara had been practicing at home. Her brow was furrowed throughout with concentration, as she didn’t want to ruin her mother’s happy mood. Napkin in lap as soon as you sit. Napkin on seat if you leave. Cream in English breakfast, fine; cream in Earl Grey, never. Cream goes in after tea. (When Evelyn asked why, Barbara could only tell her to stop asking so many questions. Later, on a Sheffield trip to Bath, Evelyn found out that the English middle class used to try to stop their teacups from staining by pouring in the milk first. The upper class either never had to get the stains out themselves or had enough backup teacups that it wasn’t a problem.) Cucumber sandwiches in elegant bites. Dab at the mouth with your napkin; don’t wipe.
When her mother went to the bathroom, Evelyn popped one of the edible flowers on the table in her mouth, chewing it with gusto; she was sure that was not on the list of appropriate behaviors.
The next morning, Barbara declared that she was going to show her daughter Barbara Topfer’s New York. A few of her Hollins friends had lived here, and Barbara had spent happy long weekends in the city. At the Frick, after they had spent an hour looking at the art, Barbara disappeared for some time, then returned waving a shiny booklet.
“Do you like New York, Evelyn?” Barbara said, sitting next to her daughter on a cold marble bench. “I think we ought to spend more time here, don’t you?”
Evelyn, who had seen a billboard for Cats, said she did and asked if they could go to the show. Her mother responded that Times Square was full of sexual deviants.
The next morning, Barbara woke Evelyn early, telling her that they had salon appointments and then were going for lunch with a close friend of Barbara’s from Hollins. Her friend Push, as her Hollins friends had known her, had not only married into the Van Rensselaer family, but was a Pierrepont on her father’s side and a Phipps on her mother’s.
Push? Evelyn had asked.
Don’t be rude, Barbara had replied.
Evelyn imagined a woman layered in folds of fat who knocked over china whenever she turned.
Barbara had her hair washed and set at the salon at the Plaza and had Evelyn’s hair curled into long ringlets that were already drooping by the time they left the salon. On the elevator back up, Barbara told Evelyn more about the mysteriously named Push, that Push was supposed to have attended Barbara’s wedding but had canceled at the last minute, and of course Push had other engagements in New York and would have come except that she wasn’t feeling well and it was such a long trip to Durham. Push was a well-known debutante whose coming out was covered in Life, though it wasn’t Push’s fault—Push hadn’t allowed public photographers at her debut, yet that pushy press corps had fought over getting a picture of her.
Even at ten, Evelyn didn’t quite buy her mother’s tale. All of a sudden her mother was very close friends with a Van-Something-or-Other who was a Something else on her mother’s side? Also, her mother was now an expert on debutantes, whatever those were? A question flew around Evelyn’s mind like a mosquito, and she tried to bat it away, yet her ringlets were brushing annoyingly against her shoulders, and she wanted to see the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park instead of having to wear some itchy dress, so she let it out.
“Did you have fun at her wedding, Mommy?”
Barbara waited for the elevator doors to open and turned right quickly. “Oh, I couldn’t go. New York was really a very long trip at that point, and I had my own social life to tend to.”
The mosquito was buzzing louder, looking for flesh to chomp on.
“Was Push sad that you couldn’t come?”
“Oh,” said Barbara, jabbing to try to fit the key in the lock, “I’m sure she was sad that any of her friends didn’t make it.”
“Did you keep the invitation? It would be neat to see it.”
“Evelyn, you should change your clothes. That dress makes your stomach look big.”
Evelyn shimmied out of her dress. The mosquito wanted blood. “It must have been sad to miss such a huge society event.”
“Watch it, Evelyn. I don’t want to hear a word about it when we meet her. Are we clear?”