“Anything, Dad.”
He didn’t look surprised at my curiosity. The sacks beneath his eyes hoisted thoughtfully upward, and he folded his arms and leaned against the window frame. “I don’t know. There might have been a baby.”
“Charles, must you be vulgar?”
“Or not.” He shook his head. The fumes wafted. “You’d have to ask Aunt Christina.”
“Many thanks.”
“I have a Ouija board somewhere,” said Pepper helpfully.
At which point the housekeeper saved us, announcing lunch, and we shifted ground to the dining room and a tasteful selection of sliced meats and cooked eggs and salads with mayonnaise. It was not until the end of the meal that the shadow of Aunt Violet cast itself once more upon our protruding eggy bellies. Naturally, Pepper was to blame. She stirred cauldrons like a witch in a Scottish play.
“Here’s what I think.” She helped herself to Mums’s cigarette case. “Vivian should do a story on Aunt Violet for the Metropolitan.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Pepper,” said the pot to the kettle.
“I’m not being sarcastic. The whole thing screams Metropolitan feature. Compromising photographs, the works. Don’t you think, Vivian?”
I tossed back a final trickle of straw-colored Burgundy. “Already thunk.”
“Thought,” said Dad.
“Vivian!” said Mums.
“Why not? It could be my breakthrough.”
“Because it’s vulgar. Because it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s family.”
Mums, caught in a stammer! Now I knew I was onto something big.
“Why not? The Schuylers haven’t given a damn about Violet in half a century. There’s no need to start now.”
Pepper spoke up. “That’s where you’re wrong, Vivs. We’ve obviously done our Schuyler best to ignore Violet out of existence for half a century. It’s a completely opposite thing, ignoring versus indifference. Justice for Violet, that’s what I say! Down with Schuyler oppression!” She shook her fist.
“You will not write this story, Vivian,” said Mums. “I forbid it.”
“You can’t forbid me; I’m twenty-two years old. Besides, it’s freedom of speech. Journalistic integrity. All those darling little Constitutional rights that separate us from the communists.” I put my fist down on the mayonnaise-stained tablecloth, right next to Pepper’s wineglass. “Violet must have a voice.”
“Oh, not your damned women’s lib again,” said Dad. “I fought the Nazis for this?”
“It’s not my damned women’s lib, Dadums. It’s all-American freedom of the press.”
Mums threw up her hands. “You see, Charles? This is what comes of letting your daughter become a career girl.” As she might say call girl.
“I didn’t let her become a career girl.”
“I certainly didn’t.”
Agreement at last! I gazed lovingly back and forth between the pair of them.
“I hate to interrupt another petty squabble, dear ones, but I’m afraid you can’t have the satisfaction of laying blame at each other’s doorsteps this time. It just so happens I gave myself permission to start a career. The two of you had nothing to do with it, except to prod me on with all your lovely objections.” I dabbed the corners of my mouth with an ancient linen napkin and rose to my feet, orator-style, John Paul Jones in a sleek little red wool number that would have sizzled off the powder from the Founding Fathers’ wigs. “And I am damned well going to use said hard-won career to find out what happened to Violet Schuyler.”
“Bravo.” Pepper clapped her hands. “Count me in.”
Dad pulled out his cigarette case. “Here’s what I’d like to know, Vivian, my sweet. Whose damned idiot idea was it to send girls off to college?”
Violet
Violet has always supposed that her liaison with Dr. Grant, and the eventual announcement of their marriage, came as a shock to their colleagues at the Devonshire Institute.
And yet how could they not have known what was taking place throughout that long winter of the affair? She was so naive and unguarded, so fearfully young and trustful. She shivers to think of it now, and yet how can she blame herself? If she were that Violet now, and Walter were that Dr. Grant, she would do it again.