She smiles, and—I think; it’s hard to tell in this light—blushes. “Not with each other, no,” she says.
For an instant I feel as if I’d been fooled, and then as if I’d been foolish—foolish to think I might have a place in Wendy’s world, a world I’ve sentimentalized as a carefree bohemian carnival. I have been presumptuous. As is my wont. As I made a career of doing.
But when I’ve regained my footing, I find that this is not so strange to me.
“To be perfectly honest,” I say, “I’m not sure how regular the regular way ever gets. These arrangements are hard to explain. But I’m your friend, so I’d like to hear more. Maybe we can talk about it sometime, if you want to. For now, though, I just have one question: Why did you tell me in the first place that you’re married?”
“Lillian, I’m sorry about that,” says Wendy, picking up another mazapan with her black-nail-polished hand and nervously breaking it into chunks. “I say it sometimes because it feels true. More true than anything else I can tell people, anyway. We live together, we love each other, but he’s not my boyfriend. If I say he is, then people want to know when we’re getting married. If I say he’s just a friend, then people think it’s weird, like it’s a problem, and they want to help me find my own place, or to set me up with some nice guy they know. And I don’t want that. I’m with Peter. It’s different, but it works for us. I feel like you get it, Lillian. But when I first met you, well, I didn’t really know you yet, and…”
“You thought I’d disapprove?”
“Yeah, I guess,” says Wendy. “I mean, I thought you might. I guess I didn’t think about it at all, really. It’s just the way I talk to older people. Gah, I’m sorry—that came out wrong!”
“It’s all right,” I say, taking a sip of the pink punch: vodka and grapefruit juice and something else, powdery and fake-tasting, Kool-Aid maybe. “There’s no sense in pretending otherwise. I’m really old.”
“I just mean that I’m used to talking a certain way to my family back in Ohio,” says Wendy. “My folks and my grandparents. I can’t always trust people’s reactions. And I get tired of trying to explain to people who don’t want to understand.”
“I suppose I was never quite so unconventional,” I say, “but I know what you mean. Suffice to say my family back home in the District of Columbia did not condone my Jazz Age enthusiasms.”
“There’s Peter!” says Wendy, rising to wave and shout his name.
Peter—whom I recognize at once from seeing his tiny face iterated across the poster-board downstairs—turns and walks over to us. He looks to be Wendy’s age, in his twenties, and extremely handsome, his dark blond hair swept up in a slight pompadour. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned plungingly, with its sleeves rolled partway up, and his pants are black: tuxedo trousers with a red satin stripe up the side, no less stylish for looking as if they were stolen from the dry cleaning of a bellhop.
Peter and Wendy. For the first time it occurs to me that they are accidental namesakes, with literary antecedents that are a perfect fit, right down to Peter’s tribe of lost boys. Maybe too perfect: It’s easy to imagine them embracing the coincidence as a role to play, a mask to hide behind. Yes, you’re right, we’re just the way you think we are. Now leave us alone.
“Wendy!” Peter says, and pulls up a chair. “Is this Lillian Boxfish?”
“The one and only,” I say. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He glances over at Wendy and raises his eyebrows.
“It’s okay,” says Wendy. “She knows our terrible secret.”
“Ah,” says Peter, sitting down and sighing. “That’s a load off. I hate having to lie. Thanks for coming.”
“Thank you for letting an old lady crash your party,” I say.
“Oh please,” he says. “I like to hang out with all kinds of people. Most of our young friends act as if we’re the first ones who’ve ever tried to live our lives differently. It’s so easy for a kid to write off an old person—they can’t understand this, they’ve never felt that, they no longer feel anything, they don’t count anymore. I think it’s small-minded. I wish there were more people over sixty here, to tell you the truth.”
“That makes one of us,” I say, and they both laugh. “If you want to turn down the stereo and organize a bridge tournament, please be my guest, but I can’t promise I’ll be yours.”
“So,” says Peter, “Wendy tells me you used to be a veritable Emily Dickinson.”
“Hmm,” I say. “You’re in the ballpark. I’ve never been a shut-in—at least not by choice—and I still write.”
“Wherever do you find a quiet place to compose your verses, Lillian?”