Bianca was proud of her home, which had cost $14,800 when she and Grant purchased it three years ago, in June of ’49, and yet whenever her parents visited she felt misgivings about its grandeur. What would the house on Inquiry go for today, in an increasingly run-down neighborhood inside the Boulevard? A third of what she and Grant had paid? Bianca knew what Papa was feeling. How had his little Bia wound up in such a home? On sunny weekends before the War, inspecting the best neighborhoods in the city, he had sometimes driven her out here to the University District. It was even possible—really, it was possible—the two of them, father and little daughter, had once stood appraising the very house she would later purchase. What made it all especially painful was that Papa and Mamma could probably afford a home like this one. Papa had always been frugal, and O’Reilly and Fein had prospered over the years. But Mamma refused to budge.
Edith entered with that air of not quite noticing any change in her surroundings. She was in the middle of establishing a point. It seemed there was a tribe in the Pacific, or maybe the Indian Ocean, where the elderly women made the primary decisions, since they were the only ones who could communicate with the dead. Edith was taking a course in anthropology. She’d graduated from Wayne in June but kept taking classes anyway—what else was she to do? Bianca was hardly surprised her sister’s eyes had given out over time, or that the glasses she’d selected and wore constantly—imitation tortoiseshell with forbiddingly square frames—were almost comically unattractive.
But where were the Poppletons? Bianca had told them five o’clock, and here it was nearly five-thirty.
Then the Poppletons pulled up, full of good cheer and apologies, and Uncle Dennis shook hands with everyone and marveled at how well they were looking and Aunt Grace kissed everyone and repeatedly apologized: there had been many old friends to see.
And so the party, late in getting started, began in earnest. Papa made the initial toast. He kept it brief, as was his wont: “To friends and family, from near and far.” They all drank Paradiso wine; even Bianca, who was no longer drinking, had a sip. Then Grant toasted the wine itself. He always insisted—in utter sincerity, God bless him—no vintages were finer than his father-in-law’s. And then Papa lifted his chin and said, a
little defiantly, for any talk of Grace’s birthday must carry a note of defiance, “And we gather to celebrate Grace’s birthday. Better late than never.”
Mamma smiled—smiled sweetly. Grace murmured thanks. And then the food was served.
The beef bourguignon was a tremendous hit. Bianca had cooked up a vat holding nearly eight pounds of meat—she’d joked with Rita about eating leftovers for weeks, but nearly all of it was consumed. The Ives triplets asked for seconds, and then thirds, and Stevie also eventually had thirds, and Bianca—having so far skipped all traces of morning sickness—had her own voracious pregnant woman’s appetite to appease. Having finished his whiskey, and the splash of wine offered with the toast, Grant before refilling his wineglass had looked to Bianca, who would have preferred less consultation at a time like this: of course he should have a little more wine. The alcohol seemed to do him good, actually, and he did a wonderful hostly job of entertaining the table: he was much the best storyteller among them. Though Grant handled mostly trusts and estates at work, he collected tales of spectacularly bumbling criminals: the blackmailer who printed his return address on the envelopes; the thief who first deposited a sports coat, complete with name and address, before holding up a dry cleaner’s; the burglar who, identified by a neighbor despite the mask he was wearing, called out, “No, Harry, it isn’t me.”
Bianca kept awaiting the arrival of something disastrous, which she must avert, but it never came. While Aunt Grace and Uncle Dennis talked about their lengthy day, Mamma kept saying, encouragingly, “How nice,” and “Isn’t that nice?” and “How very nice for you”—as though speaking to a well-intentioned but overly talkative stranger on a bus.
There were a few tense or peculiar moments. The subject came up, as it almost invariably did, of moving from Inquiry. The very topic made Mamma fretful. This woman who’d always complained about never going anywhere refused to countenance the idea.
Tonight, Papa teased Mamma (“I tell her, dig yourself in all you want, one day I pry you out with a crowbar”), which wasn’t always the wisest course, particularly in a crowd. But Mamma handled the teasing well: “Have I gotten so heavy, you need a crowbar?” Though still too thin, Mamma had managed to put on a little weight these last few years, which everyone agreed was a good idea.
Mamma said: “I tell him, Vico, why is it you don’t think a house that used to fit five can now fit three?”
“We can do better …” Papa countered.
“And besides,” Mamma went on, “I don’t want to leave my friends. Isn’t that the most important thing?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Aunt Grace said, and Uncle Dennis said, “Unquestionably”—and the subject was dropped.
And then Grant happened to mention a fraternity brother who worked for Dow Chemical and Edith perked up in that fact-establishing, party-killing way of hers. “I’ve been learning about it at school. There are all these new chemicals since the War—in our food, in our paint, even in our furniture polish. And we haven’t a clue which ones are carcinogens—which ones cause cancers.” A pause naturally ensued, as everybody glanced speculatively around at the food, the painted walls, the polished furniture. Bianca happened to catch the eye of Aunt Grace—the woman who had lost a breast to cancer at the age of forty-five. Poor thing, she looked uneasy.
But the moment passed. Rita and Bianca brought in the peach cobbler and ice cream, and an unforced, festive mood returned. The fruit glistened under the pastry’s brown crust.
The final little upset of the dinner came, surprisingly, from Grace herself. She mentioned that she didn’t plan to vote for Adlai Stevenson.
Bianca could hardly believe it. She felt almost personally affronted, and said perhaps too sharply, “You’re joshing us!” Was Aunt Grace, always the great liberal, whose heroine was Eleanor Roosevelt, actually going to vote for Eisenhower? “What it is,” Aunt Grace said, “I just don’t like Adlai’s face.”
“Isn’t there something else at stake here? A matter of politics? Of justice? I mean, can you honestly—”
Uncle Dennis gently butted in: “Yes, this will be the first presidential election when Grace and I cancel each other out.” He laughed merrily.
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Grace said—mildly, but obstinately. “But the fact is, I just don’t like the man’s face.”
And later, after everybody had finished dessert but before Bianca had cleared away the plates, another odd moment arose. This one didn’t threaten anything, yet it was disturbing all the same. Bianca was heading toward the kitchen, dishes in hand, when Aunt Grace said to her, tapping her glass, “More wine, dear.” Only that brief expectant phrase—but Bianca suddenly felt what Grace so rarely inspired: a surge
of resentment. And with it—with it an awakened sympathy for that woman who had lived perpetually in Grace’s shadow: Mamma, at the other end of the table, nodding politely, while everyone worried that she might bring this celebration crashing down … It was as if Bianca had never quite grasped it before: just how wearing and embittering it might be to have a sister destined—as Nature itself surely intended, bestowing on her beauty and graciousness and an effortless air of soft-spoken command—to be served.
“Everything went so well,” Uncle Dennis said.
“The party?”
“Yes, the splendid party.”
“Well, thank you.”
Here at last was the opportunity to talk with him at length. Aunt Grace had retired early, the other guests had gone home, Grant had promised to put the twins to bed—something he was good at.
“You must be tired,” she said.
“You must be tired.”
Bianca laughed. “This time round, pregnancy doesn’t tire me. Maybe because I eat so much.” She’d gained 8 pounds already. As of this morning, she weighed 135.
They walked south, toward Six Mile Road. The night was warm but not hot, with a hint in the air—if her pregnant woman’s nose could be trusted—of autumn. A bat, and then another bat, swung through the cone of the street lamp in front of Mr. Bickey’s house, which seemed appropriate, for he was the neighborhood recluse. Even as a girl, Bianca had been comfortable with most creatures in the animal kingdom—she was fine with bugs, spiders, snakes, mice—but bats were different. It seemed she’d never fully recovered from the hysterical occasion, deep in her childhood, when a bat slipped down the chimney and flapped around and around the living room in dark lunatic fashion. “Bats,” Bianca said, and pointed.
“Yes.”
“I think I prefer gulls. You remember all the gulls we used to see on Inquiry.”
“Yes.”
The two of them had the leisure to be gradual, and for a while no grave topics were broached. Uncle Dennis asked after Grant’s parents
and Bianca told him about Mrs. Ives’s plan to buy her son a car for his thirtieth birthday.
“A car,” Uncle Dennis said. “Now isn’t that splendid?”
“Maybe they’re not so car crazy down in Cleveland?”
“Oh they are. It’s the whole country. Ever since the War ended. And besides, cars have gotten so pretty.”
“I remember your ’42 Packard. You used to say it was always the latest model. Because they didn’t build any cars the next year.”
“And it was a good car,” Uncle Dennis said. “It brought me safely up here, one very cold winter night, when a little girl had grown very sick …”
Whether he’d intended to or not, Uncle Dennis had offered the perfect transition. Bianca said, “You know, Uncle Dennis, Aunt Grace looks
tired
to me.”
There was a pause. Uncle Dennis cleared his throat. He said, “First, I planned to say something. Then I thought I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to spoil the party. But now I think I will.”
“Yes?”
Bianca felt frightened. She knew what was coming.
“The first thing to say is, the prognosis is excellent. These are not empty words. I’m speaking medically. It’s an excellent prognosis. You see, your aunt’s cancer is back.”
It didn’t matter if you’d guessed the truth: it hit you flat in the face, all the same. “Oh, Uncle Dennis—I’m so
sorry.”
“I know you are. We all are.”
And then came the guilt—always the guilt. This very evening, hadn’t she resented Aunt Grace’s request for a little more wine?
Uncle Dennis talked in that scientific way he had, almost as if Bianca were another doctor. Some of the terminology was unfamiliar, but the ghastly, ghastly shape of things was unmistakable. Once they returned to Cleveland, Aunt Grace would have her remaining breast, her left breast, removed. And then radiation treatments. And then a slow but—yes—steady convalescence at home.
“It’s a terrible disease,” Bianca said.
Uncle Dennis thought for a moment. “They have no wish to harm their host—the cancer cells. They merely want to replicate.” He offered these words as though there were reassurance in them, but the effect on Bianca was quite the opposite. “But they can be fiendishly clever when you seek to halt their replication,” he added.
They had reached Six Mile. They did not cross. The homes on the other side were more modest—some a little seedy. Now and then something happened on Six Mile that gave a person pause—a store was burgled, a car was stolen. It was ironic but true: the city seemed far more crime-ridden since the War ended and real prosperity began.
They turned around, reclaimed by the leafier and more hospitable reaches of her University District.
“That’s why we were a little late to your party. I wanted to consult an old friend at Sinai, Dr. Phillips. Joe’s a first-class cancer man—really a first-class man.”
It was silly to focus on such a niggling thing when so many larger and graver issues loomed, but Bianca, only half listening to the medical talk, kept drifting back to it: after spending the day in discussions about having her remaining breast surgically removed, and radiation treatments, and God knows what else, Aunt Grace had returned to her niece’s home and requested another splash of wine, and Bianca had resented her.
Uncle Dennis abruptly halted. “But we need to talk about other things.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Edith seems well,” Uncle Dennis said.
“You’d have to say so,” Bianca replied, although she frequently worried about Edith. Maybe because Edith was the baby of the family, nobody else appeared to recognize that she wasn’t a child any longer—she was twenty-one. Bianca had a house and two kids, with a third on the way, and even Stevie had a wife and a house and a job, but what did Edith have? What did Edith do? She’d graduated from Wayne but she was still taking classes, not with an eye toward any further degree but simply because it seemed nobody, including Edith, could imagine her doing anything but being in school. Papa used to joke that Edith’s husband would never have a missing button or a sock that needed darning, but where was Edith ever to find a husband?
“I do wish she dated more,” Bianca said.
“Plenty of time for that,” Uncle Dennis said. “Plenty of time for that.” He liked to repeat a concluding phrase.
“And when she does go out with a boy? She invariably finds him
silly.”
“Not so surprising.”
“But a little alarming? What does she expect? Silly? They’re
boys.”
“Yes.” Uncle Dennis started up again: “Rita seems well.”
“You know, she
does
. And she’s ever so proud of her braces.”
“I suppose she is.”
“Although you know
she’s
been bending my ear. About Stevie. She’s very worried about Stevie.”
It probably wasn’t fair to introduce this topic tonight, when Uncle Dennis had so much else on his mind. But he’d always been, far more than Papa, who spoke so little and took things so hard, the older man to whom Bianca could bring her troubles. And when would she have another chance?
Bianca went on: “The word Rita uses to describe him?
Desperate.”