me.
âWhen donât we go to The Surf Club Saturday night?â I said.
âMaybe I could call Ethel and we could go double.â
âCharlie,â I said, âyou said you were through dating girls.â
âI canât take Legs Youngerhouse to The Surf Club,â he said, âeven if heâd go with me.â
âWhat am I going to do with this bracelet?â I said.
âGo back to the beach tomorrow and look for her?â Charlie said.
âYeah, maybe.â
âSo itâs okay if I invite Ethel along for Saturday?â
âDo what you want to do,â I said.
âI like to dance,â Charlie said. âShoot me.â
My mother called upstairs, âDinner, everyone.â
âCharlie,â I said, âIâm sorry about the meat loaf.â
â âCharlie Gilhooley,â Mrs. Lingerman used to say to me when Iâd go over to pick up Ethel, âCharlie Gilhooley, you walk as though youâre trying to hold on to a fifty-cent piece with your bottom. I never knew anyone to take such teensyweensie steps, leastwise not a member of the male sex.â âWe headed down the stairs to the dining room. âWell, Mrs. Lingerman, rest in peace,â Charlie said.
I still hadnât decided what to do about Sabra St. Amourâs bracelet.
6. Sabra St. Amour
Mama and I like hot foods like Indian curries and Mexican tamales, which was why she picked The Frog Pond for dinner that nightâthere wasnât anything spicier on the menu than rib roast. I was supposed to watch my diet very carefully.
The Frog Pond looks like an old-fashioned, gingerbread farmhouse, with a small lily pond behind it, and huge weeping willows on the bright green lawn around it.
Youâre not supposed to hear anything there but comforting, country sounds: the birds, the breeze ruffling the leaves, idle summer-night chatter, the chink of silver against china and ice cubes against crystal. Off in the kitchen was a whir of a blender beating butter and cream and salt into mashed potatoes . . . an oven door opening to pull out popovers . . . absolutely no music . . . and the waitresses whisper when they ask if everything is all right.
âHoney, show Fedora your bracelet!â Mama shouted across the table at me.
âYou know, Iâve been giving this situation of yours a lot of thought,â Fedora was saying at the same time.
They hadnât yet decided who would go first. I managed to slip in a lie. âI forgot to wear the bracelet, Mama.â
âYou forgot to wear it!â Mama said. âI reminded you,sweetheart, donât you remember?â
âI didnât sleep very much this week, for thinking about everything,â Fedora continued. She was a little woman with a very militant posture and a great deal of authority in this deep voice which seemed to come from someone behind her or above her.
We were sitting at a round table in the center of the dining room under the apprehensive eye of the proprietress. Both Mama and Fedora had second-balcony voices. Fedora was drinking her usual, a bright red Campari on the rocks, with a twist of lemon; Mama was having her Manhattan with the two cherries. I sometimes think Mama invented that just to be different, though she says she craves a taste of something sweet immediately before and immediately after whiskey.
I was toying with a ginger ale. Before I got my ulcer, I used to nurse a rum collins through other peopleâs cocktails; on holidays, Iâd have a glass of champagne.
Mama said to Fedora, âI gave her the most exquisite cuff bracelet, with a verse inside thatâs to die, and she forgets to wear it. Do you love it?â
âI finally came to a decision,â Fedora said, ignoring Mama.
âAbout what?â Mama said.
âAbout what do you think? Iâve been trying to tell you that Iâve been going over this thing in my head. Iâve had some very