she rubbed her fingertips over my forehead, only this time I moved away.
I didn’t want them in my room. In those few moments, they seemed already to have taken possession of it—as easily and completely as of the rest of the house. Crishi picked up the lump of rock Michael had brought me from Ladakh, but he must have felt the vibrations coming from me, so he put it down again; he said “I’m sorry you have a headache,” very sweetly and sympathetically.
I turned away from him; I didn’t want to look at him. It wasn’t that I was just sulking—I was really angry with him; the feelings he had inspired in me during the race hadn’t worn off. He must have been aware of this, for he did not try to get around me. Instead he said to the Rani: “Do something to your hair.” “Oh am I the most awful fright?” She turned to my mirror and said “Goodness,” and was already pulling pins out, so that glorious dark waves shimmering with auburn fell over her shoulders and down her back. She took my comb and used it swiftly and effectively, and in no time at all she had coiled everything back into her usual perfect coiffure. Crishi knelt down on the floor and did something to the folds of silk cloth around her ankles, and when he got up, she said “Now how?” He examined her, gave an expert flick to her neckline, and said “Not bad.” She tucked her arm in his, ready to go down. “Sure you won’t come?” he asked me, but didn’t insist. As they stood there arm in arm, both of them full of sympathy for me, hoping I would soon be better, they did look like mother and son rather than anything else. Maybe because he was so slim and youthful-looking, whereas she was almost matronly, and the layer of gold embroidery on the front of her dress made her bosom burgeon even more. And there was something familial in their attitude to each other—his slight air of patronage, and her smiling submission to it like a mother who is terribly proud of her son.
But when they were gone, I thought, Why should I care what or who they are to each other? She had left behind a hair in the comb she had used—I pulled it out to throw away; it was surprisingly thick and strong, more like a piece of wire than a hair. Their lingering presence in my room disturbed me: Actually, it was not so much lingering—that word has something light about it—but more like a cloud heavy with storm and thunder. In fact, it felt so oppressive inside that I thought the weather must have changed; but when I stepped to the window, I found the night to be perfectly balmy and still. The whole party had moved to the edge of the lake in anticipation of the fireworks. I watched from above, looking not so much toward the lake as at the tops of the trees, which seemed to have a veil over them from the softly lit night sky. The first of the rockets came spluttering up, and another and another, popping open and for a moment spreading a little garish color, only to die away very quickly. In contrast, stars and moon, which had appeared dim before, shone with a bright and steady light. Some more fireworks went up—I could hear halfhearted cheering down below—but it was hopeless. Jean’s fireworks might have been good enough for a few friends, or for two lovers sitting with their arms around each other by the lake, but they didn’t make much of a show at a party, especially not one in celebration of a new world movement. It was a relief when the display was over.
I went down, and found that disappointment with the fireworks had had a bad effect on the party. The local people were beginning to say they were sorry they had missed the fireworks at the high school, which were the usual culmination of this day; some of them thought that, if they hurried, they might still see at least the end of them, so they moved off to their cars and drove away. Mrs. Pickles whispered to Mrs. Schwamm to ask if supper was going to be served—throwing Mrs. Schwamm into a fit of red-faced indignation, her first that day, which had been an unusually benign one for her. “Eating and drinking all day like pigs, and now they ask for supper,” she complained to me. Mrs. Pickles then led off another contingent of local people to the high school, where homemade lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies were traditionally served after the fireworks. The remaining guests, finding that they had overstayed the events of the day, began to wonder which hosts to thank and say good-bye to. The obvious ones were the Rawul, Rani, and Crishi—they stood expectant and smiling, and as fresh as they had been at the start. They returned thanks more effusive than those they received, so that the guests felt themselves royally honored; and it would have been a fine high note for them to leave on, if they hadn’t remembered that there was another set of hosts to be thanked.
Unfortunately, Lindsay was not as fresh as she had been at the start of the day. It seemed she had felt shamed by the inadequacy of the fireworks and was blaming Jean, who fought back: “But it was you told me to get them!”
“How was I to know you bought this crummy lot—oh are you going? Sweet of you to come—but of course I might have guessed, you’re always so cheap, Jean.”
The guests backed away, their smiles cooling on their lips. But here Manton stepped forward as a responsible person, and they were relieved to shake the hand he held out to them so warmly: “Wish you could stay—yes wasn’t it fun—hope you’ll be with us again soon.” Manton had the ability to remember faces and usually to put the right name to them; and even when he didn’t, he compensated with extra cordiality, making the guests feel as good with him as with the Rawul’s contingent. So it happened that they began to go straight from the latter to Manton—bypassing Lindsay, who was awkwardly engaged with Jean.
“They would have been fine in Dubuque, Iowa”—which was where Jean came from, from a very down-home background—“but hardly—goodness!—here at Propinquity. Or did you do it on purpose, to make me feel an utter fool in front of my guests?”
Although her complexion, under her crop of gray-brown hair, had turned ruddier than usual, Jean remained admirably unprovoked. But as Lindsay’s voice rose—“I’m sure you did it on purpose!”—Jean moved closer to her and said in a low voice, “Have you been—?” Lindsay stepped back, instinctively averting her face. Lindsay had never been alcoholic but she did have tendencies that way—it was in her family—and right from the beginning of their relationship, Jean had thought it necessary to control her intake. Lindsay wanted to be controlled; all her life she had been looking for someone to do just that. But that day she had dipped as freely as everyone else into the bowl of punch we had prepared, so now she felt guilty, and instead of wanting to continue her quarrel with Jean, she was anxious to get away from her.
At once she found an opportunity: Having averted her face from Jean, she saw Manton bidding his gracious farewell to the guests. The sight enraged her, and she strode over to him. She had long slender legs, made for golf courses and country walking; she didn’t go in for either, or any sport, but when she was indignant, she strode on them with the energy of a resolute sportswoman. It was in that way she moved in on Manton and hissed “Get out of my house.”
Manton had been brought up as a gentleman and could, at least for a few minutes, keep his poise. So he went right on saying “Delighted you could come” to the guest whose hand he happened to be shaking, even retaining that hand for a while in extra cordiality, though the embarrassed guest was straining to get away.
“Right this minute,” Lindsay said, not troubling to keep her voice down, so that the next guest too could hear her. Two spots of high color had appeared on Manton’s cheekbones.
I heard Crishi murmur to Michael, “You’d better do some thing about your parents.” Lindsay was really losing her head. Addressing the line of guests waiting to shake Manton’s hand, she said “You don’t have to thank him, he has no business to be here in the first place.” She shook the next hand herself and put on a manner even grander and more effusive than his.
Crishi began skillfully to divert the guests from the Rawul and Rani’s line straight to where their cars were parked. Manton and Lindsay were left standing alone, which gave Michael the opportunity to step between them, take an arm of each, and lead them away toward the house. Before they got very far, Jean came up behind them and took charge of Lindsay, leaving Michael to cope with Manton, who was saying “I have never been so insulted in my whole life.”
I ran on ahead into the house and told Barbara that Manton might be ready to leave. She got up at once from where she had been lying on the bed and began very quickly and efficiently to pack up her own and Manton’s things; and by the time Michael appeared with Manton, she was almost ready.