Joan Didion - Run River

With two children, however, she would have to make more of an effort. Nothing about her modus vivendi was appropriate to a young wife and mother of two: the doctor, quite inadvertently, made that much clear. Examining her, he asked whether any of her friends had told her about Dr. Grantly Dick-Read. “I suppose you mean natural childbirth,” she said quickly, uncomfortably convinced, as she lay in ignominy on the table, that both the doctor and his even more disapproving cohort, the nurse, had divined the shameful fact she had only then realized: she had no friends. She had her family, she had the McClellans; she had a neat leather address book respectably if not completely full of names, mostly those of girls with whom she had gone to school, to which she could address Christmas cards. But she had no one with whom she might have sat around over coffee and compared obstetrical notes. It was a failure she had never before fathomed: she did not much enjoy the company of women.

“Natural childbirth,” she repeated, stalling. “I’m not sure I’d like that. I was in labor thirty-four hours with Knight.”

“That’s because you were afraid,” the doctor said genially. He was a young obstetrician recommended by Martha; Dr. Dubois had retired.

“I don’t know.” Lily wondered with some irritation how she had happened to think Martha an authority on obstetricians.

The doctor patted her thigh, affably. “You talk it over with your husband.”

The notion that she might talk over natural childbirth with Everett seemed only slightly less ludicrous than the notion that she might have already talked it over with friends, and when Lily left the doctor’s office she walked through Capitol Park, distracted by the vistas of social failure opened up by the doctor; sat down on the wet steps of the Capitol Building, and tried to think exactly what it was that young wives and mothers did. For a starter, they did not sit around by themselves on the Capitol steps smoking cigarettes in the rain; she was sure of that. If they found themselves downtown after an appointment in the Medico-Dental Building they would have swatches to match, War Bonds to purchase, friends to meet for lunch. They would have an entire circle of friends with whom they lunched regularly, played bridge, talked about natural childbirth and saddle-block anaesthesia and twilight sleep and the last time the Lunts played Memorial Auditorium.

Deciding as she drove out to the ranch that the first step toward social regularity might well be the proper equipment (she could not think what else it might be), she wrote immediately to Shreve’s in San Francisco and ordered six hundred sheets of pale blue letter paper monogramed L.K.McC., four hundred lined envelopes engraved McClellan’s Landing, California (an address acceptable to both Everett and the Post Office and one which she thought had a good deal more innate style than the Star Route number Mr. McClellan persisted in using), six hundred folded notes (with matching envelopes) engraved Mrs. Everett Currier McClellan , and something she had seen described in Vogue as a “hostess-saver,” a small book similar to one used by Mrs. Roosevelt’s social secretary to record the preferences, disinclinations, and favorite menus of all one’s guests.

On the day the package arrived from Shreve’s, she set up a card table on the sun porch, filled Everett’s fountain pen, arranged a tray with a glass of iced tea and a fresh package of cigarettes, and set about writing some notes. Unable at first to think where to begin, she located the neat leather address book and turned the pages methodically from A (Alice Adamson, an unattractive but popular girl with whom Lily had once shared a room at a Stanford house party and had never seen again), through the heavy concentration of relatives under K, right on to Z (Zenith Jewelry in Berkeley, where she had once left a bracelet to be repaired): there was no one to whom she could reasonably write a letter.

By the end of the afternoon, nonetheless, using rather larger than normal handwriting and in one case asking for a recipe she did not want (Baked Alaska made with cottage cheese would be beyond, she could not help feeling, even her expanding horizons), she had managed to write three: one to her roommate at Dominican, a girl she had not felt one way or another about; one to the rather sententious widow who had been housemother in the Pi Phi house the year she was at Berkeley; and one to Martha, who had not been home from Davis in eight days and had twice called Everett and urged him to write. Although the box of folded notes remained untouched, she had a definite purpose in mind for them: invitations. Starting with luncheons and afternoon desserts, she would progress to mixed entertainments — cocktail parties, Sunday-night suppers, little dinners so well planned that even Mr. McClellan could not turn them awry; simple but perfectly done, suitable wartime entertaining. “My mother is a great hostess,” she explained to Everett as they drove to the post office to mail her three letters. “When Daddy was in the Legislature she was possibly the most noted hostess on the river. Now. There’s no reason why I can’t give a simple little party. Is there.” Everett, his eyes on the road, could see none. “Let’s stop for a drink before we go back,” Lily said happily. “Let’s have a drink by ourselves in a roadhouse or something. There’s time before dinner.” All right, Everett agreed drily, kissing her hair at a stop sign, they would have a drink in a roadhouse or something. “To celebrate,” she added. To celebrate, he repeated after her, smiling, although she could see that he was not entirely sure what they were celebrating, or why.

Fifteen days later, after drawing up several lists and then abandoning them in periods of retrogression, she opened the box of folded notes and wrote out eighteen invitations for a luncheon one afternoon in May. Everett put up card tables on the verandah for her, Martha called from Davis to encourage her (as well as to suggest that the unprecedented number of people might upset Knight), and for a few hours that afternoon the McClellan place had about it the illusion that someone other than Lily lived there, someone used to casual friendships, at home with the sound of women’s voices, luncheon forks, bridge being dealt. But although Edith Knight declared after everyone else had left that it had been the loveliest afternoon possible, Lily knew that it had not quite worked. It was nothing she had done or not done. It was simply that there existed between her and other women a vacuum in which overtures faded out, voices became inaudible, connections broke. With increased apprehension but unalloyed determination, she set about correcting it: if she was incapable of having a circle, she would then direct her efforts toward cementing Everett’s circle. But when she discovered that Everett’s disinterest in her friends or her lack of them was equaled only by his disinterest in seeing his own friends with any regularity (did he have any friends? she sometimes wondered), she was at a loss as to what to do next, and when her father died in June she had every reason not to do anything. The single luncheon, the handful of letters and telephone calls, the Sunday-night supper to which Everett had finally agreed and at which no one, not even Martha, could think of any conversation that quite caught on: she could repeat none of it. She would become a wife and mother later, for as she said to Everett in the terror of the day she found out, I’m not myself if my father’s dead .

A man and woman from Chicago discovered the accident: they had been told at the Texaco station downtown in Sacramento that they might get a breeze that hot June night by taking the river road instead of staying on U.S. 40. They slowed down (the man told the Highway Patrol) because of the curious light rising off the river. Tired and bored and sticky from sitting all day in the car, his wife said at first it was another California trick, and wanted to go on. Five would get you ten there was another Giant Orange drink stand involved in it somewhere, and for her nickel you could take every Giant Orange drink stand between here and San Berdoo and sink them five feet under. He parked the car, however, and got out to stand on the levee. When reconnaissance of the terrain turned up no evidence of a Giant Orange drink stand, his wife became apprehensive (it was eerie, she said, it was so creeping eerie), and would not get out of the car. It took him three or four minutes to apprehend what anyone from the river would have known immediately, for this was a bad curve, frequently miscalculated, or at any rate frequently as that kind of miscalculation goes; to realize that the glow on the water was rising through twenty-five feet of muddy water from the headlights of a car. The light filtered up through layer upon layer of current and crosscurrent, and flickered all about the channel as the wind disturbed the surface water. If I told her once I told her twenty times, there was something funny going on here and it was up to us to see what was what , the man said again and again to the state patrolmen, his curiosity already transmuted into the sense of civic responsibility which would become, in future tellings, the leitmotif of the story about the night they were someplace in California and saw this light Melba claimed was a Giant Orange, which is a kind of drink stand they have out there shaped like a giant orange. It was well after midnight before the river salvage people could get there from Yolo County with a hoist, and nearly five o’clock before they knew enough to call Edith Knight.