Anne Tyler - Saint Maybe

“Well, thanks anyway,” Lucy said sadly, and then she said goodbye. Ian was suddenly not so certain. He wondered if he had misjudged her. He stood gripping the receiver and he noticed how his heart ached, as if it were he, not Lucy, who had been wounded.

* * *

For Doug’s birthday, Bee made his favorite hors d’oeuvres — smoked oyster log and spinach balls and Chesapeake crab spread. Claudia made a coconut cake that looked like a white shag bath mat. She and her family were the first to arrive. She had Ian come out to the kitchen with her to help put on the candles — fifty-nine of them, this year. Ian wasn’t in a very good mood, but Claudia kept joshing him so finally he had to smile. You couldn’t stay glum around Claudia for long; she was so funny and slapdash and comfortable, in her boxy tan plaid shirt the same color as her skin and the maternity slacks she was wearing till she got her figure back. They ran out of birthday candles and started using other kinds — three tall white tapers and several of those stubby votive lights their mother kept for power failures. By now they had the giggles. It was almost like the old days, when Claudia wasn’t married yet and still belonged completely to the family.

So Ian said, “Hey, Claude.”

“Hmm?”

“You know Lucy.”

“What about her?” she asked, still teary with laughter.

“ You don’t think she had that baby early. Do you?” Her smile faded.

“Do you?” he persisted.

“Oh, Ian, who am I to say?”

“I’m wondering if somebody ought to tell Danny,” he said.

“Tell him?” she said. “No, wait. You mean, talk about it? You can’t do that!”

“But he looks like a dummy, Claude. He looks so … fooled!”

He was louder than he’d meant to be. Claudia glanced toward the door. Then she set a hand on his arm and spoke hurriedly, in an undertone. “Ian,” she said.

“Lots of times, people have, oh, understandings, you might say, that outsiders can’t even guess at.”

“Understandings! What kind of understandings? And then also—”

But he was too late. The swinging door burst open and the children rushed in, crying, “Mom!” and “Danny and them are here, Mom.” Claudia said, “What do you think of our cake?” She held it up, all spiky and falling apart. She was laughing again. Ian pushed past her and left the kitchen.

In the dining room, Lucy bounced the baby on her shoulder while she talked with Bee. She still had her coat on; she looked fresh and happy, and she smiled at Ian without a trace of guilt. His mother said, “Ian, hon, could you fetch the booster seats?” She was laying a notched silver fish knife next to each plate. The Bedloes owned the most specialized utensils — sugar shells and butter-pat spears and a toothy, comblike instrument for slicing angel food cake. Ian marveled that people could consider such things important. “Also we’ll need those bibs in the linen drawer,” his mother said, but he passed on through without speaking. From the living room he heard the TV set blaring a basketball game. “Notice that young fellow on the right,” his father was saying. “What’s-his-name. Total concentration. What’s that fellow’s name?”

Ian climbed the stairs while his family’s voices filled the house below him like water — just that murmury and chuckly, gliding through the rooms to form one single, level surface.

On Saturday Cicely’s parents were taking a trip to Cumberland, leaving Cicely in charge of her little brother. They were planning to be gone overnight. This meant that after her brother went to bed, Cicely and Ian would be just like married people, all alone downstairs or maybe even upstairs in her bedroom with the door locked. They didn’t discuss the possibilities in so many words, but Ian got the feeling that Cicely was aware of them. She said maybe he’d like to come over about eight thirty or so. (Stevie’s bedtime was eight.) She wanted to cook him a really elegant dinner, she said. They would have candles, just like Lucy. Maybe Ian could dress up a little. Maybe get hold of a bottle of wine.

He preferred the taste of beer himself, but he would certainly bring wine, and also flowers. He wasn’t so keen on dressing up but he would do that too, if she wanted. Anything. Anything. Would she let him stay the whole night? It didn’t seem the right moment to ask. They were sitting in the school cafeteria with accordion-pleated drinking-straw wrappers whizzing around their heads.

Saturday morning he slept till noon, and as soon as he woke he phoned Cicely to see what color wine she wanted. “What color ?” she said, sounding hurried. “Any color; I don’t care.”

“But aren’t you supposed to—?”

“I have to go,” she said. “Something’s boiling over.”

After he’d hung up he realized he should have asked about the flowers, too — what color flowers. Or was it only with corsages that the color mattered? This was a meal, not a prom dress. Oh, everything was all so new to him, all on a larger scale than he was used to. He worried he wouldn’t know precisely what to do with her. He wished Danny were around. The only person in the house was his mother, and she was in one of her cleaning frenzies. She didn’t even offer him lunch. He had to make his own — three peanut butter sandwiches and a quart of milk, which he drank directly from the carton when his mother wasn’t looking.

In the afternoon he and Andrew went over to Pig Benson’s house and played Ping-Pong. Tick-tock, tick-tock , the ball went, while Ian considered dropping a hint about tonight. Or would that be bragging? Danny had once told him that girls hate boys who kiss and tell. Also, it was possible that Pig and Andrew might do something juvenile like shine flashlights in Cicely’s windows or lean on the doorbell and then run. It was very possible. Look at them: scuffling around the Ping-Pong table all gawky and unkempt and wild, acting years and years younger than Ian.

Although at the same time, there was something enviable about them.

When he reached home, his mother was standing in front of the hall mirror in her best dress, screwing on her earrings. “Oh! Ian!” she said. “I thought you’d never get here.”

“What’s up?”

“You’re supposed to head over to Lucy’s right away. She needs you to baby-sit.”

“Baby-sit? I can’t baby-sit! I’ve got a date.”

“Well, I’m sure she won’t be long; she’s just meeting a friend for a drink, she says. Danny’s at a stag party. Goodness, look at the time, and your father’s not even—”

“Mom,” Ian said, following her into the living room, “you had no business volunteering me to baby-sit. I’ve got plans of my own, and besides I think I might spend the night at Pig’s. You have way, way overstepped, Mom. And another thing. This Lucy, calling up the minute Danny’s back is turned—”

“Back is turned! What are you talking about? It’s Bucky Hargrove’s stag party; Bucky’s getting married next week.”

She was plumping cushions and collecting sections of the evening paper. Her high heels gave her an unaccustomed, stalking gait, and Ian could tell she was wearing her girdle; she inhabited her dress in such a condensed manner. She stooped stiffly for a dog bone and said, “Not that I approve of such things: bunch of grown men telling dirty jokes together. So that’s why I said to Lucy, ‘Why, of course you should get out! Ian would be glad to sit!’ I said. And don’t you let on you feel otherwise, young man, or you’ll be grounded for life and I mean it.”

The front door opened and she spun around. “Doug?” she called.

“Here, sweetheart.”

“Well, thank the Lord! You’ve got fifteen minutes to dress. Did you forget we were invited to the Finches’?”