Mavis Gallant - The Cost of Living - Early and Uncollected Stories

The cheese was pushed along to Mrs. Freeport, then back to Lily, passing twice under Mrs. Garnett’s nose. She did not look up again. She was moving her lips over a particularly absorbing passage in her book. For the last four months, she had been reading the same volume, which was called Optimism Unlimited . So as not to stain the pretty dust jacket, she had covered it with brown paper, but now even that was becoming soiled. When Mrs. Freeport asked what the book was about, Mrs. Garnett smiled a timid apology and said, “I’m afraid it is philosophy.” It was, indeed, a new philosophy, counseling restraint in all things, but recommending smiles. Four months of smiles and restraint had left Mrs. Garnett hungry, and, to mark her last evening at Mrs. Freeport’s, she had asked for an Italian meal. Mrs. Freeport thought it extravagant — after all, they were still digesting an English Christmas. But little Edith was so sweet when she begged, putting her head to one side, wrinkling her face, that Mrs. Freeport, muttering about monkeys, had given in. The dinner was prepared and served, and Mrs. Garnett, suddenly remembering about restraint, brought her book to the table and decided not to eat a thing.

It seemed that the late William Henry had found this capriciousness adorable, but Mrs. Freeport’s eyes were stones. Lily supposed this was how murders came about — not the hasty, soon regretted sort but the plan that is sown from an insult, a slight, and comes to flower at temperate speed. Mrs. Garnett deserved a reprimand. Lily saw her, without any emotion, doubled in two and shoved in a sack. But did Mrs. Freeport like her friend enough to bother teaching her lessons? Castigation, to Lily, suggested love. Mrs. Garnett and Mrs. Freeport were old friends, and vaguely related. Mrs. Garnett had been coming to Mrs. Freeport’s every winter for years, but she left unfinished letters lying about, from which Lily — a great reader — could learn that dear Vanessa was becoming meaner and queerer by the minute. Thinking of Mrs. Freeport as “dear Vanessa” took flexibility, but Lily had that. She was not “Miss” and not “Littel”; she was, or, rather, had been, a Mrs. Cliff Little, who had taken advantage of the disorders of war to get rid of Cliff. He vanished, and his memory grew smaller and faded from the sky. In the bright new day strolled Miss Lily Littel, ready for anything. Then a lonely, fretful widow had taken a fancy to her and, as soon as travel was possible, had taken Lily abroad. There followed eight glorious years of trains and bars and discreet afternoon gambling, of eating éclairs in English-style tearooms, and discovering cafés where bacon and eggs were fried. Oh, the discovery of that sign in Monte Carlo: “Every Friday Sausages and Mashed”! That was the joy of being in foreign lands. One hot afternoon, Lily’s employer, hooked by Lily into her stays not an hour before, dropped dead in a cinema lobby in Rome. Her will revealed she had provided for “Miss Littel,” for a fox terrier, and for an invalid niece. The provision for the niece prevented the family from coming down on Lily’s head; all the same, Lily kept out of England. She had not inspired the death of her employer, but she had nightmares for some time after, as though she had taken the wish for the deed. Her letters were so ambiguous that there was talk in England of an inquest. Lily accompanied the coffin as far as the frontier, for a letter of instructions specified cremation, which Lily understood could take place only in France. The coffin was held up rather a long time at customs, documents went back and forth, and in the end the relatives were glad to hear the last of it. Shortly after that, the fox terrier died, and Lily appropriated his share, feeling that she deserved it. Her employer had been living on overdrafts; there was next to nothing for dog, companion, or niece. Lily stopped having nightmares. She continued to live abroad.

With delicate nibbles, eyes down, Lily ate her cheese. Glancing sidewise, she noticed that Mrs. Garnett had closed the book. She wanted to annoy; she had planned the whole business of the Italian meal, had thought it out beforehand. Their manners were still strange to Lily, although she was a quick pupil. Why not clear the air, have it out? Once again she wondered what the two friends meant to each other. “Like” and “hate” were possibilities she had nearly forgotten when she stopped being Mrs. Cliff and became this curious, two-faced Lily Littel.

Mrs. Freeport’s pebbly stare was focussed on her friend’s jar of yogurt. “Sugar?” she cried, giving the cracked basin a shove along the table. Mrs. Garnett pulled it toward her, defiantly. She spoke in a soft, martyred voice, as though Lily weren’t there. She said that it was her last evening and it no longer mattered. Mrs. Freeport had made a charge for extra sugar — yes, she had seen it on her bill. Mrs. Garnett asked only to pay and go. She was never coming again.

“I look upon you as essentially greedy.” Mrs. Freeport leaned forward, enunciating with care. “You pretend to eat nothing, but I cannot look at a dish after you have served yourself. The wreck of the lettuce. The destruction of the pudding.”

A bottle of wine, adrift and forgotten, stood by Lily’s plate. She had not seen it until now. Mrs. Garnett, who was fearless, covered her yogurt thickly with sugar.

“Like most people who pretend to eat like birds, you manage to keep your strength up,” Mrs. Freeport said. “That sugar is the equivalent of a banquet, and you also eat between meals. Your drawers are stuffed with biscuits, and cheese, and chocolate, and heaven knows what.”

“Dear Vanessa,” Mrs. Garnett said.

“People who make a pretense of eating nothing always stuff furtively,” said Mrs. Freeport smoothly. “Secret eating is exactly the same thing as secret drinking.”

Lily’s years abroad had immunized her to the conversation of gentlewomen, their absorption with money, their deliberate over- or underfeeding, their sudden animal quarrels. She wondered if there remained a great deal more to learn before she could wear their castoff manners as her own. At the reference to secret drinking she looked calm and melancholy. Mrs. Garnett said, “That is most unkind.” The yogurt remained uneaten. Lily sighed, and wondered what would happen if she picked her teeth.

“My change man stopped by today,” said Mrs. Garnett, all at once smiling and widening her eyes. How Lily admired that shift of territory — that carrying of banners to another field. She had not learned everything yet. “I wish you could have seen his face when he heard I was leaving! There really was no need for his coming, because I’d been in to his office only the week before, and changed all the money I need, and we’d had a lovely chat.”

“The odious little money merchant in the bright-yellow automobile?” said Mrs. Freeport.

Mrs. Garnett, who often took up farfetched and untenable arguments, said, “William Henry wanted me to be happy.”

“Edith!”

Lily hooked her middle finger around the bottle of wine and pulled it gently toward her. The day after tomorrow was years away. But she did not take her eyes from Mrs. Freeport, whose blazing eyes perfectly matched the small sapphires hanging from her ears. Lily could have matched the expression if she had cared to, but she hadn’t arrived at the sapphires yet. Addressing herself, Lily said, “Thanks,” softly, and upended the bottle.

“I meant it in a general way,” said Mrs. Garnett. “William Henry wanted me to be happy. It was nearly the last thing he said.”

“At the time of William Henry’s death, he was unable to say anything,” said Mrs. Freeport. “William Henry was my first cousin. Don’t use him as a platform for your escapades.”