Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

“She’s nice enough,” Polly agreed. “But she’s not very interesting.”

“Well, maybe not.” Bea sighed as she scoured the sticky dish that had held sweet potatoes. “But I don’t think that really matters so much. You know, Polly, when you’re young you always want people to be interesting. Then later on you find out it’s much more important for them to be serious and decent. I’ve noticed that at work.”

“Oh?” For the last eight years, Bea had been an assistant dean — a glorified secretary, really — in the university summer-school program.

“Whenever we get an application that says a student is ‘interesting,’ and not much else, I always put a little W next to his or her name now. For Watch out.” Bea giggled suddenly. Since she usually didn’t drink, the glass or two of sherry she allowed herself on holidays always made her a little blurry.

“How is your job going, by the way?” Polly asked, realizing that in the clamor of family news Bea had volunteered none of her own.

“Oh, very well. Of course, this is our quiet season, we’re only just getting the catalogue together.”

“So things are all right with you,” Polly said; it was hardly a question, for Bea was chronically contented.

“Oh, yes. I have everything I want.” She hesitated, holding an ugly Corning Ware serving dish under the tap; the warm water, splashing on its edge, sent up a kind of transparent fan. “I’d like for you to be happier, that’s all.”

“I’m fine,” Polly said.

“I worry about you sometimes, you know.”

“Oh?” Polly said, surprised; it was unlike her mother to worry about anything.

“Mm. You see, when I married Bob, I thought it would be the best possible thing for you, to grow up in a pleasant place like Rochester. In a normal family. But I wonder sometimes if maybe after we moved here I didn’t pay you enough attention. I was always thinking about the boys: Alby’s asthma, and the trouble Hans used to have with reading. But you were so sensible, so articulate, so talented; I knew you’d always be all right. At least, I thought you’d always be all right.” She wiped back a stray lock of hair with one wet reddened hand.

“I am all right, really,” Polly assured her. For years she had wanted to hear her mother admit that she might have done something wrong. But now that this was happening it made her embarrassed and uncomfortable, as if the kitchen were tilting and sliding into the cellar.

“You weren’t really unhappy, growing up here, were you?” Bea dropped the dishcloth into the sink and turned to look at her daughter.

“It was okay. It was fine,” Polly lied.

“I was so sorry it didn’t work out for you with Jim. But I expect you’ll find another nice man soon.” Bea put a handful of spoons into the dishwasher, giving Polly a quick little smile that was also a question.

“Mh,” Polly said. No, I’m not going to find a nice man soon, she thought, because there aren’t any “nice men” in New York. What I’m looking for now, probably, is a nice woman.

I might as well tell her the truth, she decided, staring past Bea at the new kitchen wallpaper, which had a clumsy pattern of spice tins in avocado, orange, and brown. (Why would any graphic artist have wanted to design such a drearily hideous wallpaper, or any shop have ordered it?) She’ll be upset, Polly thought, but so what? It was always so hard to get a rise out of her mother; why shouldn’t she be upset for once? “I’m not sure I will,” she said. “Uh, you know my friend Jeanne, that you met in New York last year, the one that’s sharing my apartment now.”

“Mm.” Her mother nibbled absently at the end of a leftover breadstick.

“Well, she’s a lesbian. And I think I might be one, too.”

“Oh, Polly.” Bea dropped her breadstick into the dishwater. “Really?”

“I’m not sure. But I might.”

“Well, dear, if that’s what you want,” Polly’s mother said finally. She wrapped some celery in a piece of plastic. “I mean, your friend Jeanne seemed like a very nice girl.”

“Yes, but she’s not, I mean, we’re not —” Polly stuttered.

But Bea wasn’t listening; she was gazing past her daughter with an odd faraway smile. “You know, when I was in high school, I had this tremendous crush on the captain of the girl’s tennis team.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Bea giggled again; she was certainly tipsy. “She was so tall and athletic; she reminded me of your father, in a way. Well, I suppose I should say he reminded me of her when I met him, because of course that was years later.”

“You mean, are you telling me, you and this girl were lovers?” Polly stared at her mother across a counter of marbled avocado vinyl.

“Oh, no. Well, not exactly, anyhow,” Bea said, smiling and fitting a plate into the dishwasher. “I mean, I positively adored her, but we didn’t do anything, of course. Well, not anything serious, you know.” She giggled.

“I thought you’d be shocked,” Polly said, a little shocked herself.

“No, dear. It’s not like men, after all, is it? With those awful bars they go to, and the dreadful diseases they get. If it was Hans, say, of course I’d be very worried for him. But it’s different for us. There’s a woman in my office now, she and her friend have been together for eighteen years, and they’re the nicest quietest people you’d ever want to meet, except they do have rather an awful Abyssinian.”

“An Abyssinian?” Polly, confused by everything her mother had said in the last few minutes, saw a dark-skinned butler — or cook, maybe? — in a turban.

“A cat, you know.” Bea giggled. “But I think really it would be better not to say anything about it to Jim,” she added. “I mean, not until you’re sure. He likes people to be consistent. And if it turns out not to be so after all, he’ll think you don’t know your own mind.”

Polly stared at her mother again; never in her life had she heard her suggest that anything should be kept from Jim. “Okay,” she agreed, wondering if she knew her own mind, or anyone’s.

“And the same for Stevie, don’t you think?” Bea added two cups to the dishwasher.

“I wasn’t planning to say anything to Stevie, not yet,” Polly agreed. “I thought I’d wait until he moves back home.”

“Much better. Well, I think that’s all the plates we can fit in on this load.” Bea poured the detergent dispenser full of grainy pink-and-white powder from a box named Comet, closed the door, and pushed ON.

When Polly, with Stevie behind her, unlocked the door to her apartment on the afternoon of the day after Thanksgiving, she expected to find it as she had left it: empty, cold (she had turned down the thermostat), dark, and untidy. Instead it was full of warmth and light and flowers. An explosion of ice-pink long-stemmed roses crowned the desk; another even larger one of gladioli spread green-and-white moth wings above the coffee table.

She stood dazed; then there were steps in the hall and Jeanne came running in.

“Oh, Polly!” she cried, almost laughing. “The most wonderful thing has happened, Betsy’s left her husband!”

“That’s great,” Polly said, jerking her head to warn Jeanne that her son was there.

“Oh hello, Stevie.” Her friend’s voice dropped an octave and lost volume.

“Hi,” Stevie replied with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

“Well, anyhow.” Jeanne took a breath. “I’ve moved my things into your spare room. I thought I’d stay here tonight and tomorrow, it’s so horribly crowded at Ida’s. People are sleeping all over the floor, and you can simply never get into the bathroom.” She smiled uneasily. “If it’s okay with you, that is.”