Alison Lurie - The Truth About Lorin Jones

Jeanne cares for things more than she does for people, Polly thought. But then for most of her life Jeanne hadn’t had anyone of her own to care for. Her mother had died when she was ten, her father and brother were coarse heavy-drinking French-Canadian paternalist types, and she had no children. Polly looked at her friend again, but now with pity.

“Where’s Stevie, is he in my room?” Jeanne asked.

His room, you mean, Polly thought, but forbore to say. “No, he’s gone visiting.”

“Ah.” Jeanne sank onto the sofa with a sigh, lit a cigarette, and picked up Vogue, which she occasionally bought herself as a treat the way she bought bags of chocolate-covered cherries. “You know,” she said casually over the magazine a few moments later, “it’s Stevie who should pay for Betsy’s teapot, not you.”

“And you know Stevie won’t have twelve dollars.” Polly almost laughed; it was characteristic of her son, as of her father — whom, she realized, he was also beginning to resemble physically — that he couldn’t save money. But Jeanne didn’t smile.

“I expect he has twelve dollars somewhere, in a savings account or whatever. Or at least he has an allowance.”

“You really think Stevie should pay you out of his allowance? But he only gets two dollars a week. Even if he gave you half of that, it’d take him a long time.”

“Well, why shouldn’t it?” Jeanne smiled. “He might learn something that way.”

“Learn something?”

“Yes, learn to be a little more careful of other people’s property. If that’s possible.” She laughed lightly.

“Well, maybe he could pay part of it,” Polly said, struggling with her own irritation. “But I don’t really think — It was just an accident, after all.” She looked at her friend for confirmation, but instead there was silence. “I mean, it’s not as if Stevie meant to break the teapot.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Jeanne turned a page of Vogue with a scissoring sound.

“Oh, of course he didn’t.” Polly shook her head, smiling. “You —” She stopped. You’re both being ridiculously paranoid, she had been about to say, he thinks you left it out deliberately. But that could lead to real trouble.

“I realize Stevie’s your innocent child. Or rather, he was. But he’s growing up now, and you’ve got to grow up a little too.”

“You mean, you really believe —” Her voice rose.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it on purpose.” Jeanne’s manner was affable. “Accidentally-on-purpose, at least. I mean, heavens, it was in plain sight on the counter. Nobody could have missed it, not even a man, unless they’d wanted to.”

“Well, Stevie could. And hell, I know he’s growing up. But that’s why it happened; he’s growing so fast now he’s gotten clumsy. He doesn’t know how large he is, so he bangs into things, knocks things over. Most adolescent boys are that way.”

“Yes, that’s the usual excuse, isn’t it?” Suddenly Jeanne’s tone had become bitter and uneven. “That’s the way it is in this world: men are taught as children that once they start getting larger and stronger they can smash up things and people carelessly. They can go on doing it all their lives, really, and they’ll be excused and forgiven; they won’t have to pay. It’s the women who will always pay, in the end. The way my mother did.”

“I didn’t mean —”

“But you see, you didn’t say, ‘All adolescents smash things up.’ Nobody ever says that. Girls are growing fast too at that age, but nobody makes those excuses for them. If they break something they’re punished. They have to learn to control themselves and respect other people’s property. Isn’t that true, now?” She folded her round, rosy arms against a lavender jacquard sweater.

“Well, yes, I suppose. But I think you’re being unfair to Stevie,” Polly said stubbornly. “And he felt it too. He thinks you don’t like him, you know. And maybe he’s right.”

Jeanne got up and came over to her; she crouched down by the desk until her face was on a level with Polly’s. “Don’t say that,” she said; her voice was soft, trembly. “I love Stevie, because he’s your child. It’s just that I worry about what’s happening to him, what happens to all males in this society. I mean, look at him now. He’s lived with you all his life; then he goes to stay with his father for a couple of months, and he comes back completely changed.”

“I don’t think he’s changed all that much. Underneath —”

“Of course, the process isn’t complete yet. He’s only fourteen. I know it’s hard.” She put one hand on Polly’s arm and gazed at her with round pale eyes in which tears seemed to brim. “I’m very sorry for you — for both of you. But you mustn’t think I dislike him. Please.”

Jeanne’s voice was gentler than ever, her posture suppliant, yet Polly felt as if her friend’s hand were a heavy weight pressing on her. “All right, I don’t,” she finally had to say.

MRS. MARCIA ZIMMERN,

widow of Lorin Jones’s father

Aw no, I’m glad you came round again, and not just ’cause of the cookies from Fraser-Morris, either. It was sweet of you to remember. I adore them, but it’s hard for me to get across the park in this wet weather, with my bad leg. Take a couple yourself, come on.

Don’t be silly, you don’t need to lose any weight.

That’s right. And how about a little drink to go with it? I always think you need a pickup, a heavy wet day like this, when it starts to get dark so early. Gin and orange is what I usually have...

Oh yeah, I’ve been thinking about Laurie, trying to remember for your book. One thing that came to me was, how she used to love artichokes. It was kind of a joke around here, that if they were in the stores I had to have them when she came to dinner. And I had to make real hollandaise sauce, she didn’t like the kind in a bottle.

Nah, I don’t care for them myself; they don’t agree with my stomach, too acid. But Laurie just loved them. She’d always eat hers slow, while the rest of us were waiting to get on with the meal, and she’d arrange the leaves on her plate in different kinds of artistic patterns, like a fan or a water lily. Or like a fish, sometimes, with scales, you know.

No, nothing new came to me about her paintings.

Oh yeah, sure, she gave us a picture when we got married. And I sold it after Dan was gone, Mr. Herbert’s right.

No ma’am, it wasn’t that at all. I decided I didn’t want it, that’s why.

Don’t apologize: anybody might think it was for the money. And I won’t deny it was a relief to have a little extra cash at the time. Did you know, after a death they freeze all your bank accounts?

Yeah, the joint ones too, that’s the worst. I tell all my married friends: it don’t matter how much you love your husband, get yourself a separate account...

But listen, I don’t want you to write in your book that Dan didn’t provide for me properly. I’ve got no complaints. We enjoyed it while we could, that was his philosophy. We had great times together: we went to Europe and Mexico and Israel and South America. I rode on a camel in Egypt and I saw the river covered with white long-legged birds thick as Jones Beach on Labor Day. Live in the present; I believe that. I had a wonderful life with Dan, I don’t regret anything.

No, the reason I sold that painting of Laurie’s was, I didn’t care for it.

Well, I can’t say exactly why. It just wasn’t the kind of thing I like. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, I love modern art. You see those prints over the sideboard?

Yeah, and did you know, when Henry Matisse made them, he had got such bad arthritis he couldn’t paint, but he didn’t give up, he went right on cutting out pieces of colored paper, I admire that.