Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

As if to buttress her rebel image, Eve offered Ann a cigarette, then lit up and inhaled deeply.

‘Screw cancer.’ She shrugged. To Ann, the bravado was a dead giveaway. Eve wasn’t a brat at all. Just unsure, like most teenagers… and adults.

‘I don’t smoke,’ Ann had replied. T chew.’

Eve’s giggle, like her mother’s, seemed to break the tension.

‘Really?’ Eve had exclaimed, showing her age.

She was, Ann observed, vulnerable and gawky, still unfleshed and willowy, but with all the promise of inheriting her mother’s Slavic sensuousness. With her father’s blue eyes and rich, thick hair, she would soon be quite a beauty.

To make it with Eve, Ann knew instinctively, was to find some important way to illustrate her trust in the girl. She detested being so calculating as she searched for opportunities. But it meant a great deal to win Eve’s favor, especially in practical terms. The job in the Roses’ household was a stroke of luck. Banishment, for whatever reason, would be a personal and financial disaster.

The opportunity arose when Eve flunked math at Sidwell Friends School, a posh private school of Quaker origin for the children of the Washington elite. Eve, too frightened to tell her parents, confided the horror to Ann.

‘I’ve disgraced them,’ she cried.

Calming her down, Ann agreed to act as go-between, a role not without its risks. Oliver had been disappointed, but resigned. Barbara had been angry.

‘Lack of preparation is a curse,’ she had snapped. ‘I know.’ Ann had learned by then that Barbara had married at nineteen and had dropped out of college.

‘I promised them you’d go to summer school if there were no recriminations or bad words,’ Ann had announced proudly to Eve, who collapsed in shivery tears. In its way, it was a kind of victory and certainly represented a turning point between them.

‘I’ll make them proud,’ Eve promised, her lips pursing in determination. There was, Ann had discovered, an invisible, fiercely competitive standard loose in the household. She wondered if it was a good thing.

This standard was at its most obvious in twelve-year-old Josh. What he wanted most of all was to be a member of the Sidwell Friends junior-varsity basketball team. She heard his basketball rattling, with irritating punctuality, against the backboard that his father had made in the alley over the double garage.

Like his sister, he, too, was a well-made mixture of his parents’ genes: hazel eyes, cheekbones like his mother’s, and a space between nose and lip that would surely in late adolescence sprout his father’s thick moustache. His hair, sadly, was his mother’s chestnut, which meant that he might not grow his father’s salty, waved hair. Like Eve, he wore braces and it was a family joke, one of many, that the Roses were an orthodontist’s dream.

Ann’s relationship with Josh started out vague and unpromising. She had barely any memories of prepubesceht boys, having gone to a Catholic girls’ school. To the stern sisters of that establishment, young boys, if they existed at all, were messengers of Satan. To her, Josh was, nevertheless, a challenge to be surmounted.

She found him one day hunched over his basketball on the third-floor landing outside her room. She had been studying and it was obvious when she saw him there, gloomy and distraught, that he had been waiting for her to come upon him ‘accidentally.’

‘You look like you just lost your best pal,’ she had said, standing over him. He was holding the basketball in a tight embrace. He looked up at her, dry-eyed, but with a visible trembling of his lower lip that threatened the total collapse of his pseudo-manly courage. She sat down beside him, noting that he had deliberately left room for her on the step.

‘Damned coach,’ he said, telescoping the message that he hadn’t made the team. It was enough of a signal to set her mind racing to find something reasonably reassuring to say. Providentially, the Johnstown house was on the edge of a school attended mostly by black children.

‘Any black kids on the team?’ she asked. He held up one finger. ‘Get a chance to play with any black kids?’ He shrugged, obviously having no idea where she was leading him.

‘Go to the schoolyards where the black kids play. Couple months of that and you’ll run rings around those lily-white honkies.’

He took the advice, still sulking as he brushed aside her attempted caress of his shoulders. It was weeks later, when he suddenly broke out in black street talk, that she knew he had taken her advice. Pure chance, she had decided, but a definite icebreaker.

The sun was barely visible through the arborvitaes and would soon be hidden behind the cedar fence, leaving a soft hush in the air. From the kitchen two floors below, exotic, mouth-watering odors wafted upward. In the oven, Ann knew, was a crusting cassoulet , layers of simmering goose, pork, lamb, and sausage on a bed of flageolets, bubbling in an essence of garlic, thyme, bay leaves, and other glorious herbs and spices. Cooling on the marble of the kitchen island was, a deep sniff confirmed, a loaf of fluffy banana bread. Barbara was at that moment probably mixing a light salad of greens and mushrooms in the big wooden bowl inundated with the tart oils of a thousand previous concoctions. There would be sliced pate de campagne as well and a chocolate mousse to sweeten the celebration.

God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world, Ann thought, prompted by the smells and the delicious knowledge of her treasure chest of family secrets. The festivities were Barbara’s original idea to celebrate Eve’s summer-school victory, a B-minus in advanced algebra. Ann had spent half the summer sweating over that one with Eve, certain that her effort had lifted the grade by one whole letter jump.

And Oliver had embroidered the victory with his own contribution. He had bought Eve a silver Honda, which, unbeknown to the victorious scholar, lay in wait in the garage next to his prized Ferrari, rarely used but fondled and caressed like a precious baby.

‘You mustn’t breathe a word,’ Oliver had warned. ‘Not a word.’

Barbara had come to her that morning with two secrets.

‘Josh made the team. But don’t tell Oliver. It’s a surprise. We’ll spring it at dinner.’

‘You said two secrets.’

‘I just got a hell of an order. Chicken galantine for twenty-four. For the Paks. They’re entertaining the French ambassador Tuesday night. Just don’t tell Oliver. Let it be my surprise.’ Barbara took Ann by the shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes as if they were a mirror. ‘You know, I’m going to make it big as a caterer someday. I mean big.’

Eve came into her room sometime later with a further announcement and Ann literally had to turn away to hide her amusement.

‘You might think this dinner is for my B-minus, but Dad’s got a topper to that. The firm picked up one of those big Fortune Five Hundred clients in New York. But don’t tell Mom. He’s going to break out the Chateau Lafite-Rothschild ’59. When he does that, we’re into heavy duty.’

Any more secrets and Ann was certain that she would burst wide open. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel left out. She had her little secret, too, reminded of it again as she passed Oliver on the back stairs. He had just come from the sauna that he had built in the basement, complete with adjoining shower. Sometimes the family gathered there. Nakedness was not a hang-up, although in deference to Ann they no longer went about the house without robes, another secret that Josh had confided.

Passing him on the stairs, she turned quickly away as her eyes caught a tantalizing picture. The damp had curled his hair and the terry-cloth V showed a profusion of jet-black body turf down to his navel. She could not bring herself to look below that but she could not ignore the piny scent that his skin exuded, embellishing the exciting aroma of his maleness. Passing him this close, with him in a state of semi-undress, was dizzying.