My Last Innocent Year(31)
Jason and I headed over to Joanna and Tom’s a little past eight, early for a Saturday night. Kelsey wasn’t coming—the Mingle had a strict guest list: no plus-ones. June Bridge Road was the prettiest street in town. Houses there overlooked Corness Pond. Back when I gave campus tours, they told us to always finish up at the pond because it looked pretty year-round, even in winter when it froze over and people skated on it. That morning, as part of Winter Carnival festivities, the Outing Club folks had cut a hole in the ice and set up platforms for the Polar Bear Plunge.
There were houses on June Bridge Road that were newer and grander than Joanna and Tom’s, but I would have chosen their ramshackle Victorian every time. Set at the end of a winding stone pathway, it had a wide front porch, window boxes, and dormer windows; that it needed a paint job only added to its charm. Jason and I walked up the front steps and into the living room. Light, tinkling music you might hear in a restaurant during brunch service was playing. All the furnishings—flowered sofas, worn wingback chairs, threadbare oriental carpets—were shabby and mismatched, as if everything had been acquired at different places and times. I imagined you could chart the entire course of Joanna and Tom’s life together through each chair, rug, and piece of art. There were books everywhere, spilling out of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stacked on end tables and in towers on the floor. Near the front door, a small winter coat hung on a hook next to a leather satchel; an umbrella stand shaped like a Labrador retriever sat gathering dust. Looking around the warm and cozy room, I wondered how Joanna and Tom would even begin to unravel the many threads that bound them.
Jason and I dumped our coats in a bedroom then headed over to the makeshift bar. I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed a couple of crackers, and walked over to talk to Whitney, who was waving at me from a sofa near the fireplace.
“Shit, girl,” she said as I squeezed in next to her. “What is happening with that dress? Seriously, you look hot.”
“Shut up,” I said. I was selfconscious about the dress, which I’d borrowed from Kelsey. It was pretty, navy blue with a scoop neck and bell sleeves, fancier than anything I owned; it even had a matching slip. But it was too big for me in the chest. Kelsey and I had tried to pin it, but still it gaped awkwardly. Also, I had no shoes to go with it, so I had to wear my duck boots.
“I can’t believe they still had this party,” Whitney said. “When my parents were getting divorced, my mother could barely get out of bed. Have you seen Professor Maxwell? She looks exhausted. Poor thing. My mother says divorce is hardest on the wife.”
“I wonder who’ll keep the house,” I asked.
“This dump? I’d be glad to get rid of it.”
Joanna Maxwell walked by clasping a long silvery cardigan at her neck. She was tiny, barely more than five feet, and with a slightly hunched back that made her appear smaller. Delicate embroidered slippers peeked out from under her long lavender dress. I looked down at my boots and regretted them even more. We watched as she stopped to talk to Amos Jackson.
“He’s sort of cute, don’t you think?” Whitney asked. I did not think. Amos wasn’t around much; he spent most of his time in northern New Hampshire working on his thesis, an annotated collection of unpublished stories written by his great-grandfather, which had been discovered in an attic a few summers back. It was exactly the sort of thing I knew Tom loved—folksy, rural, unvarnished—and I always had the sense that Amos was on the cusp of something great. Joanna said goodbye to him and crossed the room toward us, Igraine behind her, clinging to her skirt like a bur.
“Hello, girls,” Joanna said, alighting on the coffee table, Igraine nestled into her side. Whitney was right: she did look exhausted.
“Professor Maxwell,” Whitney said. “Thank you so much for having us.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure. Tom and I love hosting this party. Gives us a chance to soak up all this youthful energy.” Her voice was high and melodious. “I know we’ve met,” she said to me, “but, I’m so sorry, I can’t remember your name.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Isabel Rosen.”
“Isabel!” she cried, pulling my hand to her chest. “You’re the one Randy’s been telling me about!”
“Who?”
“Randy Connelly, honey! He told me you’ve been writing some wonderful pieces for him.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“No, no,” she said. “None of that. I’ve known Randy a long time, and he isn’t one to offer empty praise. You should choose to believe him.” She squeezed my hand. “I, for one, was thrilled to hear it. We need young women with voices to lead the way.”
“Randy!” Whitney cooed after Joanna walked away. “Speaking of whom…”
Professor Connelly was standing in the doorway talking to an older couple. He had a bottle of beer hanging loosely between his fingers; as I watched, he brought it slowly to his lips. The hump of his Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed.
“Wait, is that his wife?” Whitney asked.
I’d never seen Roxanne in person and was surprised how tall she was. Her hair was short and mostly gray, and she wore no makeup. She was dressed simply and without fuss but had chunky silver rings on each of her long, knobby fingers, a collection of studs running up and down the length of each ear. She held herself straight like a dancer, or as if she had a steel rod embedded in her spine. There was something elegant about her, graceful and feline, as if her intelligence had been transmuted into a physical attribute.