What's Mine and Yours(14)

“Mothering. Is it a verb now?”

“It ought to be.”

“And Nelson? Is he as nuts about fathering?”

“You leave him out of this.”

“How can I?”

“If I have to choose between you and my husband, I know who I’d choose.”

They sat in uneasy silence for a while. Noelle felt a fervent thrum at her temples. She tapped her fist on the wheel. Inéz caught her fidgeting hand and kissed the knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m livid, too.”

“Because I moved away?”

“Because you forgot about me, and yourself.”

Noelle wasn’t sure how to answer her. Inéz spoke as if selves should be fixed, as if they couldn’t change. Noelle wasn’t choosing to make herself less. To become a mother was to multiply.



The Suttons lived on a hill, their house flanked by a garage the size of the house Noelle grew up in. An immense magnolia was in bloom on their lawn, the porch strung with lights, the shutters thrown open. They had hired a small staff to pass around appetizers. Noelle breathed a sigh of relief when she saw they were white college students in cheap vests. Inéz took her arm as they climbed the steep hill, and Noelle wondered whether she was fully forgiven.

A large mirror hung in the foyer, and Noelle took in their appearance quickly. Beside Inéz, she seemed somehow older, less vital. Her body was soft where Inéz’s was hard. She was tall and pale, her hair ragged. She had thought her green floral dress was sweet, but she could see now it was dowdy. Inéz wore a wine-colored dress, cut close to her waist, all her usual jewelry glistening.

“You’re beautiful,” Inéz said, as if reading her mind.

“Look who’s talking.”

They turned into the living room, arms linked, where the crowd burst in welcome. They shook Noelle’s hand and asked, predictably, after Nelson, but Inéz saved her. They were fascinated and stood agape at the glamour of her life—a dancer! the city! single! so beautiful! And, although they’d never say it—black! Her life was a puzzle to them, and Inéz didn’t play it up or down. The two of them stole away as soon as they could, snatching bourbon and lemonade from a passing tray.

“They seem so old,” Inéz whispered. “My grandmother is less astonished by my life.”

“Welcome to the burbs, mami,” Noelle said, and they laughed.

They found their way to the kitchen, the spread of bruschetta and olives, pungent wheels of cheese, dipping bowls of tapenade and oils, a few platters of quiche, a silver dish of spanakopita.

“That’s the thing about white people in this country,” Inéz said. “They always want to be from someplace else.”

“Not in North Carolina,” Noelle said. She imagined a spread with pimento cheese and hot-pepper jelly, crackers and deviled eggs.

They filled their plates and went to sit somewhere they’d be left alone to eat and finish their second round of drinks, but the Suttons found them, the Radlers in tow.

John Sutton was a willfully silent man. He listened more than he talked, his hair down to his chin, too long for a doctor. It was hard to know what there was to him, what he believed in. Nelson didn’t like him, any white man who didn’t spread his cards early on. His wife, Ava, was red haired and warm, impeccably mannered, but equally hard to pin down. They had two girls who played lacrosse. The Radlers were former North Carolinians, and Noelle felt that bond with them, although they’d lived outside Raleigh, on a farm with a house full of stained glass, chickens, and a band of sheepdogs. Brent was some kind of software salesman; Helene stayed home with their twins. Inherited wealth, Nelson had said, was the only way to explain it. Then he’d arched an eyebrow at Noelle and said, How do you think white people got houses like that in North Carolina? But the Radlers volunteered for the Boys & Girls Club. To Noelle, this seemed like an assurance.

“John and Ava. Brent and Helene.”

Inéz repeated their names, pointing at each pair with her hands pressed together in a steeple.

“That’s right,” Ava said. “Around here, everyone comes in couples. If people get divorced, they move away.” She laughed.

“Not as a rule, of course,” Helene chimed in.

Inéz stretched her arms overhead, amused. “Of course,” she parroted.

They politely asked Inéz about her latest production, and they nodded patiently, if confounded, as she explained it was an exploration of patriotism. The admission fees supported an organization working against voter suppression.

“There’s an issue we can all get behind,” John Sutton said, and he raised his glass unironically. Nobody toasted, but they all drank.

Ava looked toward the door as another couple swung in. “I do hope that new woman and her family show up tonight. Patricia—was that her name?”

“I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t,” Helene said. “Did you hear about that? The incident down at the pool?”

Noelle reached for another drink, her third, knowing it didn’t matter. There was no life inside of her. “What happened?”

John Sutton started to explain. “A new family moved in earlier this week. A nice couple. They’ve got a son about the girls’ age. Anyway, the newsletter hasn’t gone out yet this week, so we haven’t had a chance to announce their arrival. And this morning Patricia took her son down to the pool. She was reading a magazine, and he was diving in, splashing around.”