Since Anne and her father had shared a birthday—October 10—he’d always taken special delight in planning the festivities, often held jointly. One year he’d organized a tea party at the Plaza for some of her friends, followed by an evening performance of Swan Lake at the Metropolitan Opera House with some of his. When she turned ten, he arranged for a whole busload of guests to travel upstate for a day of apple picking and horseback riding. Then there was the time he’d rented out a restaurant in Chinatown, and her entire class at school had been invited. No one else’s father or mother had come up with such an original idea; for days afterward, everyone had talked about the paper fans and the fortune cookies that had been given out just as they were leaving.
But since her father’s death, Anne hadn’t wanted to celebrate her birthday and this year, she didn’t even tell anyone about it. Instead, she went to her classes just like it was any other day. It was only when she was alone that she took out the photograph album she’d brought to school with her, looking at each image as if it were a portal back to the before time. Here she was at age three, in a frilly party dress and paper crown. Another photo showed her a little older, poised on the ice at the skating rink in Central Park, her hands tucked deep into a small, black muff. But she spent the longest time gazing at a picture in which she and her father were together; he was holding her in his arms and they were looking not at the camera, but at each other. Then she closed the album. Her father wouldn’t have wanted her to be unhappy, she knew that. Yet she was unhappy, and the dark mood persisted into the next day, and the day after that.
Then she began to see signs posted around campus for a dance at Yale. These “mixers,” she knew, were a tradition, a chance for the girls and boys of the two colleges to meet and hopefully get together. She’d heard about several girls who’d met their boyfriends that way and even one who went on to get engaged. A dance might be fun and even if not, it would certainly be distracting. And since most the girls on her hall were going Anne decided she would join them. Peggy told her that a bus would pick them up early on Friday evening and take them to New Haven; later that same bus would drive them back to Vassar again.
Planning for the dance set off a low-level hum of excitement among the group. Dresses were purchased, compared, accessorized, sometimes exchanged or loaned. Attention was given to shoes and stockings; new shades of lipstick and rouge were tried, considered and rejected in favor of others. Some of the girls made appointments at the beauty shop on Raymond Avenue, pulling pages from Mademoiselle, Vogue, Glamour and Harper’s Bazaar to use as inspiration. A sleek Veronica Lake look or a glamour updo, bangs or a side part. After some serious thought, Anne settled on a black dress whose belt had a rhinestone buckle, and a jade necklace that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday. She thought the jade was an unusual choice, and something that Delia Goldhush might even admire. But why did that matter? She highly doubted Delia would be on that bus to Yale.
On the night of the dance, the girls on Anne’s hall came downstairs in a group, the mingled scents of their perfume—Tabu, Evening in Paris, White Shoulders, Chantilly, Shalimar, Arpège—enveloping them in a heady cloud. Anne chose a seat by the window but scarcely noticed the scenery that unfurled before her; she was thinking about the night ahead. Her experience with boys was limited; they hadn’t been too important to her before, though she was ready, even eager for this to change. Her Vassar friends were beginning to couple off; there had even been an engagement in their group—Midge’s boyfriend had proposed though they would wait until graduation for the wedding. It was hard for her to imagine it; she’d never even been kissed. In high school she’d had a crush on her friend Astrid’s older brother Erik, but he scarcely noticed her, and while she’d had a few dates during her senior year, none were of any consequence. But this night would be different. The boys she would meet would be smarter, more interesting, more worldly. Or so she hoped.
Soon enough they had arrived, and were pulling up to the Payne Whitney Gymnasium, where the dance was being held.
“I heard that the boys swim laps stark naked,” Virginia said.
“Really?” Tabitha asked. “Is that true? Or just a rumor?”
“It’s absolutely true,” said Virginia.
“But how can you be so sure? Peggy asked. “Did you see them with your own eyes?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Virginia shot back.
The girls were still giggling as they got off the bus.
Inside the vast space were groves of papier mâché trees, dense with silk leaves—gold, orange and scarlet. On one side of the gym, tables covered in white cloths held drinks, sandwiches and cookies; on the other side of the room a dais had been set up where a band was playing; several couples were already dancing to Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief.
Virginia was immediately approached by a tall boy in a navy blazer and Peggy was surrounded by a small cluster of girls Anne didn’t know at all. The music was lively, and the dancers spun and twirled; though she longed to join in, something held her back. Then Midge appeared. “There you are! Duane’s been waiting.” Midge’s boyfriend—no, her fiancé—Cliff Danforth was a junior at Yale, and he had arranged dates for some of the Vassar girls who came with her. Duane Lancet had been chosen for Anne, so she followed Midge across the room to where a ruddy-cheeked young man stood waiting, blond hair slicked back from his forehead.
“Nice to meet you, Anne.” He extended his hand. “Would you like to dance?” Duane was stocky and at least two inches shorter than she was; nothing about him appealed to her. But maybe she was being too judgmental. Midge gave her a little shove in his direction. “Go on!” she whispered. “You didn’t come all this way to be a wall flower.”
Duane put his arms around Anne, and they started to move across the floor. He was an adept dancer and to her surprise, Anne felt graceful in his arms. Then the song ended, and the next one, I Love You for Sentimental Reasons, was considerably slower. Duane took the opportunity to pull her close. Anne could smell the aftershave he wore. But it felt all wrong—she’d only just met him—and she pulled back, putting some distance between them.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“Then why act so stuck up?”
Was it stuck up not to allow him to press up against her? “I’m thirsty,” she said. “Can we get some punch?”
“Sure thing.” Duane released her and walked toward one of the tables; the cut glass punch bowl was surrounded by small cups, and he politely filled one and offered it to her before taking one of his own. The punch was pink and slightly fizzy, and she tried to make it last so she wouldn’t have to dance with him again right away. As she watched, he pulled a small flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and poured some of its contents into his cup. Anne was surprised but the flask disappeared quickly and when he noticed her gaze, he asked, “Do you want some?”
“No!” Anne was more emphatic than she’d meant to be, but she was sure this wasn’t allowed; he might be asked to leave, and she would be blamed along with him.
“What a wet blanket.”
What a horrid boy was her silent retort. Wanting to get away from him, Anne said, “I need to use the powder room.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is a men’s gym,” he said. “Yale’s a school for men. No powder rooms here.”
“Well, I’m sure there must be some accommodation for the ladies,” she said icily, and went off to find a chaperone who in turn escorted her to a private restroom somewhere upstairs. Anne remained in there for a long time and when she eventually returned to the dance floor, Duane was nowhere to be seen. Good riddance. Then she spied Peggy, who came up to her. “Where’s your date?” Peggy asked.
“Oh, he stepped outside for a minute.” Anne wasn’t inclined to tattle on Duane; it would only get back to Midge. “Where’s yours?”
“He stepped outside too.”
Something about the way she said this made Anne laugh; maybe she thought her date was a dud? Soon they were both giggling and Anne felt better than she had all evening. Then Peggy said, “Do you know a girl named Miriam Bishop?”
Anne felt the air had suddenly been sucked from her lungs. She had been Miriam Bishop all the way through school; she’d only decided to use her middle name, Anne, when she started at Vassar. “Why do you ask?”
“I ran into someone named Elizabeth Hunnewell. She went to Nightingale Bamford. Isn’t that where you went?”
“Yes.” Anne was buying time, but she was running out of it. Quickly.
“That’s what I thought. So if you went there, you must have known her.”
“No, I didn’t. Maybe this girl—you said her name was Elizabeth?—is confused.”
“She seemed very sure. And she also said that she and Miriam had been very good friends, only they had some kind of falling out.”
Just hearing Elizabeth’s name was like a small, electric shock and Anne wanted to end this conversation. And look, there was Duane. She waved to him; could he see how desperate she was? She didn’t wait to find out, but marched right over, leaving Peggy where she stood. “Let’s dance!”
He seemed doubtful but when Anne practically heaved herself into his arms, his slightly wary expression relaxed, he grinned, and pulled her to him. She didn’t find him any more appealing than she had an hour ago, but this time she knew better than to resist. She needed him now; he was her defense against anyone exposing her secret.
As Duane spun her around the room, Anne forced herself to smile even though she felt the anxiety thrumming inside. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that this dance might draw girls from other nearby colleges and that she might easily run into someone she knew? Anne and Duane danced to three songs in a row, the last one quite fast, and this time, he was the one to say he needed a cup of punch. So, they stopped dancing and drank two cups of punch each; to Anne’s relief, the flask didn’t reappear.
When the band started playing a slow song, she tried to pull Duane back onto the dance floor, but he stayed where he was. “I need some air,” he said. “Let’s go outside.” Anne didn’t especially want to do that, but being alone with Duane seemed preferable to having to talk to Peggy, or even worse, be confronted by Elizabeth. She allowed him to steer her away from the music, the press of people, and lead her into the night. She too was overheated from the dancing, and she didn’t feel the cold at first. Then the flask glinted as Duane swigged from it. When he’d finished, he thrust it in her direction. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
This time Anne took the flask and brought it to her lips; the alcohol was almost tasteless, but left an unpleasant burning sensation behind; should she risk going back inside for water or punch? Before she could decide, Duane pulled her head down and kissed her. His tongue—fat, slippery, repulsive—an alien thing in her mouth. She jerked away.
“You’re a little tease, that’s what you are. An ice queen and a tease.” Out came the flask again—was there anything even left in there?—and this time, when he’d finished, he shook the thing at her, the last, colorless drops splattering the front of her dress and stalked off. Anne, shivering now, brushed off the drops of alcohol and then she spat, lavishly, to rid herself of his taste. To think this had been her first kiss—revolting. But chilled as she was, she waited until she was sure Duane was gone before she went back into the gym to find her coat and leave the building.
The bus that had brought them here was waiting not far from where she stood. Anne went over and saw that it was empty; the door yielded to her gentle pressure. She climbed aboard, walked to the very back and took a seat. Alone in the dark, she tried to calm herself. Duane, that boor, wasn’t the real source of her agitation. More pressing—and alarming—was the way her past, which she had forced to the periphery of her life, was now pushing forward again, insistent and demanding.
Peggy was right—she did know Elizabeth Hunnewell, though back then she’d been Lizzie, and Anne had been Mimi. MimiandLizzie, LizzieandMimi, everyone said their names together, they had been a unit, a pair, best friends in school and out. Mrs. Hunnewell had become a kind of second mother to her. She’d been close to all of them really: Lizzie’s father, often comically distracted but always affable, and her two older sisters, glamorous Genevieve and high-spirited Maud. Their little copper-colored Pomeranian, Fig, a ball of fluff from which emanated an insistent and high-pitched yapping. Even Opal, the maid, fussed over her when she was there.
Yet despite all the dinners Miriam had eaten at their table and the nights spent in Lizzie’s room, there had always been a way in which she felt herself at some remove, not just from the Hunnewells, but from the other girls at school too. The source of this feeling was simple but inexorable: it was because she was Jewish. It felt like she’d always known that her friends seemed to pity her, just a little bit, because there was no Christmas tree in her apartment, no joining them for caroling on the cold, winter evenings when crystals of glistening snow turned the ordinary gray sidewalks into something almost magical, no frenzy of tearing paper and ribbons from the pile of boxes the next morning. And they pitied her exclusion from the mad race to find the hidden eggs on Easter Sunday. For Anne, there had been no Excelsior-filled baskets in which chocolate bunnies and lambs nestled, no proud walk to the church on Park Avenue in a new pastel spring coat and matching hat. Back then, being Christian had seemed like more than a religion, it had been the fabric of life itself, rich, and glowing, the holidays touchstones for everyone but her. It wasn’t as if she and her father didn’t have any celebrations. He always lit a menorah, and gave her little gifts—chocolate coins, a handkerchief, new hair ribbons—each night. She liked the ritual, and the game with the dreidel they played, but how could any of this compete with Christmas, the store windows with their fabulous displays, the fragrant wreathes and trees, the way everyone seemed to be swept up in the grand tide of the season? It was the exclusion that grated on her, never glaring but always there.
The summer after seventh grade Lizzie was getting ready to go off to Camp Oneida in Maine. Excitedly, she showed Mimi the dress outfit the campers wore every Sunday: crisp white shorts, white socks and white sneakers, topped with a red blazer that had a turtle—the camp mascot—embroidered on the pocket. Miriam envied her that blazer, just like she envied everything else Lizzie described—nature walks, arts and crafts, archery, and swimming. “Tell your father you want to come too,” Lizzie had said. “My mother knows the director. I’m sure she can find a place for you.”
But it turned out the camp was restricted, and so no, Miriam wouldn’t be going after all. She wasn’t allowed. In her humiliation she’d gone to her father; surely he could fix it. “What difference does it make that we’re Jewish?” she’d asked.
“It doesn’t,” he said. “Not in any real sense. In fact, some of these bigoted people forget that Jesus himself was a Jew. The differences they see as crucial aren’t truly differences at all. We’re from the same tradition. We have the same foundation—we both rejected the pagan world and all its childish, spiteful gods.”
Miriam was used to her father answering in this way to her; he never patronized or talked down to her but acted as if her intellect deserved nothing less than his most serious and thoughtful response. Yet she still didn’t understand. “If that’s true, why can’t I go to camp with Lizzie?”
“I wish I could answer that,” he said.
Then something else occurred to her. “Why do we have to be Jewish anyway? Why do we have to be anything at all?”
“If only it were that simple,” her father said. “In the eyes of the world, once a Jew, always a Jew. Besides, a Jew is what I am, it’s what made me who I am.
“But you changed your name. Our name. Wasn’t that because you didn’t want to be Jewish?”
“No. I didn’t want to appear to be Jewish, at least with people who didn’t know me—it was getting in the way of my getting ahead in my career. But as for being Jewish, well, I can’t be anything else. And neither can you.” The way he said it, with such finality, made Miriam wilt inside—it was as if he were delivering a life sentence. The idea that she was bound by who her parents and their parents had been seemed so unfair.
Lizzie sent her postcards from camp and when she returned, she presented Miriam with a friendship bracelet she had made for her. Miriam looked at the tightly woven network of beads: orange, white, green, blue and black. “It’s very nice,” she said. “Thank you.” But she still burned for the blazer, and for the entitled status that would have allowed her to have made her own bracelet, one that she would have given to Lizzie.
Then, in the spring of her senior year at Nightingale, there came another of those snubs, arguably the worst, the culmination of all the others. Elizabeth’s mother—she was Elizabeth now, having discarded Lizzie as too babyish—had invited a small group of girls to the Colony Club on Park Avenue for lunch. The Colony was the premier all-women’s club in the city and Mrs. Hunnewell said it would be a nice way to introduce them in case they wanted to join when they were a bit older. Miriam was familiar with the exterior of the building on 62nd Street —red brick, marble base, marble trim, columns supporting the upper floors——but she had never been inside and so had only heard about the lounges, dining rooms, and bedrooms as well as the two-story ballroom, basement swimming pool and spa that connected via an express elevator to a gymnasium on the fifth floor, squash courts, servants’ rooms and the kennel where members could leave their pets.
The girls were abuzz with excitement and the Colony was all they talked about. That the war in Europe had just ended—all the boys and young men would be coming home! No more ration cards!—only fueled their mood; the entire city felt jubilant. They chattered endlessly about what they would wear, eat, do. They envisioned starched white tablecloths, lace-edged napkins, dainty finger sandwiches, cucumber soup, strawberry shortcake, rose buds densely packed into small, crystal vases. Naturally, they had to dress up—their school uniforms wouldn’t do at all.
Elizabeth decided on a black taffeta skirt and pale pink silk blouse. Astrid’s mother promised to lend her a strand of pearls, and a pearl brooch to adorn the deep purple dress she planned to wear; Willa, who was Astrid’s best friend, went with her mother to Saks, and came away with a smart, checked suit—her first—and peaked cap with a feather on the side. Miriam studied her own wardrobe and decided that nothing she owned was sophisticated enough but she knew her father would allow her to go shopping—maybe Bonwit Teller?—to buy a dress and a pair of pumps too. And new gloves—she definitely needed new white cotton gloves.
Two days before the much-anticipated event, Miriam went over to Lizzie’s apartment to show her the wine-colored dress-and-jacket she’d found at Saks just the night before; it was so grown up. She was on her way to Lizzie’s room—Opal had let her in—when Lizzie’s mother stopped her in the hallway. “Hello Mrs. Hunnewell,” she said. “Do you want to see my new dress? I have it right here.” She patted the paper shopping bag on her arm.
“Maybe later.” Mrs. Hunnewell seemed—what was it? Uncomfortable. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.” Miriam felt a small twinge of apprehension.
“It’s about the luncheon at the Colony.”
“Oh, I’m so looking forward to it! We all are. That’s why I want to show Lizzie the dress. And you too.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely, dear,” Mrs. Hunnewell said. “And I’d love to see you in it. But you see, something’s come up. I’m afraid you won’t be able to go to the luncheon after all.”
“Why not? Has it been cancelled?” Miriam asked.
“No, it’s not that.” Mrs. Hunnewell seemed to be struggling for words. “The luncheon is still on and the other girls are going. It’s just that you won’t be joining them.”
“I don’t understand.” Miriam was growing more confused.
“Well, it’s because of your father.”
“My father? What does he have to do with it?”
“The secretary at the club knew of him, and since the club is restricted…”
“Restricted.” Miriam repeated the hateful word. It had kept her from going to Camp Oneida and now it had come back to haunt her.
“I wish it weren’t so but those are the rules and even though I advocated for you, I really did, it seems that they are quite inflexible on this point—” Somewhere in the apartment the phone rang and Mrs. Hunnewell’s relief at the distraction was painfully evident. “Excuse me,” she said. “Opal just left so I’ll need to get that.”
Miriam opened the door to Lizzie’s room without knocking. “Did you know?” she asked without any greeting. “Did she tell you?”
Elizabeth didn’t pretend not to understand. “She did. Just a little while ago.”
“I thought your mother liked me.”
“Oh she does, she’s very fond of you. But given your background and all…”
“You mean because we’re Jews?” There, the word was out, pulsating and hot. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
“Mimi, please don’t be angry, it’s not Mummy’s fault.” She began to twist the end of her ponytail. “She wanted you there. We all did. It was only when she gave them your name someone connected it with your father and—”
“And everyone knows that he’s a Jew,” Anne said bitterly. “That we’re Jews.” Did they talk about it when she wasn’t there? Call them yids, or worse? Her father had changed his name from Jacob Berkowitz to Jay Bishop, but that had been when he was just starting out as a young lawyer. And though in the intervening—and highly successful—years, he’d not gone out of his way to advertise his background, he’d made no special effort to hide it either. So people did know that both he—and of course she—were Jewish.
“I’m so sorry, and if you only knew how sorry my mother is—she feels just terrible—”
“Don’t go.”
“What do you mean?”
“You heard me. Don’t go. Not you, not Astrid, not Willa. If they won’t let me in, don’t go to that stupid, snobby club.” But even as she spoke, she knew it was pointless. And the look in Elizabeth’s eyes only confirmed it—neither she nor any of the others were about to take such a stand on her behalf. They would say they were sorry a dozen, a hundred times, they would tell her they’d miss her, that it wouldn’t be as much fun without her, but they would go. Of course they would. They were all on a single path, headed in a single direction; it was just one that didn’t include her.
Anne heard voices outside; was the mixer over yet? She hoped not. Sliding even further down in the seat, she waited to see if the voices got closer. They didn’t. Whoever was out there wasn’t heading to the bus. Her chest, which had tightened from anxiety, relaxed a little; she had a reprieve. She’d replayed that conversation about the Colony many times in her mind, and each time, her sense of indignation flared again. The club, Mrs. Hunnewell, and the girls had wronged her. But there was another incident, a memory Anne did her best to bury.
It had been a chilly, early spring day when she and Lizzie had spent the entire afternoon in the Hunnewells’ living room, assembling an enormous jigsaw puzzle. Music from a radio in another room drifted in; rain tapped delicately on the windowpanes. The bell rang and Opal opened the door.
“Oh, that must be Mr. Feinstein.” Mrs. Hunnewell came into the room as Opal was taking the man’s umbrella and coat.
Miriam looked up from the puzzle. Mr. Feinstein wore a rumpled shirt, and suspenders that were visible because he had on a vest that wouldn’t close over his big belly and no jacket. Two bunches of white curly hair sprang from either side of his bald, pink head and he carried a canvas bag splattered by dark drops of water.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Hunnewell,” he said. His accent was familiar to Miriam—it was an accent that her grandparents had, as well as some of her older relatives, like Aunt Ida and Uncle Max. It conjured images of cramped houses with dirt floors, glasses of schnapps, a woman, hair hidden under a scarf, lighting candles, loaves of challah baked to a shellacked shade of brown, cows mooing balefully outside. “I’ve brought you some new samples—they just came in. Wait until you see them.” He reached into the bag and pulled out several rolls which he unfurled with great fanfare. “Look at this brocade,” he said. “Fit for a queen, for a castle! Touch it! And this chintz—did you ever see such a beautiful pattern?” His voice was booming, and he pronounced the word bee-YOU-tee-ful.
On and on he went; Mrs. Hunnewell nodded and smiled, occasionally extending the hand whose slim wrist was encircled by a lovely gold charm bracelet to indicate the ones she liked best. She was as cordial to Mr. Feinstein as could be, but when he left, she turned to the girls and sighed deeply. “Some people…” That was all she said, but Miriam knew exactly what she meant, and she was mortified. Was this how Mrs. Hunnewell saw her and her father who, it had to be admitted, did stand apart from the parents of her friends and classmates? His voice was louder, his gestures more dramatic, his words flowing more quickly. He operated at top volume and even though she adored him, Miriam had begun to wish he would turn down the volume, even by a little. So no wonder she didn’t want to think about that rainy day; she’d been complicit, wanting to align herself with the Hunnewells and keep as much distance as she could from Mr. Feinstein.
Elizabeth and the others had gone to the luncheon and to their credit, they tried not to mention it in her presence. But sometimes a reference slipped out, like the time they served a Waldorf salad in the cafeteria and Willa said, “Oh look, it’s just like the Colony!” There had been an awkward silence that lasted until Elizabeth started chattering about something else. And afterwards, she seemed to assume that their friendship would continue on as it had before. She was wrong. Miriam couldn’t forget and, it turned out, couldn’t forgive either.
Summer came, and with it, an invitation to join the Hunnewells in Darien. Other invitations followed: Greenwich, Newport, Marblehead. She declined every last one. Now that she fully understood the weight of that hateful word, restricted, she could imagine the country clubs and beaches where, though her name wouldn’t have given her away, the fear of discovery would have hovered around her, never allowing her to fully relax. Her father rented the same house in Deal Beach, NJ every summer since she was a small child. She would go to the shore with him.
But just a week before they were set to leave, her father died. Miriam had been grateful that her Aunt Betty, and Mrs. Shifrin, wife of the rabbi at the Temple of Israel Synagogue on East 75th Street where her father had been a sporadic congregant, organized first the funeral and then the shiva. Those were slow, somber days, the reality of the loss gradually sinking in, like a series of boulders placed on her shoulders and back, each one bigger and heavier than the next. She couldn’t believe that he’d never again come striding through the door, calling her name, leaving his ever-battered fedora, coat, briefcase, and newspaper scattered around the apartment for Hannah, the maid, to pick up. No more accounts of his day in court, or questions about hers at school. No more singing—he had a full-bodied baritone—no humming, no expostulating over an article in one of the several newspapers he subscribed to, no heated phone calls with his clients, his partner, Barney Weiss, or devoted secretary, Miss Fishbein. He had been such a large presence; physically and every other way. How could he just be—gone? And even worse was thinking about how she’d begun, just the littlest bit, to disdain him, and to wish he’d been more polished, more refined—she burned in shame remembering all that.
Along with this monumental loss, was the loss of the only home she’d ever known—Barney sold the apartment and put its contents into storage. She was to spend school holidays with Barney and his family—they had a townhouse in the east 30’s—summers and vacations with her aunt upstate. “Everything will be stored away,” Barney said, “ready for you if you want it some day.” Some day? She didn’t want to wait until some day, she wanted everything she knew and loved, every scrap of it, now, from the dotted Swiss curtains and matching bedspread in her room to the small, Oriental rug with its jewel-like colors in the foyer. The Chesterfield sofa, the mahogany sideboard in the dining room, the pair of blue-and-white ginger jar lamps that sat on the mantel, the enormous Windsor chair that had been her father’s favorite and which he would not hear of having reupholstered despite the fact that its faded fabric was practically in tatters. Her aunt fussed and clucked, and told her repeatedly that she should consider the house in Skaneateles as her home. How could she say that? It wasn’t her home now and it would never be. Still, she miserably succumbed to her aunt’s insistence that she spend the rest of the summer upstate because really, where else could she go?
The sound of voices brought Anne back to the present; the Yale mixer was ending and the girls were heading back to the bus. Virginia ‘s voice carried through the night and she thought she could hear Peggy too. She didn’t want to talk to either of them, so she slid down in her seat, hoping that would hide her. The darkness was like an animate presence, heavy and enveloping. The girls were filing into the bus now. and soon the driver would appear, shepherding them back to Vassar’s campus. She’d never been to Yale before and after tonight she didn’t think she would ever be back.