Mating Rituals of the North American WASP (18 page)

Who was she? Luke wondered. He imagined Peggy had enjoyed a childhood full of ordinary pleasures, of brothers and sisters
and neighborhood friends riding their bicycles on an unremarkable suburban cul-de-sac, their futures wide open, their choice
of college and job and mate entirely within their own control.

She got up again to straighten a portrait of a young girl in a party dress.

“That’s Abigail,” Luke said, and Peggy smiled. The child version of his great-aunt had short, dark hair and a playful look
in her brown eyes that suddenly reminded him of somebody; he couldn’t remember who. “I suppose you would like to know who
Charles is,” he said.

She nodded.

“Charles Finnegan lived two houses north of here. He was the son of the housekeeper at Number Five Main Street. When Abigail
was a schoolgirl, she and Charles were the closest of friends. My great-grandparents didn’t like their only daughter fraternizing
with a servant’s boy, but the friendship only strengthened, and when she turned sixteen and he was eighteen, they secretly
got engaged.”

Luke hadn’t planned to air his family’s laundry, but if Peggy was to be witness to Abby’s outbursts, it was best she understood
them. He continued, “Soon afterward, her brother, my grandfather Luke the Second, discovered their plan to elope and ratted
out Abigail to my great-grandfather, who secretly arranged a job for Charles. He used his connections to get Charles work
building the Bourne Bridge in Massachusetts. This was during the Great Depression, and good jobs were hard to come by. Charles
would have needed to save money for his marriage—a marriage that wouldn’t include a dowry—and my family knew he couldn’t and
wouldn’t say no. Charles promised Abigail he’d return to her once the project was completed, but the family was counting on
Abby coming to her senses before he got back.

“But things turned out better than my great-grandfather had hoped. Charles had been working only a few months when he fell
off the bridge into the Cape Cod Canal.”

Peggy gasped.

“Abigail wasn’t the same. No matter how many suitors her parents brought home, she swore she wouldn’t marry, and she didn’t.”

“That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know. To me, it’s all very Miss Havisham.”

“How remarkably unsympathetic,” Peggy said.

Luke straightened in his chair. “I guess I don’t understand how one could be so dependent on another person that to lose him
or her could ruin one’s life.”

“You’ve never…?” Peggy looked into the empty fireplace. “You’ve never been…?”

“Consumed? Obsessed? No.” He found he was again eyeing her ring. He supposed she was consumed with love, or whatever she thought
passed for love, for the cretin who’d given it to her.

“You wanted to talk about the house. What is it you want to know?” He took off his sweater and tied it around his shoulders.
“I suppose you’d like a sense of how much it’s worth—”

“Three million, according to the tax assessment.”

So she’d done her research. He had a brief flash of admiration for her business instinct that was quickly eclipsed by a fierce
Yankee disapproval of which he hadn’t known he was capable: This outsider was digging into his family’s private affairs, placing
a dollar value on something to which she had no true right. He reminded himself that he didn’t want the Sedgwick House and
sat back down. “If we could sell it for that much, it wouldn’t be without a lot of work, which we need to start doing. We
can’t afford a new roof and a paint job, but I thought I’d draw up a list of chores we can tackle. It’ll take months to get
this place into selling shape, and it won’t be any fun. No offense meant, but you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who…”

“Who what? Who enjoys being insulted in bad rhymed verse at her own wedding reception?”

Where the hell had that come from? Despite his reluctance to bring it up, Luke had expected to have this discussion sooner
or later, given the way Peggy had avoided him and acted sulky the two weekends before this. But not out of nowhere, during
a discussion about unrelated matters, when just this afternoon she’d given the impression that she wasn’t mad at him anymore.
He considered his response, not knowing what she expected him to say, not wanting to get it wrong and start a whole lot of
unnecessary unpleasantness.

But Peggy was already bombarding him with a barrage of, “Don’t you have any feelings?” and, “Where were your manners?” and,
“You had no right.”

“I apologize. It won’t happen again.” It was a frank sentiment. She didn’t seem appeased, so he groped reluctantly. “As you
already know, I guess, I write a little poetry now and then. But it’s nothing like…what you heard. That was a spur-of-the-moment
poem. It was…I don’t know…”
For chrissakes, Luke, find an adjective.

She got up. “It was bad. ‘Say, pay, day.’ You could at least have used ‘dismay’ or ‘betray’ or ‘radioactive decay.’ ”

“Thank you for your valuable poetic suggestions. It was a limerick. I’d had a few drinks. Ever done anything you regretted
when
you
were drunk? Say, married someone wholly inappropriate?” He was annoyed at himself for letting his annoyance show.

She got up, as if to go upstairs, walked to the doorway, and turned back around. “You know,” she said, “my relatives came
here the same way yours did—on a ship. Just because it wasn’t the
Mayflower
doesn’t make you better than me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs to plot more ways to wreck your life.”

Before he knew he’d made the choice to go after her, he was on his feet, following her to the front staircase, knowing she
was aware of him a few feet behind—as usual, the house kept no secrets; his footsteps were thunderous—and was refusing to
acknowledge him. Just as she started up the staircase, he stepped onto the landing and reached out to grasp the hem of her
sweater.

“It was the second
Mayflower
,” he said.

She stood, balanced on the very edge of the squeaky third step, the extra inches putting her face above his eye level.

“The original
Mayflower
landed in 1621. Another ship, also called the
Mayflower,
arrived here eight years later. My relatives were on that ship.”

He’d always thought of her as delicate, in need of protection—yet at this height, she seemed neither.

“So you see, as far as the original Pilgrims are concerned, the Sedgwick family is sloppy seconds. And, so you’re clear on
this, I don’t think I’m better than anybody.” He waited for her to storm up the stairs.

Instead, she offered him the smallest smile. “You must need this money pretty badly,” she said.

“I do,” he admitted. “My great-aunt needs to go into a nursing home. You saw her tonight. She’s only going to get worse. Unless
we sell the house, there’s no way I can afford it.”

“Then it would be nice,” she said, “if until this is over, we could try and get along. We don’t have to be best buddies, but
it would be good, at least, to have a united front.”

“By which you mean…?”

“That you don’t embarrass me in front of your friends. And you stop making me feel unwelcome. And talk to me once in a while.
I’m sorry I snooped in your office. But I only did it because I don’t know a thing about you.”

“I talk to you.”

“You do not.”

“I’m talking to you now.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Luke, I’m not stupid. It’s clear you don’t want me here. I don’t blame you. But you agreed
to this marriage, and you’re going to get what you want in the end, and it would be nice if you could try to tolerate me for
the next year.”

“Eleven months. We’ve done a month already. I only have to tolerate you for eleven more.”

“Actually, it’s ten months. And nineteen days.”

“But who’s counting?”

She looked different when she laughed. The shadows, the scrunched-up forehead, vanished, leaving a lively, intelligent face
with a big smile and those warm gray eyes—eyes, he realized with a shock, that held the same playful expression as the little-girl
Abby’s. Here was the woman Luke had met in Las Vegas. That he liked seeing her again was more than he cared to admit to himself.

P
eggy felt as if she’d made a diplomatic breakthrough. Something had changed today. Between Luke’s unexpected friendliness
in the car, their cooperative effort to help Miss Abigail, and their exchange just now on the staircase, she thought she could
look forward to a little less chilliness from her temporary husband. Tomorrow, if her courage held, she might see if he had
any memory of their walk across the bridge.

She shivered. Speaking of chilly, her room seemed much cooler than the rest of the drafty house. Didn’t an unexplained pocket
of cold mean a ghost was present? Peggy could practically hear Elizabeth Coe Sedgwick moaning, “Give me back my brooch…I want
my broooooooch.…”

“You don’t scare me.” Peggy unpinned the brooch and put it safely in her nightstand drawer. She resolved to order long underwear
and was getting into her pajamas when it occurred to her a ghost might be watching her undress.

She buttoned her top hurriedly and distracted herself with a chorus of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” on her way
to the bathroom. “Take one down, pass it around…,” she sang, lining up her cleansers and moisturizers—this for her cheeks,
that for under her eyes—on the edge of the rust-stained sink and then clipping her hair off her face. “Ninety-eight bottles
of beer on the wall.” The water was freezing, but by now she knew to brush her teeth in the time it took to warm up. She squeezed
organic toothpaste onto her imported Italian toothbrush with the ergonomic handle and brushed, humming through the foam, and
then sang between splashes of water as she washed her face, and sang some more while she moisturized, and sang as she raced
down the hall to the relatively ghost-free shelter of her ugly plaid comforter.

In the morning, Luke was at the kitchen table, as always, buried in his newspaper, as always.

“Good morning!” It was a lot of cheer to muster before ten a.m., but she was determined to start off her new phase with Luke
on the right foot.

“Mmm.” Luke didn’t stop reading.

“Have you seen Miss Abigail? Is she better?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Thank goodness.” The news made Peggy enormously happy. She guessed she’d grown fonder than expected of Luke’s great-aunt.
She poured herself a cup of bad coffee, threw away Miss Abigail’s used teabag from last night, and sat at the table across
from Luke. She had prepared herself. It was time to bring up the marriage proposal. “I’m glad we cleared the air last night.
Aren’t you?”

Luke continued reading.

Peggy toyed with the salt and pepper shakers. Mr. Pepper and Mrs. Salt, her mother called them. They were married, and when
you passed one, you were supposed to pass the other as well, so the two wouldn’t be separated. “Building bridges. That’s what
some people call it.” She emphasized “bridges.”

Luke’s newspaper rattled as he turned a page.

“You know what Tiffany said yesterday? She said Tom dreamed he bought the Brooklyn Bridge. Isn’t that funny?

The Brooklyn Bridge, like, ‘And if you believe
that,
I’ll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.’ ”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Peggy’s enthusiasm ebbed. There wasn’t a trace of recognition in Luke’s response. There wasn’t a trace of yesterday’s openness.
As if their breakthrough hadn’t happened. She asked, “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” Luke said from behind the newspaper.

“You’re acting quiet.”

“I
am
quiet.” A pause. “And I’m not a morning person.”

“Me neither. I guess you’ve figured that out.” A squeaky, skittish giggle escaped before Peggy could stop it. It was awkward,
this one-sided dialogue.
Help me out, Luke,
she thought.
Give me something to work with.

Miss Abigail bustled in, wearing her going-out clothes and her coat.

“Good morning!” Peggy sang out for the second time in three minutes. “Are you feeling all right?”

The old woman stared at the counter. “Young man, where did you put my teabag?”

“That was me,” Peggy said. “I threw it out.”

“But it was still good for two or three more cups.” Miss Abigail looked certifiably puzzled, then brightened up. “It’s nearly
time for meeting, dear; you’d best be getting your coat.”

During church, Peggy sat quietly next to Miss Abigail and tried to pay attention to the service, but her mind wandered to
Tiffany enumerating the ways Peggy stood out from the Connecticut crowd. In their pearls and low-heeled pumps, the women in
these pews, no matter their age, seemed to have stepped out of another time. The fashionable crowd in New York would consider
them laughably conservative—dowdy, even—but Peggy thought they looked exactly right in the clean, plain meeting house. And
Tiffany had been correct about this, too: No one else here was in black. Peggy might as well have been out all night clubbing
and worn the same outfit to church.

The Yankees, their heads bowed in unison, began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. What would these people think if they knew Peggy
was just going through the motions? She said her own silent prayer instead.
Please put an end to war. Please make all the sick people better. Please stop global warming. Please give Bex a baby.
It seemed too much to ask for, even from God.

Luke was waiting at the curb to drive them home when Peggy and Miss Abigail emerged into the sunshine, but Peggy told him
she’d walk. She’d finally explore downtown New Nineveh, eat lunch with Miss Abigail at the house, and go back to New York
early to see Bex. She’d had good luck with the Sedgwicks this weekend and didn’t want to push it.

“Downtown” was far too ambitious a description of New Nineveh’s handful of storefronts and churches. They were arranged in
a ring around a central green—an oval of lawn studded with autumn-hued trees, an aged iron cannon, several war memorials,
and some benches on which Peggy had so far seen not a soul sitting. A flag fluttered red, white, and blue on its pole; a shaggy
pine tree pointed like an arrow toward the sky. On this crisp morning the area was deserted, except for people going home
from church: the white wood Congregational building she’d just left, the red-roofed Victorian Methodist church on the south
side of the green, the neo-Gothic stone Episcopal church to the east. People chatted on the leaf-covered granite sidewalks
and returned to their cars. Walking the green, Peggy understood why no one had lingered. The town was pretty; it would have
been a perfect setting for a boutique like Peggy’s. But there was little to do here. Three-quarters of the buildings were
either real estate offices or posh antiques dealers—not places that invited casual browsing. The few other stores weren’t
the sort that brought in droves: Seymour’s Hardware, the Cheese Shoppe, a small Italian restaurant called Luigi’s, and the
Toggery, where two WASP mannequins posed with his and hers camel-hair coats draped across their shoulders. Establishments
were shuttered, too—an old coffee shop, a dentist’s office, and a store whose faded gold window-lettering proclaimed: “Star
Jewelers, Since 1909.” Taped directly above was a sign: “Come see us at our new location in Pilgrim Plaza!”