Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [50]
When she told Alice about it at home afterward, Alice gave her a look.
“What?” Mary said.
“That’s not like you.”
“Isn’t it?”
“He could be a murderer for all you know!” Alice said. “He could be from a family of gypsies. All the boys I’ve tried to set you up with and you’ve refused. Now you’ll suddenly go out with any old stranger?”
Mary stuck out her tongue. “Maybe I wanted to meet a boy on my own. He invited me to dinner on Friday night.”
“Why hasn’t he been drafted yet?” Alice asked, suspicious. “Is he terribly old or something?”
“He’s thirty,” Mary said.
“Thirty! That’s positively ancient. Gosh. But still, why hasn’t he gone to the war?”
“He’s 4-F,” Mary said.
The same classification as Frank Sinatra. Their brother Timmy said he didn’t respect Sinatra anymore since he’d avoided the draft. (“Listen to that voice! Does that sound like someone with a punctured eardrum to you?”)
This Henry seems like a coward, Alice thought. Like a flat-footed weakling.
“Do you know why he’s 4-F?” she asked.
“An old injury from a bus accident in his Harvard days,” Mary said. “He walks with a bit of a limp.”
Alice’s ears perked up. “Harvard?”
She could tell Mary was trying to suppress a smile. “I get the impression he’s rather wealthy.”
They went out on Friday, and Alice tagged along with the understanding that Henry was bringing a friend for her. The friend, Richard, was a real flat tire—too old and perspiring, with badly yellowed teeth and a pocket watch that he kept checking every few minutes, as if to make it clear that the tepid feeling between them was entirely mutual. Even though it would have been more trouble had he liked her, Alice felt offended by the reception. She had a policy of never eating on dates, but that night she ordered a martini and a steak.
It was true that Henry walked with a limp, a characteristic that Alice wasn’t sure she’d be able to tolerate in a date. And he had little specks of gray hair here and there. But he was handsome enough for someone his age. He worked for his father, an honest-to-God shipping tycoon, and was soon to inherit the whole company. Alice watched closely as he interacted with Mary—what did he see in her, anyway? She wasn’t beautiful. But Henry seemed smitten. He laughed at all her corny jokes, and he ordered for her when the waitress came.
When Henry asked about Alice’s job, Mary interrupted, “She’s an artist. Very talented. You should see her work.”
“I’d love to see it,” Richard the dud said, perking up. “I’m a budding collector.”
It turned out, by his own whispered admission after several more cocktails, that he was also light in the loafers. But three days later, Alice sold him her first painting. Falling madly in love with Richard couldn’t have brought her half as much joy as watching him hand over the cash that morning on her front stoop. Someday they might hang a plaque: THE ARTIST ALICE BRENNAN LIVED HERE FROM 1921 THROUGH 1941.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. Then he lowered his voice as if someone else might be listening: “Alice, I’ve adored Henry Winslow since he was my freshman-year roommate, but please watch out for your sister with him. She seems like a sweet girl. And he’s a bit notorious for breaking hearts.”
“What do you mean?” she said, feeling like she wanted to punch Henry all of a sudden.
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Keep an eye out, that’s all.”
In a matter of weeks, Mary and Henry were inseparable. They went out to dinner and went dancing. Mary seemed filled with a sort of confidence she had never known. She started to wave her hair and began dressing properly. She rubbed a bit of blush on her pale cheeks—all the things Alice had been telling her to do for years.
In her more charitable moments, Alice was pleased to see her sister so well matched, so happy at last. But sometimes she felt jealous of Mary for finding him. Not that she wanted Henry for herself; she didn’t. But someone like him maybe, a bit more handsome, a bit younger. His existence