Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [83]
“That’s very exciting. What’s it about?”
“The stock market crash. The aftermath.”
“Oh,” Honora says, pulling her dress up over her knees.
“I worry about making light of other people’s tragedy,” Vivian says quickly.
“It’s a comedy?”
“Not yet, though I think it wants to be. Not sure if I can write comedy, actually. It’s a bit of a mess right now.” And likely to remain a mess if she doesn’t settle down to work, she thinks. “You’ve had it somewhat rough,” Vivian says boldly, and Honora looks quickly over at her.
“Yes,” Honora says truthfully.
“Your husband lost his job?”
“He did. The day I last saw you, as a matter of fact. Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” Vivian says. She remembers the tree with its presents neatly arranged beneath it, the mincemeat pies on the counter.
“It was dreadful,” Honora says, sighing, and Vivian wonders if this is the first time she’s spoken about it.
“What happened?”
“He was . . . laid off, I guess you could say. He was, I don’t know the right word, crushed. It took weeks for him to recover, even partially. He tried to find a job in sales, but no one was hiring. And then he went to the mills and tried to get a job in one of the offices, but they weren’t hiring men in the offices either, and then he had to go into the mill itself. He’s a ring spinner.”
“Oh,” Vivian says, letting Sandy drink from her cup of water. “But you’ve managed to keep the house.”
“Just.”
“And now this strike,” Vivian says. “I hope it doesn’t last long.”
“No,” Honora says.
“If ever you should need . . . ,” Vivian begins.
“Oh God, no,” Honora says quickly. “Don’t even think about it.”
Vivian wants to ask Honora about her marriage, but senses that now is perhaps not the time. Though she can never make out what couples see in each other, she is particularly puzzled by Honora and Sexton. Of course, he is a handsome man, but there is something a bit . . . well . . . oily about him that is somewhat off-putting, at least to Vivian. He seems too eager to please, yet hardly to notice when Honora is in the room.
“Are you bothered about all the men in your house?” Vivian asks after a time.
“I’m not sure I understand what the consequences are. I have a feeling that they’re all keeping something from me. I felt it when Quillen . . . well, I can’t call him Quillen, can I, he hates the name, McDermott then, when he was talking. And then again when Louis . . .” She pauses. “You really gave Louis what-for yesterday,” Honora says.
“Oh, I was only half serious,” Vivian says. “He’s adorable. A saint, really. I’ve no experience with selfless men. They’re remarkably unsexy, don’t you think?”
“Vivian, you know that he’s a Communist.”
“Well, yes, I more or less worked that out.”
“Why are you doing this?” Honora asks. “You of all people?”
“Well, I don’t take this whole thing too seriously. It’s a lark, isn’t it?”
“But it’s your class they’re after.”
“Well, Louis is. And in a rather abstract way, I think. He’s more like me than you might think. As for me, well, last year I nearly died of boredom. Besides,” she adds, leaning closer to Honora, “I just adore you and Alphonse.”
Honora smiles. “I worry for Alphonse,” she says. “He seems so young.”
“He’s devoted to McDermott,” Vivian says.
“For good reason, I think.”
“And your husband doesn’t mind all the men here either?” Vivian asks tentatively, thinking that one’s husband might have every reason to mind.
“No,” Honora says. “He doesn’t. To be perfectly honest, he seems happier than I’ve seen him in months. Since the late fall, really.”
“We had quite a party last night.”
“I counted eight bottles this morning,” Honora says, lying back on the blanket and shading her face with her hat. “What happened to that man?” she asks. “The one who owned your house?”
“Dickie? Oh, poor Dickie,