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Marge said, “There's no reason to get excited, Reggie baby. Calm down, hear? Just consider the source.” She slipped out of his embrace and put both arms around his back and pulled him over into her lap. “There now, baby, there, there.” She pressed chunky fingers on his hair and then looked up at me distraught.

I was thoroughly displeased with myself. I murmured “Sorry” and rose to go, but a door opened behind me and I turned. Jorie stood in the doorway. She wore a long black dress and lights leaped in her hair.

“Well, darlings, aren't you kind. You started without me.” She laughed at her own good humor. I liked her more at that moment than I had before. She didn't appear to take herself too seriously. When she saw me she gave a little shriek of delight.

“How marvelous, Rita! You didn't forget. Has everyone met this most divine dancer?”

She came toward me as if she was going to take my hand like a referee and proclaim me champion. She stopped and patted my shoulder. “Have you had wine? Are they treating you all right?”

I told her that they were and, satisfied, she walked on to meet the other guests.

I was in a quandary. Obviously I couldn't leave the moment the hostess made her appearance, and just as obviously I couldn't sit back down on the floor near Marge and Reggie, who had finished ministering to each other's sorrow and were watching Jorie's movements keenly.

I wandered into the kitchen and claimed a drink. I had not drunk much dry wine before that night, but if white people could drink wine like Kool-Aid, then there was no reason on God's green earth I could not do the same. The second glass went down smoother than the first and the third more swiftly than the second. Alone, seated in a strange house filled with strangers, I felt as if I were in dangerous waters, swimming badly and out of my depth. I was plankton in an ocean of whales. The image was so good I toasted it with another glass of wine. Loud laughter penetrated the closed door and I wondered how people became so poised, so at ease. Sophistication was not an inherent trait, nor was it the exclusive property of whites. My mother's snappy-fingered, head-tossing elegance would have put every person in the room to shame. If she walked in the house uninvited, even unexpected, in seconds she would have the party clustered around her, filling her glass, listening to her stories and currying for one of her brilliant smiles. My mother was more elegant than Kay Francis and Greer Garson put together, prettier than Claudette Colbert (who I secretly thought was the prettiest white woman in the world) and funnier than Paulette Goddard. Oh, yes. I drank a glass of wine to my mother.

When I found the door leading from the kitchen, I walked back into a near-empty living room. I would have sworn that I had spent no more than fifteen minutes over the wine, but it would have been impossible for the room to clear in that time.

Jorie, Don, Barry and Fred sat in easy chairs listening intently to a record. Gertrude Lawrence or Bea Lillie sang shakily in a reedy voice.

I interrupted, “Oh, hello.”

They jumped up, startled into speaking all at once.

“Where have you been?”

“I thought you had gone.”

“What were you doing?”

“Where have you been?”

I told them I'd been in the kitchen drinking wine.

Jorie collected herself. “Well, my dear, it's awfully late, but do come and sit a minute.”

My progress across the room was not as steady as I wanted, but I proceeded in what I hoped was a dignified manner.

Don got up and led me to a chair.

Barry said, “We're listening to some songs for Jorie's act. She's going to open in New York at the Blue Angel.”

Jorie shook out her hair. “My God, I've got to make New Yorkers laugh. That's what I call a challenge. What have New Yorkers got to laugh about?”

I said, “But I thought you were a singer.”

Don said, “She's a singer-comedienne. And”—he became protective—“she's bloody brilliant.”

Jorie touched Don lightly and smiled, “You don't need to defend me. She didn't say I wasn't bloody brilliant.”

Don caught her