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—•—

Before dinner, while Linda showered outside and Julia inside, Henry and I sat on the porch, waiting for our turns. The house across the lagoon had walls now, and we couldn't see the sunset on the bay. Still, it was the end of the day, the only time here that reminded me of Nan-tucket. The light was warm and pink, and made the trees and water look soft—it was like seeing everything through a fond memory.

I asked Henry if they'd had a good time on Martha's Vineyard.

He said, "It was okay." He told me they'd stayed at the youth hostel, as though this explained something, and I waited to hear what.

Then he told me he'd decided to start Columbia in the fall. He said it importantly, and I wondered if he thought starting school meant breaking up with Julia. Maybe he was already seeing himself on campus, and thinking she wouldn't fit in.

I said, "You'll still be in New York."

He nodded.

My father was glad, of course. He probably wouldn't relax about it for a while, though, maybe not until he actually saw Henry in a gown and mortarboard.

—•—

Labor Day weekend, Henry and Julia went to Southampton for her mother's big party. My parents had one to go to, too, and that night, walking Atlas, I heard parties on both sides of the lagoon. I thought that Oliver Biddle and I were probably the only ones who hadn't been invited to any. To cheer myself up, I said to Atlas, "It's just you and me, Pepper."

My grandmother came down on Sunday. It was raining, which affected her arthritis and made her even crankier than usual. She asked questions like, Louise, why are you wearing those shorts?

My father retreated to the bedroom for a nap.

When she said her standard, "Remember the haircut you got in Paris that spring?" referring to my mother's junior year abroad, twenty-five springs ago, my mother faked a yawn and said she was going to take a nap.

Once my grandmother and I were alone, I said, "I think my mom likes her hair now."

"It looked better then," my grandmother said.

I said, "How would you feel if you liked your hair short, and your mother kept telling you it looked better long?"

"I'd wear it long if I could," she said. Then she turned on me. "You should brush your hair, Jane," she said. "You might be pretty if you tried."

I didn't even fake a yawn, just went into my parents' room. They were reading in bed, and I got in the middle.

"She's obsessed with that Paris haircut," I said. "What did it look like, anyway?"

"I have no idea," my mother said.

"She's obsessed with hair, period," I said, though my parents seemed to be reading instead of listening. I told them my grandmother seemed to believe that the window of the soul was hair, instead of eyes.

My mother giggled. Around her mother, she became my age.

My father said, "Hair is the roof of the soul."

—•—

Before dinner, my grandmother read the newspaper, tsk-ing and complaining to no one in particular that the world was going to hell. Everything was wrong; nothing was the way it used to be.

"What do you think was so good about the good old days?" I asked, in exasperation. But I heard how harsh my voice was and didn't like it. I said, "What do you miss, I mean?"

While she thought, I waited to make my point: that everything was much better now than it used to be; I'd cite the civil rights and women's movements.

"The boy who lit the street lamps in the evening," she said, finally. "He carried a stool with him."

I understood then—it was like missing Nantucket—and I put my hand on top of hers. It occurred to me that everything was more complicated than I thought.

—•—

We were finishing dessert when Henry and Julia showed up.

Right away, my mother acted like we were all in on a big surprise for my grandmother—Look! Here's Henry! He didn't even seem to notice. He let my mother introduce Julia, who was trying to smile and not quite pulling it off.

Maybe my grandmother could see Julia was older, or she might've disapproved of any girlfriend Henry brought home; she gave him a big hug—like he was still a boy and still belonged to us—and gave Julia an Ice Queen, "How do