spoke with sharp pain of the blizzard of 1888, which had killed so many. And they shuddered to recall the Hinkley fire, in which more than four hundred had perished.
In this dry-goods store, with a staunch country girl named Elvira wrapping lace around a bit of cardboard, Cora felt cosseted and sheltered, oddly at home.
That Sunday afternoon, in the Lundeen parlor, Cora told Elvira, “The lady’s chair by the fire is comfortable.”
Sitting in the chair, lavished with friendship, Elvira found herself borne across the boundary between Earth and Heaven, ushered into a world lovelier, more secure, more comfortable, even better smelling than any she’d dreamed of. What was that scent which seemed to be nothing laid on, but a part of the house itself?
The oil paintings; the deep, soft Turkey carpets; the upholstered furniture and shimmering draperies; the mahogany mantel and marble fireplace—surely these spoke of ease and gaiety.
Cora wheeled herself across the room, frowning and setting her mouth as the carpets resisted her. Elvira rose to help, but Cora motioned her off. “This is good exercise,” she explained, screwing up a thin smile.
From the sofa she gathered up a dress of navy-blue faille, one of several dresses heaped there. Tiny fabric-covered buttons marched up the sides of the sleeves. “You could wear this, don’t you think? You might have to shorten it a bit.” She held it up.
Elvira crossed the room and took the dress in her hands, caressing it. “It’s beautiful. But why can’t you wear it?”
Cora turned the dress to show Elvira the sleeves and the back. “Look at all these covered buttons. Can you imagine how uncomfortable they are when I lean back against this chair?” She grimaced. “Torture.”
“But you’ll be walking again soon,” Elvira said. “And then you’ll regret giving this away.”
“Certainly I’ll be walking again—and dancing! Oh, how I miss the waltz. George loves to waltz. But think of the fun I’ll have buying new things.” With a kind of scorn for herself, she turned the wheelchair away from the sofa. “Now, let’s plan the party.”
When Lizzie looked in later, the two women had finished making their party plans. “The baby’s down for his nap,” Lizzie said. That girl’s strained through a sieve, Elvira thought. No spirit. What Cora needs is someone to buck her up.
Cora asked the hired girl, “A pot of tea? And slice us some of the gingerbread, please. Get yourself a piece while you’re at it.”
Turning back to Elvira, Cora said, “It’s none of my business, but I have to ask.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin in a girlish gesture, as if meaning to coax a secret. “A girl as pretty as you must have a swain.”
Elvira looked confused. “A swain?”
“A suitor?”
“I . . . no, no.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But you’re lovely and fun. Someone should be setting his cap for you.”
Cora sounded like Nell. “I guess I’m just not interested in that kind of thing.”
“Well, someday.”
Easy with one another, they sipped tea and finished two slices of gingerbread each before Elvira said good-bye, taking the dress with her.
“George could deliver the clothes,” Cora told her.
“Oh, no,” Elvira said, “I can’t wait to show them to Nell.”
Walking home through the early November gloom, with a bleared sun low behind banked clouds, Elvira relived the afternoon’s plummy pleasures: the strong, pliant baby, soft and warm against her; the genuine appreciation she felt from Cora; the beautiful clothes she held in her arms, given without condescension or patronage. She clasped them to her face, savoring the scent of friendship. A swain?
With a puzzled scowl, she shook her head and plunged on.
FINGERS TREMBLING, Elvira slipped into a watered-silk moire the color of red grapes. “What do you think of the color?” she asked Nell.
“It’s beautiful. It changes when you move. Sometimes it has a green cast.” Nell began buttoning the back. “Poor Cora.”
“I know. I feel guilty wearing this to a party at her house.”
“She’ll be happy to see you in it.”
“But it feels . . . like I’m walking on her grave.”
“You’re in a strange mood.”
Moving to the parlor, Elvira paraded up and down. Hilly, in his Dr. Dentons, watched from the kitchen door.
“I can’t get used to it,” Elvira said. “It’s one thing to stand still in a dress like this. But dancing in it!”
Without warning, Hilly cried, “Wanna go!” and flung himself sobbing at Elvira, grabbing handfuls of her skirt. “Wanna go dance!”
“It’s a grown-up party,” Elvira told him, trying to loosen his grip.
“No! Wanna go!” he screamed, beating her thighs with his fists.
Then Nell was on him, snatching him roughly, twisting him toward her. “Don’t ever hit! Do you hear me? Never! Never!”
“Mama,” he bawled, clutching her knees. “Mama!” When had his mother ever raised her voice to him? What was happening? He had only wanted to dance with Elvira.
A few minutes later, shaken by the scene with Hilly—what had gotten into Nell?—Elvira studied herself in the mirror above the bureau. Even by dim lamplight she saw that her cheeks were flushed. She felt feverish and weak.
She had an unsettling sense that she’d attended this very party a long time ago. For weeks she’d heard echoes of it in her head, voices and music, like the scratchy sounds from the graphophone tube at the Harvester Arms. And when she heard them, she grew melancholy.
In George and Cora’s dining room, Elsie Schroeder, wife of Howard the store manager—Elsie who had taken the pledge—poured herself a cup of fruit punch. Across the broad table, Elvira ladled out a cup of the brandy-laced version.
“Imbibing, are we?” Elsie lifted an eyebrow and smiled.
“As Anna always says, ‘That’s the advantage in being Catholic.’” Elvira moved toward the door and stood watching dancers in the parlor, where the furniture had been pushed against the walls and the carpets taken up.
Elsie followed. “That’s a mighty fancy dress.”
“Mrs. Lundeen gave it to me.”
“Mrs.
