omnipotent, does He regularly bite the big one when it comes to sticking the right kids with the right parents?
The Munson manse is stately as hell. You know—gray stone, pristine-white trim, lots of windows, a few columns thrown in for good measure. Very traditional, very classy, probably built somewhere in the fifties. Bill pulls the Suburban just past the front entrance, parking it underneath a dignified maple hovering over the far end of the circular drive. Before either my mother or I can get it together, he’s out of the car and around to our sides, opening first my mother’s, then my door.
“I’ve got some errands to run,” he says as Mike bounds off my lap, leaving a shallow gouge in my right thigh in the process. Bill lunges for the excited dog, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back in the car. “So I’ll pick you up to go to the other house say in—” he checks his watch “—an hour?”
My mother and I exchange a glance. “You’re not having lunch with us?”
He laughs. “Uh, no. Dad’s in the neighborhood today, doing his relating-to-the-constituency thing. I don’t dare hang around.”
He walks back around to the driver’s side, says “See ya,” and is gone.
“I told you this was a weird family,” my mother mutters as we tromp up to the front door.
I bite my tongue.
Concetta, the Munsons’ Salvadoran housekeeper, opens the door before we ring the bell, although Phyllis is right behind her, that smile as carefully applied as her twenty-dollar lipstick.
“Oooh, you’re just in time,” Phyllis says as the maid rustles out of sight. Her eyes dart to my mother, right behind me; if Nedra’s unexpected presence has thrown her, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she clasps my mother’s hand in both of hers, welcoming her, after which she flings out her arms and engulfs me in a perfumed hug, which I hesitantly return. She is nearly as tall as I am, but she feels frail somehow, more illusion than reality. Sensing my discomfort, Phyllis pulls back, her hands gently clamped on my arms, sympathy mixed with something else I can’t quite define swimming in her pale blue eyes. I tense, panicked she’s going to say something for which I’ll have no intelligent reply. I’m a little in awe of this woman, to tell you the truth, even though she’s never done a single thing to engender that reaction. Well, except be perfect. To my immense relief, all she does is smile more broadly, taking in my outfit.
“Don’t you look absolutely adorable!” she says, glancing at my mother as if expecting her to agree. Quickly surmising she’ll get little support from that quarter, she returns her gaze to me, shaking her head so that her perfectly cut, wheat-colored pageboy softly skims the shoulders of her light rose silk shell. “What I wouldn’t give to be young enough to get away with those colors! And those legs!” She laughs. “I had legs like that, about a million years ago!”
Underneath those white linen slacks, I imagine she still does. Faces may fall and bosoms may sag, but good legs go with you to the grave, Grandma Bernice, Nedra’s mother, used to say.
“But come on back,” Phyllis says with a light laugh. “Concetta has set lunch out on the patio, but it’s no trouble at all to add another place.”
As always, Phyllis Munson’s graciousness blows me away. Chattering about the weather or something, she leads us through the thickly carpeted, traditionally furnished Colonial Revival, one befitting a Westchester congressman and his lovely anorexic wife.
Although the decor is a little bland for my taste—the neutral palette seems almost afraid to offend—there’s something about this house that’s always put me at peace the moment I set foot inside. The orderly, predictable arrangement of the furniture; the way the lush pile carpeting feels underfoot; the almost churchlike hush that caresses us as we make our way through the house to the back. What it says is, sane people live here.
Which is not to say that the house doesn’t tell Designer Ginger things about the owners they’d probably just as well the world not know. While the blandness isn’t offensive, the paint-by-number decor doesn’t reveal a whole lot about the owners’ personalities, either. There are no antiques, no quirky family heirlooms, to break the monotony of the coordinating upholstery and draperies, the relentlessly matching reproduction furniture. Oh, the quality is as good as it gets for mass production—Henredon rather than Thomasville—but it is a bit like walking into a posh hotel suite. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. I’ve always fantasized about staying in the Plaza, too.
But there’s something more, something I discerned within minutes of my first visit, six or so months ago: that the house’s self-conscious perfection stems in large part from the Munsons’ eagerness to cover up that neither of them hail from either old money or prize stock.
Unfortunately, it’s all too easy to spot the newly, or at least recently, arrived. They’re the ones petrified of making a mistake, the ones who constantly ask me if I’m sure this fabric or that piece of furniture is “right,” far more concerned about what their guests will think than they are their own preferences. The moneyed, the monikered, don’t give a damn. And now, as Phyllis leads us out onto the patio, her back ramrod straight, her voice carefully modulated and devoid of even a trace of a New York accent, I realize that describes my ex-almost-mother-in-law, as well. As gracious and naturally friendly as she is, her fear of being exposed as a poseur—White Plains masquerading as Scarsdale—is almost palpable.
Her insecurities do not bother me. If anything, they make her more human. More accessible. In her place, I imagine I would feel much the same way. I mean, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, it’s Phyllis’s very insecurities about her background that brand the Munsons as phonies in my mother’s eyes.
Phyllis touches the uniformed maid lightly on the arm, whispers something to her. The woman nods, disappears through a second set of French doors leading, if I remember correctly, to the kitchen. The terrace is open-air, although deeply shaded at this time of day. I’ve never been out here before, I realize, I suppose because it was either nighttime or too cold, the other times I was here. Now I glance out across the “yard”: if there are other houses beyond the dense growth bordering the property on all three sides, they are undetectable. A pool, flanked by dozens of urns and pots overflowing with brilliantly colored annuals, shimmers below us. I somehow doubt it’s ever used.
Oh, yes, I’m well aware I’m having lunch in The Land of Make Believe. I don’t care. That doesn’t make it less peaceful, or tranquil. Besides, after two hours in my mother’s company, I’m desperate.
We sit. Concetta bustles about, setting the extra place, deftly serving the first course, fresh fruit segments in a serrated cantaloupe half, followed by deli sandwiches on fresh rye. Nothing fancy or pretentious. We make excruciatingly brittle small talk, for a while, until Phyllis unwittingly gives my mother the opening she’s been waiting for.
“It must be very comforting, Ginger, having your mother around at a time like this.”
I can sense my mother’s coiling for the attack, but unfortunately I can’t get hold of a rock quickly enough to stop her before she strikes. I try glaring, for all the good it does.
“And maybe,” Nedra says, “if you’d taught your son that social prominence is no excuse for cowardice, there wouldn’t be a ‘time like this.’”
“Nedra—”
“No, Ginger, it’s all right,” Phyllis says quietly, even though her face is now a good three shades darker than her blouse. Her left hand, braced on the table in front of me, is trembling slightly; I
