Home > The Social Graces(5)

The Social Graces(5)
Author: Renee Rosen

   “I suppose you heard about the fish fry being scratched,” said Van Alen.

   Alva reached for Mamie’s card and held it up.

   “Pity you won’t be joining us for Mrs. Astor’s clambake.”

   “You were invited?” She plunked the card down, hoping she hadn’t sounded rude, though judging by the way Willie’s eyebrows arched, she guessed she didn’t pull it off. At least Van Alen hadn’t seemed to notice.

   “Indeed,” he said. “Emily’s parents are warming to the idea of me. With any luck, I’ll be seated at the family table. It’s going to be marvelous.”

   “Oh, cheer up, darling.” Willie leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You don’t even like clams.”

   Alva stood up, perhaps too abruptly. “If you boys will excuse me,” she said, forcing a smile, “I think I’ll go for a swim.”

   As she rushed up the stairs to change, she overheard Willie saying, “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She always says clams are too chewy.”

   Up in Alva’s room, her maid set out three flannel swimming outfits to choose from, each with woolen stockings along with outdoor slippers. She had a dozen or more hanging in her closet. There was a time she didn’t even have a dozen dresses, let alone swimming costumes. She settled on a black-and-gray-striped suit, knowing that any of them would weigh her down once they got wet, making swimming too far out nearly impossible. This frustrated her to no end. Men didn’t need to cover every inch of flesh. They could swim freely whereas she could only go wading at best.

   After saying goodbye to Willie and Van Alen, she set out for the beach. Wandering down the tree-lined street, she passed a cluster of women, chatting away as they strolled leisurely in their best day dresses, their parasols hoisted above their shoulders. Alva felt a stab of envy. A simple afternoon walk with friends. They make it look so easy. Sometimes she tagged along with the other Vanderbilt women on their walks, listening to them wax on about their children and relations she’d never met, and family lore about the Commodore. There wasn’t an opening or even a crack for her to enter the conversation, and she found herself lonelier in their company than when she was by herself.

   When Alva reached Ruggles and Bellevue Avenues, she decided to take a detour and turned down the dirt pathway that led to the cliffs. Cliff Walk was a much prettier route, and as she hiked along, the trail grew more winding, even a bit treacherous in places, requiring a steady foot to navigate. The tomboy in Alva that fished, golfed and performed calisthenics every morning with Indian pins loved the challenge. She placed her slippered feet with nimble grace from one rock to the next while holding on to her bonnet. The pulse of the ocean, steady as a heartbeat, whooshed in her ears. Up ahead, around the bend she could see the rocks in the distance, those massive slabs of black shale and sandstone. She watched as a gull walked about with a clam in its mouth, dropping the shell against the rocks until it cracked open, before reaching inside to pull the fleshy meat out with its beak. Willie K. was right; she didn’t like clams. She had to look away, and when she did, she saw a young woman sitting on the ledge of a cliff, elbows to knees, head in hands. The wide lavender ribbons on her hat were fluttering in the breeze. She appeared to be crying.

   “Are you all right up there?”

   The woman lifted her face, and Alva saw that it was Emily Astor. Even from a distance and even while Emily was sobbing, Alva thought what she always thought when she saw her: Good lord, what a beautiful girl. How was it possible that anyone could have such enormous dark eyes, such a straight, perfect nose and a flower bud of a mouth?

   “Please, just let me be.” Emily buried her head in the folds of her arms, shoulders shaking.

   Alva squinted, trying to block the sun. “Be careful getting down from there.”

   “Just please—please, just go.”

   “Okay, fine. Fine.” Alva slapped her hands to her thighs and walked on, wondering why she’d even bothered. James Van Alen had introduced Alva and Emily on three separate occasions, and each time, Emily had said, How do you do? discounting their previous meetings. And Alva knew where she got that from, too. Her mother, the great Mrs. Astor, always looked through Alva, as though she weren’t there or wasn’t worth the time it would take to acknowledge her presence.

   It seemed that everywhere Alva turned she was met with some form of slight. The world had been trying to rein her in from as far back as she could remember. When Alva was four, her brother died of consumption. He was just thirteen. Alva remembered her father sitting in the church pew, shoulders shaking as he wept into the crook of his arm, asking God out loud why he’d taken his son and not one of his daughters. Alva had been crushed and ran out of the church. She hid in the cotton field until Armide found her and practically dragged her back inside the house. Alva couldn’t look at her father, knowing that he’d loved his son more than her or her sisters. But Alva couldn’t accept that. She was just as good as a son, and she vowed to prove that to her father, to everyone. She wouldn’t be kept down, wouldn’t be rendered second-rate. But the world wasn’t quite ready for Alva. Her own mother punished her for playing town ball and climbing trees. As a young woman, she couldn’t attend debutante balls because she was poor. Later, she wasn’t allowed to go to college or study subjects like politics and architecture just because she was a girl. Now she couldn’t go to Mrs. Astor’s clambake, and not because she was a woman, and not because she wasn’t rich enough, but because she wasn’t good enough. Not being good enough—it all boiled down to that simple truth.

   At times like this Alva questioned why she wanted to be part of society in the first place. But she knew why. Society was the only arena where women didn’t have to answer to men. They had created their own little world, governed by their own rules, set in place by their own rulers. It was the only realm where she could hope to have any say about anything at all. If she wanted respect, if she wanted power, she had to make her way in society.

   A seagull squawked overhead, strident to her ears. Alva kicked a loose pebble out of her way and had just reached a bend in the path when she saw a hat being carried away over the cliff. She saw the lavender ribbon flapping in the breeze and realized it was Emily’s. A second later she heard an ear-piercing shriek that sounded more animal-like than human. There came another shriek and Alva rushed back to see that Emily had slid down a five-foot drop, her fall broken only by another ledge jutting out. There was no way to hoist herself back up.

   “It’s okay—you’re all right,” Alva called out. “Just stay right there. Don’t move. I’m coming.” Alva’s heart was racing as she advanced from one rock to the next, keeping her eye on Emily as she struggled, gripping the jagged ledge for support.

   When Alva got close enough, she reached for Emily’s hand. “Just grab hold of me.”

   But as she groped for Alva, Emily stumbled again and skidded off the rock, clinging onto another serrated section of stone overlooking a twelve-foot drop. Alva cried out even before Emily did. She tried reaching for Emily, their fingertips straining but not connecting. Alva leaped forward to the next rock, her heart hammering when she grabbed hold of Emily’s forearm. Emily’s cheeks were puffing in and out, every part of her laboring to hang on. Alva still had hold of Emily, even as her own feet were slipping.

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