Mating Rituals of the North American WASP (34 page)

Bex was mistaken. Depressing was trying to explain to a ninety-one-year-old Yankee why you’d decided to demonstrate against
her family on the town green. Peggy tried again and again to plead her position to Miss Abigail: “I mean no disrespect to
you or Luke. But I know you can’t approve of what Luke is doing with that land.”

“I’d like my sherry now,” was all the old woman would say.

Peggy spent four Saturdays marching, shouting slogans, and chanting until her voice gave out. She got stares—and a scowl or
two—from plenty of passersby; the Realtors, especially, seemed to shoot daggers at the picketers marching past their offices.
But just as many other people waved or nodded their approval. Debby Doff, owner of the Cheese Shoppe, brought the group samples—dabs
of Brie on French bread or local cheddar with sliced apples—and Luigi, from Luigi’s, gave out cans of soda. The shop owners
understood, Peggy knew, that their livelihoods depended on keeping downtown vibrant.

But it wasn’t easy for Peggy. In church, she could feel rows of eyes on her as she took her seat. She could imagine what people
were thinking—that Peggy and Luke Sedgwick had turned against each other. Miss Abigail didn’t seem aware of the whispers.
Peggy began to think there might be a small silver lining in this apparently worsening dementia—if it prevented the old woman
from being hurt. But then, Miss Abigail could be just being her usual, stiff-upper-lipped self.

“You have to tell her about the annulment,” Peggy told Luke during one of their rare exchanges; she’d nearly bumped into him
on the way back from brushing her teeth before bedtime. She was fully clothed, thank goodness. She’d learned her lesson after
getting caught in her long johns.

Luke promised he would say something soon, but Peggy knew he was as reluctant to upset his great-aunt as she was. She let
it go, hoping an opportune moment for the conversation would materialize. They had barely a month left until their annulment
hearing, until this entire foolish endeavor would be behind her. She tried not to think of Miss Abigail, growing older, her
health eventually fading, with only Luke to look after her; of what would become of the Sedgwick House; of Luke, free to be
with whatever woman he chose.

On the last Saturday in March, Peggy was out picketing in the still too warm weather when a female voice spoke her name. She
turned to see Liddy Hubbard, holding a leash to which was attached a graying golden retriever.

“Well, hi!” Peggy exclaimed, confused over why Liddy would drive an hour from Westport to New Nineveh to walk her dog. Just
then, Peggy spotted Carrie and Creighton behind Liddy—nor did either one of them live anywhere near New Nineveh. For a moment
she thought,
They’ve come to demonstrate.

“Peggy, what are you doing?” There wasn’t a trace of compassion in Liddy’s thin, humorless mouth.

“Picketing, I guess,” Peggy said stupidly. She waggled her “Save Our Town” sign. “See, we’re protesting against the commercial
interests who want to destroy New Nineveh’s character to further their financial—”

Liddy narrowed her eyes. “We know what you’re
doing.
What we don’t understand is
why
.”

“People are talking.” Carrie grimaced as a sudden cold gust ruffled her hair. “You’re calling too much attention to yourself.
Connecticut isn’t a big state. Word gets around.”

“Foolish names and foolish faces often appear in public places,” Liddy interjected. “As my grandmother used to say.”

“Exactly.” Creighton, who had been patting the dog, stood back up and readjusted her headband—kelly green today, to match
her grosgrain belt. “You’re embarrassing your husband.”

The snake of anxiety that had been slithering into Peggy’s windpipe vanished—replaced by indignation. She set down her sign
and led the trio away from the knot of demonstrators, toward the marble obelisk commemorating the New Nineveh soldiers lost
in the Civil War. Peggy knew from Miss Abigail that the memorial included the names of three Sedgwicks.

She wished she had a coat. The temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees in as many minutes.

“This isn’t the sixties.” Liddy buttoned up her jacket. “The hippie era ended for a reason, you know.”

“It was tacky,” Carrie said. “The polyester and the facial hair.”

That was the problem with people who had everything, Peggy thought. They’d never had to fight for anything.

“I have a right to free speech,” she insisted. “It’s what this country was founded on. I’m not embarrassing Luke—not trying
to, anyway. I just disagree with what he’s doing.”

“Listen.” Liddy put her leash-free arm around Peggy’s shoulders. “This isn’t the sort of thing we would normally discuss,
but, well, if you and Luke are having problems…”

Peggy was paralyzed with anger.

Liddy continued, “You know, Peggy, no marriage is perfect. I’ll admit, Kyle and I have our differences now and then. But we
don’t parade those differences all over town.”

Of course you don’t,
Peggy thought.
Not when you could have a couple of drinks and ignore it.
She wanted to defend herself, but what could she say, really? Besides, there seemed to be agitation among the demonstrators,
who’d all set aside their signs and were huddled in a discussion. Peggy stopped listening to the preppy trio and tuned back
in to her own group in time to hear Annette say, “That’s it for today, folks. See you all tomorrow, weather permitting,” and
to discover that, at long last, snowflakes were falling.

“Luke!” Abigail shouted from downstairs. “Luke!”

Luke looked up from the poem in front of him. There was an almost agreeable sameness to Abby calling for him this way. He
put down his pencil. A new piece of plaster dangled from the ceiling. For once, the house’s decrepitude didn’t bother him.
It was almost endearing the way that piece of ceiling clung there tenaciously, defying gravity and time.

“Luke!” Abigail shouted as the staircase rattled.

Luke ran to the landing in time to see his great-aunt appear.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be climbing—” He stopped himself.

Abigail’s wrinkled cheeks were flushed with excitement. A mischievous sparkle lit her faded eyes.

“Winter is back,” she said.

Peggy saw the two of them in Luke’s study before they saw her. She started to ask how Miss Abigail had gotten up the stairs
but forgot the question as she watched them confer together at the computer.

“You see, that’s the storm coming in.” Luke, in the straight-backed chair Peggy remembered from his bedroom, pointed to the
display.

“What’s this?” Miss Abigail was in Luke’s desk chair, her tiny body craned toward the screen.

“If I click on it, it shows the snowfall over the next few hours. See? By three it will be steady, and by five it will be
heavy. You can get all that on the Internet.”

Miss Abigail snorted. “Or you could just look out the fool window.”

Peggy laughed, and the two raised their heads, noticing her. “That was funny,” she said, giggling. “Good one, Miss Abigail.”

“Humor was not my intention, young lady.” But instead of the glared rebuke Peggy had expected, a smile spread across Miss
Abigail’s face. “It’s wonderful to be in the ballroom again. Mother and Daddy had such parties here. The chandeliers sparkled,
and the musicians would play, and it was a fairyland.” Miss Abigail hummed a tuneless melody.

“It’s nice to see you in such a good mood.” Peggy, too, could feel happiness stealing over her. As long as she was in this
house, she was safe—from the prying comments of Liddy, Carrie, and Creighton; from the controversy over Luke’s land; from
the fact that the business she’d poured her life into was withering away. No wonder Miss Abigail loved the house so much.
And, Peggy supposed, she could understand, too, why Luke might yearn to leave behind this cocoon of comfort to stretch his
wings. Didn’t everyone struggle between the desire for the familiar and the equal desire to break free?
Try to think what it is you’re really anxious about,
Birch had said in that long-ago meditation class. Was it just that Peggy still hadn’t found the right balance? Was this why
she’d always been so eager to get married, as if marriage were the sole promise of safety in a cold, stormy world?

Miss Abigail was struggling to get out of her chair. Luke, still demonstrating the Internet’s many weather-measuring capabilities,
wasn’t paying attention. “May I help?” Peggy asked, knowing what the answer would be:
Nonsense
.

“Yes, thank you.” Miss Abigail fluttered her tiny hand onto Peggy’s arm, and Peggy supported her as she rose slowly from Luke’s
desk chair. It was the first time the Yankee woman had ever needed her, and Peggy was glad to be able to help at long last.
“It’s time to start dinner,” Miss Abigail continued. “Peggy, would you take me down the stairs?”

Their voices and footsteps faded, and then all was quiet. Quieter than quiet, hushed by the snow now falling in goose-feather
flakes. His great-aunt was right, of course. Who needed a computer when one could simply look outside? Luke stood near the
half-moon window, winter cold stealing in through the panes despite his best efforts to seal it out. The false spring was
over. One needed to look no further than the New England sky, pregnant with snow.

It was time to get ready.

“What’s Luke doing?” Peggy asked. For the past fifteen minutes he’d been passing by the kitchen, descending into the basement
and emerging again with tarnished brass lanterns, plastic jugs of kerosene, and old shoeboxes with the stubs of candles. “He’s
acting like the world is about to end.”

“There’s a nor’easter blowing in.” Miss Abigail surveyed the back garden out the kitchen window. Nearby, Quibble wove his
black body around and between the table legs.

Something wasn’t right. Nothing about this day felt normal, not the unexpected change of weather, not Luke’s manic energy,
not Miss Abigail’s unusually good mood, not Quibble rubbing against Peggy’s calves agitatedly, as if there were nothing the
least bit odd about his being out and about at this time of day. Peggy opened the fridge. It was virtually empty. In all her
focus on the demonstrations, she’d forgotten about her weekly trip to the market with Miss Abigail. There was a carton of
eggs and, in the crisper, what looked like a bag of celery.

A clatter sounded in the basement, as if Luke had dropped something. The cat jumped two vertical feet in the air and streaked
out of the room.

“Damn!” Luke cursed from down the stairs.

“Do you suppose he’s all right?” Peggy started to get up, thinking she should offer him some assistance, but Miss Abigail
touched her elbow.

“Let him be. He needs the distraction.”

Distraction from what?
Peggy didn’t ask. She knew what Miss Abigail meant.

“This hullabaloo on the green is bothering him, dear. The Sedgwicks don’t enjoy attention. It isn’t in our nature.”

“I have a right to free speech,” Peggy responded, for the second time that day. “Forgive me, Miss Abigail, but this is what
your own ancestors died for in the Revolutionary War—so future generations could speak their minds freely, even when it was
difficult and painful. This is no easier for me than it is for you, or Luke. But I can’t sit by while Luke ruins New Nineveh
in the name of progress. This place is too special for me not to at least try and—”

Luke was passing through the hallway again.

“—change Luke’s mind,” Peggy finished when his footsteps were far enough down the hall. Self-conscious, she opened the refrigerator
again. “How about scrambled eggs?”

Miss Abigail turned from the window. “You’re a real Sedgwick, Peggy.”

Peggy set the eggs on the counter.

“Our family’s women have a long history of speaking their minds and standing up for what they believed in. Had Charles not
passed away, I would have married him even if it meant losing my inheritance. Sedgwick women aided slaves on the Underground
Railroad and marched at Seneca for the right to vote. Elizabeth Coe Sedgwick, whose brooch I gave you, was a vocal abolitionist.
It nearly killed Josiah at first, but he came around.” Miss Abigail grinned. “If you ask me, Sedgwick men have always been
attracted to uppity women. Clearly my nephew is no exception.”

Was Miss Abigail having one of her episodes? Peggy wasn’t sure—and was blushing so badly, she wanted to hide in the refrigerator.
She tugged at the celery in the vegetable drawer, but it was wedged in tightly, and she gave up. Even Miss Abigail couldn’t
want celery in her scrambled eggs.

Luke clomped into the kitchen, a dusting of snow in his hair. “The lamps are filled, the flashlights have fresh batteries,
the shovels are in the mudroom, and the cars are in the garage. Anything I’ve forgotten, Abby?”

“Well,” Miss Abigail said, “you never told me Peggy wasn’t a Yankee.”

Luke and Peggy stared at each other. It was the first time he could remember meeting her gaze in weeks. She was so pretty,
he thought, before a less affectionate conclusion intruded.
You told her?
he mouthed. Peggy widened her eyes and mouthed back,
No.

Luke couldn’t imagine what to do. All he knew was Abby was wearing her “don’t take me for a delusional old lady” look.

“Aren’t you two going to explain what’s going on?” Despite her stern words, Abby’s tone was mild, almost amused.

This was the perfect time to tell her. Not just that Peggy wasn’t a New Nineveh Adams, but about the annulment. About all
of it—their accidental marriage in Las Vegas, their ridiculous plan to finance her long-term care by selling the house.

“Abby…” Luke looked at Peggy long and hard, willing her to understand. “Peggy and I have a number of things to discuss with
you. Things about our marriage—the circumstances behind it, and decisions we’ve made about it.” He glanced at Peggy for confirmation.

In the window behind her, snow pelted the ground. Peggy would be lucky to get home tomorrow, Luke thought; if the nor’easter
kept up at this pace—the news was predicting a blizzard—it could take the snowplow crews all day to clear the roads.