Guests mingled close to the scoreboard, bordering on jostling but trying to appear casual while awaiting results. Jinx stood with Kipper, Betty, and Pru, and after her strenuous rounds of bridge, looked more rumpled than a Bergdorf catalog at a Smith College reunion.
“How did you do, Betty?” I asked, attempting to mend our fence.
“Well, Pru got lucky on a slam.”
“I think we edged you out, Pru,” Jinx said.
I flapped my stack of tallies. “We’ll see,” I said.
“You’re tallying?” Jinx said. “Have someone double-check your math. I’d hate for you to make a mistake.”
“Don’t worry, Jinx,” I said. “How could anyone but you and Kipper come out on top?”
I ferried the fat stack back to the powder room, a gilded affair with golden swan-headed lavatory taps Marie Antoinette would have liked, and tallied the scores. Jinx and Kipper were the team to beat, having trounced Betty and Pru.
The gong to gather sounded, and I hurried to the library. Mrs. Custer stood with Mrs. Vanderbilt near the chalk tally board. Mrs. Vanderbilt, ablaze with old mine diamonds, was lovely in steel-gray taffeta and matching turban. Was it the champagne or the exertion of the noblesse oblige that brought high color to her cheek?
“Come, dear, who are our winners?” Mrs. Custer asked. “I’m afraid there’s no time to put it on the board.”
I handed her the stack, the winning tally on top. Mrs. Custer showed it to Mrs. Vanderbilt, and they shared a smile. As I stepped to the back of the room, Mrs. Custer sounded the gong, and guests gathered from all parts of the house. Men in evening clothes gave way to those in uniform, and all craned their necks for a better view.
“It is with great pleasure that I announce the winners of tonight’s bridge tournament,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said. “My late husband would see this as a fitting send-off for our old place, raising twenty thousand dollars for the Red Cross.”
The crowd clapped and shouted, and Jinx and Kipper edged their way to the front of the room.
“And another five thousand to a very lucky charity. I know you’re all eager to know the names of the talented winners who can call themselves the best of the best. So without further ado, say hello to your winning team…”
The orchestra played an anticipatory riff.
Jinx took Kipper’s hand and started toward the board.
“Mrs. Elizabeth Stockwell Merchant and Mrs. Prudence Vanderbilt Aldrich Bowles.”
Mrs. Custer tossed the remaining tallies in the fire as Betty and Pru pushed their way through the crowd. Mrs. Vanderbilt handed the check to Betty, who seemed nonplussed by the whole thing.
“And what charity are you girls playing for tonight?” Mrs. Vanderbilt asked.
“One close to my heart,” Betty said, hand to her chest. “Caroline Ferriday’s French Families Fund.”
The crowd clapped and the applause, polite at first, swelled as Mrs. Vanderbilt wiped a tear. Betty’s smile made me glad our splinter had worked its way out.
The crowd surrounded Betty and Pru, and I made my way to the door, eager to breathe the night air. On the way, I passed Jinx and Kipper.
“Sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Math never was your strong suit,” Jinx said. “Don’t think I won’t get the word out about this.”
“Thank you, Jinx,” I said. “I hope you do.”
I made it outside and tried to shake off the nipping of my conscience. So I’d been dishonest. It was in the service of a friend. I tried to focus on all the good Roger and I would do with five thousand dollars.
I walked home with a lighter step, for that night had knocked something loose in me, something long overdue to be knocked. At long last, I saw that group for what they were, with a few exceptions—a queer assortment of layabouts and late risers, most overdrawn at the bank or at least cutting into principal, only interested in who’s going in the drawer at the Maidstone Club or their wedge on the fifteenth hole at Pebble Beach or dressing down the staff about a bit of shell in the lobster while shoveling canapés in. Jinx had done me a favor, freed me of any lingering allegiances to New York Society, snipped my fear of being on their bad side.
I was free of spending my life pleasing them, free to go it alone.
1942–1943
When Gebhardt cracked open my cast and I saw my leg, it no longer looked like a human limb. It was swollen fat as a log, covered in dark blue and greenish-black patches. Black sutures strained