She was besotted with Dick, though, a feeling located in her stomach, a thrill akin to what occurred on a roller coaster, or when she had to travel alone to an unfamiliar place, or talk to a person who had authority. She didn’t have that stomach all the time, of course. She couldn’t have gotten anything done if she did. It happened often enough, though—when he came home from work, especially if he were a little late, or if she were the one who’d gone out and on her way home pictured him in his study, sitting in his green leather chair, reading and lost to the world. She was excited to see him again, and nervous, over and over. He stepped into that place in her mind she’d perceived as a fallow field, waiting to be planted. For years she’d had faith he would come, and then he came. He was the fulfillment of a central wish. It wasn’t exactly the same for him. He blinked at her when she entered a room, as if she were someone half-forgotten whose name had slipped his mind. He seemed surprised and confused by her, and she knew it was because he didn’t feel the need to figure her out, as she did him. She made a point of finding her own happiness. His moods, once she learned them, could be shifted by her subtle adjustments. She could make him happy. There was nothing in the world she wanted to do more than to give him the feeling that he had a happy life.
They married on Flag Day in 1940, and she immediately threw herself into the project of being even more in love. Her in-laws gave them a honeymoon at the Hamilton Princess in Bermuda, a perfect spot. They took walks along the harbor in the mornings and drove out to moonlit pink beaches every night. Sex had barely been awkward at all. They both wanted it, enjoyed it, and were encouraged that it got better day by day. One night Dick exuberantly jumped up and down on their bed, making his penis whirl around like a pinwheel. He leaped to the floor and jumped up and down in front of the window while she laughed helplessly. She found she liked being naked. She never had been, really, not even as a child. As soon as they went up to their room, they always took off their clothes.
He was a little bit stingy, certainly compared to her father, who always pressed a few bills into her hand when she left the house, but that was easily made up for when Dick’s back was turned. He didn’t notice much, either, not a flower, or a meal, but he discussed ideas avidly. He threw his racket down if he missed an easy shot, and became distressed if any food on his plate touched. Once she grasped that she could modify these flaws over time, or look the other way, she found most of them endearing, the poor sportsmanship excepted. She’d never seen a Miss Dictor’s girl behave that way, no matter how heated the contest. But men had something in their makeup that made them less even and less ashamed of it. How else to explain war?
They arrived back in Philadelphia and moved into the wedding gift from her parents, a house on Delancy Street. Polly had money, but Dick made a point to her and Posy and Ian that he intended to run the household on his salary, and they politely kept up that pretense ever afterward while making sure Polly had what she needed. Soon the true adjustment began—the lull of daily life after the hectic wedding whirl. What she’d thought of as an original pick of a husband became a realization that her choice was about as original as asking for a whiskey rather than a sherry. All she’d done was to marry at age twenty-one, like everyone else, and if her husband liked to read more than play tennis—the joke was on her. The finality was shocking. She’d live with Dick Wister for the rest of her life. It was what she’d desperately wanted, but now that she had it—no, it wasn’t as simple as being stymied by gratification. She was unsure what it was, but she caught herself feeling odd, as though she was a glass full of clattering ice cubes, chilled and melting at the same time.
One day Polly headed to Gladwyne for a tea with other Miss Dictor’s alums who’d married—Agnes wasn’t included—to be held at the new house of newlywed Carol Burns, a girl in the class above her. She and her mother drove out early for lunch at the Cricket Club. The grass tennis courts were brown, the porch closed off. She wanted the lemonade of her girlhood, but it was off the menu, too, so she ordered a ginger ale. But as always, a chicken salad sandwich.
Posy behaved differently toward Polly now that she was a married woman. No matter what they discussed, Posy brought Dick into it, mainly by asking about his opinions. How does Dick feel about Churchill? The Selective Service Act? The fate of the globe was more up to Dick and Daddy than it was to their better halves, for men’s opinions might reach influential ears. After the world was out of the way, mother and daughter shared the real news, talking about other people in their discreet manner, forgoing gossipy excitement in favor of tender, forgiving probes.
“And what about Teddy?” Posy asked, as if she didn’t see him most weeks.
“He’s being young,” Polly said. “I’m so glad he loves Penn.”
“He seems enthralled with Mask and Wig.” Posy ate a spoonful of soup in the normal way. Her table manners were plain, and didn’t include what she considered affectations, like pushing her spoon to the opposite rim of the plate. Polly was torn—fanciness made her feel knowing—but she kept to the old way for her mother’s sake. “I’m not sure comedy is called for at the moment.”
Polly nodded. The War in Europe.
“And I’ve never found it funny when men dress up in women’s clothes. Aren’t they making fun of us?”
“I don’t think so!” Polly said. But then she pictured it. They were.
“I don’t know why Teddy would want to do that.” Posy was truly stricken. There was a pause in the chatter around them.
“Yes, it’s a dumb form of humor, and Teddy will realize it soon enough.”
“I hope so. I don’t want him getting caught up.”
“Teddy will always land on his feet.” Polly cajoled her mother until they were once again laughing. It was entirely new to her to be the one to bring her mother around. Posy’s feelings had always presented themselves as a calm, united front. It seemed that marriage had conferred on Polly a confidential role—unexpected, but a fresh source of pride. In Carol’s driveway, she leaned across the seat and gave Posy a warm hug goodbye. “I’ll call you,” she said—as if speaking to a friend.
Carol Burns gave the group a tour of her house. Not that there was anything exceptional to see. She had many of the same Colonial pieces they’d all grown up with. The novelty was that it was her own house, and she was in charge. They all sat down, and Carol poured the tea into her wedding china, a very modern pattern. She poured as they’d all been trained to, half a cup of the dark brew and then water to fill up. She asked each girl about milk and lemon, and dropped two cubes in each cup without asking. Soon sugar would be rationed, but they were oblivious in the present. Soon husbands and brothers and friends would be dead, but they still felt free to be boastful about how well they were making their way in the world. They kept up with the news, but not one could imagine what was to come. Dick was bewildered by Hitler’s outrageous opinions and aggression. Polly considered repeating some of his pronouncements, but held back. This was not the time or the place. This was about another kind of change.