There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice, as if he were performing for the girls. Marion went upstairs feeling like no better a mother than the one in the movie. Judson was nine years old. She knew it was time for Becky to have a boyfriend, past time for Clem to have a girl in his life, but she was not remotely ready for Judson to lose his innocence.
In the hallway, standing with her back to the party and popping a whole cookie into her mouth, was the Lutheran pastor’s wife—Jane. Definitely Jane Walsh, not Janet. On her dessert plate were four more cookies, and she was even heavier than Marion.
“Hello, Jane. Marion Hildebrandt—Russ’s wife.”
One greeting down, a million to go.
“This party is a lovely tradition,” Jane said, “but Doris’s cookies are not what I need at this time of year. I always seem to overdo.”
Marion herself preferred the meatballs. The cookies here, though impeccably Swedish, were dry and flavorless. She was on the verge of expressing this judgment, on the theory that she was done with censoring herself, when the sociable din in the living room died down suddenly. She wondered if Dwight Haefle might be making a little speech. Instead, she heard another familiar voice rising. It was Perry, shouting something about … being damned?
She hurried past Jane Walsh and pushed through the party’s margins. Perry was standing by the fireplace, his face extremely red, a Haefle to either side of him. Everyone else in the room was watching them.
“What’s going on?” Marion said.
Perry swallowed a sob. “Mom, I’m sorry.”
“What is it? What’s happening?”
“Son,” Dwight Haefle said, putting an arm around Perry. “Let’s, ah. Let’s take a little walk.”
Perry bowed his head and let himself be led away. Marion tried to follow, but Doris Haefle arrested her. Her expression blazed with triumph. “Your son is intoxicated.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“Hm, yes, this is what happens when children aren’t supervised. Did you only get here now?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“It’s quite unusual that your children came without you.”
“I know. The weather is just … Perry was trying to do a good thing.”
“You didn’t tell him to come?”
“God, no.”
“That’s good, then, dear.” Doris patted Marion on the shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You just need to take him home now.”
Doris Haefle had a grossly inflated sense of the importance of a pastor’s wife, was sensitive to every slight to it, and therefore, because the world didn’t share her regard for the role, existed in a state of perpetual grievance. Among the crosses she bore was being married to a pastor who ironically deprecated his own role. For Marion, the miserable thing was that she, too, was a pastor’s wife and thus, in Doris’s view, worthy of the highest respect. She had to endure not only Doris’s unsolicited suggestions on how to comport herself, in her exalted role, but the unfailingly tender manner in which she offered them. It was awkward to be called dear by a person you felt like calling insufferable bitch.
Perry was slumped forward on a chair in the dining room, his hair draping his face. Dwight came over to Marion and spoke in a low voice. “He does seem to have been drinking gl?gg.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “I apologize for this.”
“Should we be worried about Russ?”
“No, he’s on a date with Frances Cottrell.”
The widening of Dwight’s eyes amused her.
“They’re delivering toys and canned goods in the city.”
“Ah.”
“But listen,” she said. “Judson’s in the basement watching Miracle on 34th Street. Would you mind if I left him here and came back later?”
“Not at all,” Dwight said. “If you don’t want to come back, I can run him home.”
How often a marriage consisted of nasty paired with nice. If her own marriage didn’t strike people this way, it was only because they’d never met the real her. She needed to go down and tell Judson that she was taking Perry home, but the scene in the basement had left an unsettling aftertaste, and so she asked nice Dwight to do it. When he was gone, she went to Perry and crouched at his feet.
“Sweetie,” she said. “How drunk are you? A lot, or not very?”
“Relatively not very,” he said, his face still hidden. “Mrs. Haefle overreacted.”