“I’ll get you one.”
She bustles off. The room tilts. I walk over to Major, who is sitting on the couch, alone. He leans forward obligingly so I can read the sign on his back. He is Paul McCartney. “I love your accent,” I tell him.
“Pfeff called me a disgrace.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “You’re just a little mushy, that’s all.”
“Does that mean I’m not Hitler?” says Major. “I’ve been worried I was Hitler.”
“Not Hitler,” I tell him.
Uncle Dean sits down across from us. “I am obviously Sherlock Holmes, but I don’t want to be the first person to go sit outside.” He grins at Major. “I heard you on the radio this morning.”
Suddenly, I am no longer on the couch but leaning against the bookshelf. “Are you a little drunk?” Pfeff is saying to me. “Is that possible?”
“Show me your sign,” I say.
“I just showed it to you.”
I don’t remember. He shows me his back, apparently for the second time. He is Pablo Picasso. “Do you mean my character is a little drunk or do you mean I myself am a little drunk?” I ask him.
“The latter,” says Pfeff. “But whatever. So am I. Oh, here’s a question.”
“What?”
“How do you feel about your sister now?”
“Penny?”
“No, I’m talking to—” Pfeff gestures to the card on my back. “The person you are tonight.”
And now I am sitting with Bess, squashed together in an easy chair. “Yardley told me white looks good on me, too,” says Bess, who is Marilyn Monroe. “Do you think she’s saying that to everyone?”
“No,” I tell her. “Just you and me.”
“Okay, are you ready? Here’s a clue,” Bess says.
“Ready.”
“I like your little green friend.”
“My what?”
“Your little green friend.”
I drink from my teacup. It is nearly empty. Tomkin climbs on top of me and Bess, sitting on our joint laps. “You don’t know who you are yet?” he asks me.
“No.”
“But you’re the best guy!”
“What about me?” says Bess. “Am I the best guy, too?”
“I have no idea who you are,” says Tomkin. “But you’re a lady.”
And then I am with Penny, over by the stereo, and Tomkin and Bess are at the dessert table, eating shortbread. My cup is empty, so I set it down on a windowsill.
“Apparently I have a lot of sex appeal,” says Penny, who is Elvis Presley. “You have sex appeal as well, I should say.”
Her face is blurry but I force myself to focus.
“Are you drunk, Carrie?” she asks me sharply.
“No.” I force myself to look at Penny directly—and reel back. We didn’t sit near each other at supper. This is the first time I’ve been close to her since she came down in Erin’s black turtleneck.
Her pale cream hair shines against the dark shirt. And she is wearing the black pearls.
38.
I REACH OUT and touch them at her neck. “Those are Tipper’s.”
“I asked if I could try them. You got a turn. All her other stuff is so old-lady.”
“She let you wear them?”
Penny shrugs. “Sure, whatever. Tomorrow I think we should go to the Vineyard and do some crimes. We could see an afternoon movie and go to the arcade, or whatever. Something different. You, me, Yardley, and Erin?”
How could Tipper let her wear the black pearls?
“Well,” says Penny, ignoring my silence. “Up to you. Oh, and your father is not your father.”
“What?”
“Your father is not your father,” she says again. “Hope that helps.” She reaches out as Erin walks by. “Erin, I’m very sexy, right? Major told me I’m very sexy.”
She and Erin go off together.
I grab Bess. “Penny just said to me, ‘Your father is not your father.’？”
“Yeah?” Bess adjusts the strap of her dress. “Was it helpful?”
“What did she mean?”
Bess shrugs. “Did you see she’s wearing Mother’s black pearls?”
“Yes.” I lean against the bookshelf to steady myself.
“I’m going to see what Mother will lend me,” says Bess. “I mean, the black pearls are probably the coolest thing she has, but girls at school are wearing these long ropes of white pearls, like costume jewelry. Do you think Mother has anything like that I can wear?”