Ed grunted and then tilted his head, taking another slow sip of his coffee. I noticed the way his hand trembled ever so slightly—too much gin again the night before, perhaps. I didn’t know; I’d gone to bed hours before him.
When he spoke, his voice was cool. “In Battle Creek, perhaps, but this is Greenwich.”
I was well aware that it was Greenwich; I certainly did not need his reminder. It was my house, after all, wasn’t it? And twice the size of the one in which he’d grown up. I didn’t hear him complaining about that. Even though the deed for The Boulders was in my name, I’d behaved as if the estate belonged equally to the both of us.
And yet, despite the fact that I’d given Ed the finest home in Greenwich—paid for by that birdseed, thank you very much—I was starting to sense that my husband, like so many among his clan, found me somehow lacking. As though I was uncouth or deficient in the necessary social niceties because I didn’t stay up late with them, swallowing cocktail after cocktail, and then squander the morning snoozing in bed, only to ring a bell and have a lady’s maid come in to feed and dress me as if I were a child or an invalid. No, I rose early with the sun and a clear head and got myself to the breakfast table as I’d done all my life. I knew no other way. Why, even Leila, for whom there was no love lost on my part, started her mornings early and with an air of purposefulness.
Ed was dabbing the corners of his fine, tight mouth with his napkin as he continued: “In Greenwich, dear…well, things are done differently.” His gaze rested on my salmon pajamas, and I noted—not for the first time—how his calm, courteous demeanor seamlessly tipped into the realm of cool judgment, perhaps even disapproval.
“Never you mind, my dear,” I said, forcing joviality into my voice. Perhaps I was only imagining things, being extra sensitive because others had made me feel common. I knew that my Eddie adored me. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us, what with planning for the trip, and I figured I’d get to it. Can I do anything to help you prepare for the journey?” I was trying my best to be a warm and loving wife, even if I’d rarely seen an example of this in my parents’ marriage. I was determined that our union would be different.
It would be our first Christmas as newlyweds, and we were planning to spend it in Battle Creek. It would be my first time seeing Papa since our wedding, and I was so excited about that fact that I was even willing to sleep under the same roof as Leila.
Ed, however, appeared less sanguine about the upcoming trip. “Christmas in Michigan. Never thought I’d say that.” He drained the last of his coffee and folded the newspaper, making to rise from the table.
“Oh, you’ll love it,” I said. “The Christmas ham tastes so much better when you kill the hog yourself.”
Ed’s beautiful lips fell open in a gape. “I’m teasing,” I added, trying to bite back my smile. “We’re not that barbaric, my dear. I promise you, it’s all civil enough in the Post residence. You’ll see.”
“I’m sure it is.” He leaned down and gave me a quick peck on the top of my head as he prepared to leave the room. “I’m looking forward to seeing the home that means so much to you, my dear.” He proffered a smile, and just like that, he was back to being my sweet Ed, courteous, bridled, even if his face betrayed a truth slightly different from his words.
* * *
My assurances proved to be wrong, however, because the mood in the house felt far from civil. Being back in Battle Creek and under the roof of my childhood, only now with Leila as the lady of the house, rankled in ways I had not anticipated, and I found myself scratching my hands raw once more.
Eddie’s discomfort at the informality of it all was blatant, even though he put forward his usual well-mannered demeanor. I could see in the way Ed looked around the rooms of our modest farmhouse, the way he topped up his gin glass first thing in the morning—he was in a foreign environment, and it was not one he enjoyed. We woke on our own and without a fleet of uniformed servants attending to us in our bedrooms. The expectation was that we were to make our own ways to a leisurely breakfast, often still in our pajamas. In Battle Creek the holidays unfurled without packed schedules of country-club luncheons or calling-card visits through old Greenwich estates. Even though the winter air outside was bitter cold, Papa suggested activities like hiking the surrounding woods in snowshoes or skating across the frozen ponds. I appreciated keeping busy, and I enjoyed these wintry outings, except for when Leila came along. We’d come inside to thaw, passing lazy hours in front of the fire while sipping on mugs of Postum, listening as Papa and Uncle Cal shared stories from their youth. Our fanciest outing was the evening we rode the sleigh into town to visit at the Post Tavern that bore our name and to enjoy dinner with Shorty Bristol, my daddy’s longtime friend and associate.