“Abe, you couldn’t sleep. That’s not like you. Is it about the war?”
The martyrdom was coming to its blessed end. The clink of cocktail glasses, the lipsticked air kisses, the polite conversation and elegant dresses: predictable people, saying predictable things, living their predictable lives. This dinner party, given by her parents a few days after Marjorie’s graduation, was boring, boring, boring!
Catching a glimpse of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, Marjorie grinned; her first sincere smile of the evening. At least on one issue, she’d won. Right after graduation she’d gone shopping (what an ordeal!) with Mother, trying on the best of what Bergdorf, Saks, and Lord & Taylor had to offer: sophisticated A-line dresses trimmed with delicate lace, accessorized with a string of pearls and (omigosh!) matching gloves. When Mother had told her how important it was for her make a good impression at this party, Marjorie had countered by pointing out that, “Mother, it’s not 1955 anymore, no one wears gloves except for snowball fights.” Marjorie’s own suggestion — “I hear you can get really groovy dresses in the Village, with beads and matching headbands” — Mother had simply ignored.
Then came the brainstorm. It was a crazy idea, but maybe, just maybe, Majorie could sell it to Mother. “I’ve got a great idea. What about doing something very chic and sophisticated?” Mother looked both suspicious and intrigued. “It’s my graduation party, right? So I’ll come in my cap and gown.”
Though her initial reaction was shock overlaid with horror, Marjorie soldiered on. “Think about it,” she said, using her sweetest and most persuasive voice. “It will be a fashion statement that will make all the guests madly jealous of you.”
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