She squints. “Friday? His mother died, poor thing. He’s gone to the Midwest to bury her.”
“Friday?” I take a step and nearly trip on the brick. I grab a vine of ivy to steady myself.
“That’s what he said. Friday.” The old woman bobs her head.
The reality of my situation hits me like a truckload of cement. “That’s too late!” I cry, as I let go of the vine and collapse to the ground in despair.
“Sparrow?” Samantha asks, coming into the living room. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been sitting there for over an hour with your mouth hanging open. It’s not very attractive,” she scolds. When I don’t respond, she stands over me and knocks on my head. “Hello? Anyone home?”
I unhinge my eyes from a blank spot on the wall and swivel my head around to look at her.
She shakes a sheaf of newspaper pages in my face. “I thought we could have some fun. Work on my engagement announcement for The New York Times. You’re a writer. This should be a snap for you.”
“I’m not a writer. Not anymore,” I respond dully.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve had one small setback.” She settles in next to me with the pile of papers on her lap. “I’ve been collecting these since May. The wedding and engagement announcements in The New York Times. Also known as the ‘women’s sports pages.’”
“Who cares?” I lift my head.
“Everyone who’s anyone in New York, Sparrow,” she explains, as if talking to a child. “And it’s especially important because the Times won’t take just any old announcement. The man has to be Ivy League. And both parties need to come from the right sort of families. Old money is best, but new money will do. Or fame. If, for instance, the bride has a famous father, like an actor or a sculptor or a composer, she’ll definitely get in.”
“Why can’t you just get married?” I rub my cheeks. My skin is cold, as if I’ve lost all circulation.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Samantha asks. “Why get married in New York if you’re going to be a nobody? You might as well have stayed home. A wedding in New York is all about taking your proper place in society. It’s why we’re getting married at the Century Club. If you get married there, it’s a statement.”
“Meaning?”
She pats my leg. “You belong, Sparrow.”
“But what if you don’t? Belong.”
“For God’s sake, Sparrow. You act like you do. What is wrong with you? Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”
And before I can protest, she goes to the typewriter, rolls a piece of paper into the carriage, and points at the chair. “You write. I’ll dictate.”
My shoulders slump, but I follow her order and place my hands on the keys, more out of rote than of conscious action.
Samantha plucks a page from her pile and scans the announcements. “Here’s a good one. ‘Miss Barbara Halters from Newport, Rhode Island, known to her friends as Horsie . . .’”
If she’s joking, it’s completely lost on me. “I thought you were from Weehawken.”
“Who wants to be from there? Put down ‘Short Hills.’ Short Hills is acceptable.”
“But what if someone checks—”
“They won’t. Can we please continue? Miss Samantha Jones—”
“What about ‘Ms.’?”
“Okay. Ms. Samantha Jones, of Short Hills, New Jersey, attended . . .” She pauses. “What college is near Short Hills?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just say ‘Princeton’ then. It’s close enough. Princeton,” she continues, satisfied with her choice. “And I graduated with a degree in . . . English literature.”