© 1995 J. B. Chevallier


                                THE SNOW PARTY

	The snow party took place just weeks after one which had been 
an awful failure.  The Starlings, whom she'd so wanted to come, had 
claimed to be away. But Spencer, her youngest, who played with their 
sons, had told Marguerite they'd been in town.  Her old school friend she 
hadn't really expected, but still it was rude of her not to have called.  
Even Ronald and Charles, her mainstays, had only dropped in briefly, on 
their way to the gala for a new Broadway show.
	It had been her first large party in many years, and she'd planned 
it for a month.  When the last guests had hurried off, she'd sworn not to 
have another.  Not, at least, until she got divorced. She was sure it was 
Harry who'd kept her friends away.  Still, she couldn't do a thing until the 
boys were grown.
	"But I'm too old for that!"
	Birgitta's voice intruded, returning her to the shop.  Marguerite 
glanced at the banjo clock.  3:30.  How long had the woman been talking? 
An hour? Not one customer had come in. No wonder her mind was 
wandering.
	She studied the white roots of Birgitta's stiff blond hair. Which 
one was she on now: the boy who sold Victoriana on Lex, or the young 
Hungarian who ran the candy store? Both it seemed were flirting, though 
neither in so many words.  Birgitta found this flattering, but, really, at her 
age!
	Marguerite almost assured her that she wasn't old at all.  But the 
lie seemed a bit too generous.  Instead, she responded with a nod, and a 
smile of complicity.
	Birgitta was seated in the Hepplewhite chair.  Marguerite had 
bought this at auction, sure she'd get twice what she'd paid.  It wasn't a 
real one, of course.  Still, it was a handsome piece.  But it hadn't sold, 
even at cost.  Now it was where her visitors sat: the browsers, the 
pickers, and the afternoon friends.
	Birgitta was a picker who'd become an afternoon friend.  She 
went from one antique store to the next, selling costume jewelry.  Most of 
it was hideous, but you could never tell.  Every now and then, she made 
a find.
	A pile of it lay between them now, ugly Art Deco, vines, nymphs 
and veils twisting around fake rubies and pink quartz. A Medusa's head 
glared from the top of the heap.
	"If only you had seen him! So distinguished a man!  What would 
he want with an old skin like me?"
	She rolled her eyes, a Parisian coquette.  Even her makeup was 
nineteenth century, kohl making a mask of her eyes, powder packed in 
the lines of her face. She wore it like armor against advancing age, a 
brittle shell fashioned with awkward but earnest artifice.  Facing her, 
Marguerite felt far younger, not a mother in her mid-forties, but the girl 
she had been at twenty, fresh, free, impulsive.
	The snow party had been an impulse. She should have known 
that was how to do it. It had never been her way to plan. The boys, of 
course. They were planned.  She'd always wanted boys.  Now, as they 
neared their teens, she had to consider college.  Harvard for her eldest.  
That was clear.  Even if they had to take out a loan.  But his brother?  It 
would have to be a place that tolerated difference. That appreciated spirit. 
The Princeton tiger came to mind....
	Otherwise, though, she was really still a girl.  She truly felt that. 
At her best when spontaneous. Tactless sometimes, it was true. Things 
just seemed to slip out.  "You're terrible," Ronald and Charles told her.  
But in fact they liked her best at those moments.
	They had been the first ones she'd called.  Saturday afternoon, 
she'd looked outside and seen the large white flakes coming down.  Great 
spaces of air separated each one, so that it hardly seemed to be snowing 
at all.  Yet within an hour, the tar on the neighboring roof glistened, 
breathlessly white.  Out on Third Avenue, white rectangles took shape 
between the parked cars.
	The idea had come to her as she picked up the phone.  She'd 
wanted to be sure they saw it, that was all, to share her exhilaration. But 
before the fourth ring, her words had formed, and spilled out in a rush as 
Ronald answered:
	"You've got to come over!  I'm having a snow party!"
	Ronald had purred approval.  "I'll rally the troops. Did I tell you I 
met the Pasternaks?  He's a nephew.  I'll try and get them."
	They'd hung up in a flurry, and for the next twenty minutes she'd 
been on the phone.  Nico, whom she'd desperately wanted to come, had 
been out.  Otherwise, they'd all been home: Jacqueline, just back from her 
book tour; Carlo and Richard, who'd had their own do the night of hers;  
Bridey, who was a stunner, but not too awful a flirt; the Rochambeaus, 
whom she'd met through the shop.  Not the Starlings; not her old 
schoolmate.  Her guest list was improvised, the product of instinct.  It 
was the same way she cooked: a dash of this, a sprig of that.  She'd never 
been one for recipes.
	 She'd invited each person to bring a friend and so by four 
o'clock the doorbell rang non-stop, as faces familiar and new came 
crowding up the stairs.
	"When I was a girl, then I don't tell you, how I turned them 
away."
	Birgitta's voice, she noticed now, hardly even disturbed her.  She 
knew the subjects, when to nod, when to smile. Birgitta, for her part, was 
on stage. She knew her lines, she needed an audience.  Beyond that, she 
asked little.
	"Back then, they had such parties.  Artists, writers.  People of 
standing.  Not myself, of course.  I was only a silly young girl.  But it was 
enough to be beautiful. Then you got such attention."  She closed her 
eyes and pursed her lips, as if tasting in memory some rare pastry. Then 
she dismissed the thought.  "What does it matter?  No one has such 
parties now.  Everything is noise. Vulgarity."
	Marguerite shivered,  trying to imagine this pitiful bore as a 
beautiful young woman.  She could just see it.  Just.
	The door to the shop opened.  She sat up, thinking it might be 
Nico.  But it was only a couple her age, frowning at the ship's clock in the 
window. They conferred, murmured, surveyed the shop.  Then, still 
ignoring her, they left.
	All that afternoon, she'd kept calling Nico.  But no one could find 
him.  He was younger than the others, not yet twenty-five.  Still, she'd 
hoped to get him.
	Nico had dark eyes in a long pale face.  His hair was full and 
black, his lean cheeks shadowed with beard.  He was a touch too slender, 
to tell the truth, but quite good-looking just the same.
	He was also the source of her one disagreement with Charles.  
	"Oh Marguerite, he is. When have you ever seen him with a 
woman?"
	"Maybe he's just not interested.  You can't read anything into 
that."
	"Trust me, dear. He's interested.  Maybe not practicing. But he's 
interested, believe you me." 
	She didn't know herself why she'd been so put out, why it upset 
her to have Nico counted among what Harry called her "butterfly 
collection".  He wasn't like the others.  He didn't just come by to swap 
stories and complaints.  That wasn't why he came most afternoons and sat 
in the Hepplewhite chair, his lean elbows on the edge of the desk, 
murmuring in his lush voice, "You have such a lovely profile.  So 
Roman."  That wasn't why he confided in her, telling of his trials as he 
showed his book around.  (He wanted to be a designer, and frequently 
praised her taste. This flattered her, coming as it did from one who 
knew.)
	Her interest in him was at most maternal.  Still, if Charles were 
right... She knew how awful it could be to be too fond of the wrong sort 
of man.
	She'd had a friend from school, an heiress, who'd been in love 
with a famous poet.  A hopeless love.  Even in those more euphemistic 
times, his tastes had been known.  Still, the young woman had persisted.
	For her birthday, she'd had a party at her parents' estate.  A 
memorable affair.  One which stood out among those that had filled 
Marguerite's twenties.  Waiters in white, torches on the lawn, the brass of 
a jazz orchestra brilliant under colored lights.  And the men.  So 
handsome.  Many from the best families.  The sort of man Marguerite 
herself had assumed she would marry.
	In the midst of this, she remembered her friend, a lovely young 
woman who had it all, turning every moment to look towards the 
driveway, waiting for the guest who never came.  The last of the crowd 
had left at three.  All agreed, it had been a tremendous success.  All except 
their hostess, who'd sat in the moonlit garden after they'd gone, gripping 
Marguerite's hand.
	The next afternoon, sitting on the lawn, they'd heard a savage 
honking, as two men drove up in a low-slung convertible.  Seated in the 
passenger's seat was the poet, who waved a bottle of champagne.  
"We're here!  When does la fête commence?"
	A man as kind as he was immune to female charm, he'd been 
dismayed by his hostess' response:  bitter, copious tears.
	Still, even disappointment had been glamorous back then.  
Marguerite had long ago lost contact with that friend, as with most of the 
other graceful, well-bred girls she'd known from school and a long stay 
in Europe.  One or two she still wrote, describing their duplex on Third 
Avenue as if it were a showcase, never quite mentioning that they rented, 
referring to the shop as if it were a whim, a way to wile away idle hours. 
The few prominent figures who came in to browse appeared in her letters 
as intimates, habitués of an implied salon.
	The party Saturday had almost been that: a Parisian salon.  Her 
friend from Sarah Lawrence had told the Pasternaks about his book on 
Cocteau.  Charles had enchanted a young actress with his tales of Noel 
Coward and others he'd met as a chorus boy.  An art critic whose name 
she vaguely knew admired her Tiffany lampshade, and praised her 
critique of Matisse.  Hubert Rochambeau's aunt, a grand old dame, had 
breathlessly reminisced about Ravenna.
	The food had taken care of itself.  She'd put out port wine cheese 
with Triscuits, and quickly mixed up some onion dip.  Luckily, too, 
there'd been smoked oysters and green olives in the cupboard.  But most 
had been brought by the guests: loaves of Italian bread and wedges of 
Camembert; that sweet Jewish bread with the lumps; some red and black 
"caviar"; a dozen egg rolls; two cheesecakes, one from Ratner's and one 
from Little Italy; a mocha layer cake from Safeway; a strudel from Mrs. 
Herbst's; chocolate eclairs; Danish; bonbons; baba au Rhum.
	God knows there'd been enough liquor.  She'd had Chivas and 
Johnny Walker, and a lot of vermouth, along with some port and Gallo 
hearty burgundy.  The guests had brought vodka, gin, sake, schnapps, 
kumel, Liebfraumilch and peach liqueur, as well as one or two really 
good bottles of wine and a few of pink champagne.
	Miraculously, Harry, who'd been so awful a few weeks before, 
had stayed away from the bar.  Or at least, had stayed within reason.  He 
was still, objectively, a good-looking man, broad-shouldered and fine-
featured.  Only with time did his lack of substance show.  Saturday he'd 
had the sense to be decorative, telling just one or two stories too many.
	Bradley, at twelve, was already quite articulate.  She'd been so 
proud, watching him explain in detail how he dissected locusts and frogs. 
He'd even brought out a snake, floating in formaldehyde, to show her 
guests.
	Not to be outdone by his older brother, Spencer had found his 
own audience, whom he seemed to have kept heartily amused.  She'd 
been surprised though to see one woman blush.  And later another guest, 
a psychologist, had taken her aside.  
	"I was just wondering...Um.. I'm not here as a professional, of 
course, but... just a question, really...Does your son read somewhat.. um.. 
advanced.. material?  For his age, I mean.  In a few years, of course, for a 
young male, why then, some of these subjects would be appropriate.  Oh 
yes, completely appropriate."  He'd insisted on leaving his card.
	"Just think," Birgitta said, "He was the same age as my son!" 
Marguerite started at the slight increase in tone.  Had her distraction begun 
to show?
	It was hard to remember Birgitta had a son.  He lived in Boston 
and rarely came to see her.  She'd never said much about the father.
	A painting hung at the back of the store, cracked across its surface 
in curly squares.  The subject was a mother, white-haired and frail, 
gripping the arm of her strapping son.  Marguerite had bought it in a lot, 
and didn't expect it to sell.  The work was poor, the theme sentimental.
	How many sons still stayed with their mothers, the upright pillars 
of their old age? She herself called her mother every day.  Even after so 
many wars, they still had volumes to share.  But women were like that.  
They kept in touch.  Men seemed made to leave, to be unfaithful in their 
many ways.  She'd never been sure of one - least of all her own father.  
Which must be why she'd turned so many away.  Some so fine, she 
realized now.  Until her options had narrowed, male attentions now on 
the next generation and somehow - it seemed ludicrous now - she'd 
ended up with Harry.
	No, men weren't dependable, proud though she was to have two 
sons.  But would they be any different?  She'd begun to regret not trying 
one more time, trying to have a daughter, someone to ring her when she 
got old.  She'd always liked men so.  But just the same.  Women were 
good that way.
	The droning lilt of Birgitta's voice broke off, as a school group 
clamored by, bundled up.  The cold had come to stay now, and the day 
was sunny and brisk.  Nico dropped by most afternoons, but today he 
might not brave the wind. He seemed fragile for a man.  It was one of the 
things she found endearing.
	If any proof was needed, this was it, that her interest in him was 
not... personal.  She'd always liked athletic men, hearty Anglo-Saxons 
with ruddy complexions and large rough hands. Men like Harry, in 
appearance, at least. But with the blood to match; with the natural grace of 
pedigree breeding.
	He'd lied to her, after all.  Made his people sound like country 
squires, Upstate aristocracy, when really they were small town versions 
of her own.  Strivers, no better. She'd always assumed she'd marry up. 
God knows she'd had the chance.
	The snow party had been exactly that, her image of her married 
life, of life as mistress of a fine house.  Of a house filled with handsome, 
witty people, cigarettes held at shoulder height, cocktails like lanterns in 
every hand.  Saturday, the brash yellow of her living room's walls had 
become "decor", almost Eighteenth Century.  Her scattered antiques - 
unsold pieces from the store - had seemed like family heirlooms. Her 
small office with its cramped shelves had served for a library, as guests 
had looked through her art books and minor first editions.
	She hadn't been able to tell when people came and when they left.  
Total strangers thanked her at the door, then walked off, newly 
acquainted, hand in hand.  Layer cake, chocolates, petit fours, all had 
been devoured by the lively, luminous crowd, leaving her drop-leaf table 
covered with gold boxes, sugar-streaked doilies, and tiny fan-folded 
paper cups - a merry detritus, the cast-off husks of blithe indulgence.
	She'd shown the last guest out after 1. Back in the living room, a 
giddy echo lingered of the absent crowd.  Harry'd already begun to pick 
up.  As she returned, he stopped and put his arm around her waist.  "That 
was some party, girl."  She'd stood a moment, accepting his clumsy 
homage.  There they were, host and hostess, in the midst of the joyous 
wreckage, just as she'd always dreamed.
	But it would have been unnatural to embrace.  Instead, they'd 
each turned off the opposite way and begun to straighten up.
	Still, sitting here numbed by Birgitta's chat, she felt the glow of it 
again, the rush and jumble of that happy crowd, the satisfied feeling of 
possession, the knowledge that she had made this happen, that at last she 
had held her proper place.
	Just then, the door opened, as a late ray of sun lit Nico's face. 
Was it that light that made him look exalted, almost angelic?  Whatever 
the cause, he was even more handsome than usual.
	Before he'd come all the way in, she leapt to her feet.
	"Nico, where were you Saturday? I tried so hard to get you. We 
had the most wonderful party, with Ronald and Charles and just this 
extraordinary mix of people, writers and doctors and -"
	A stifled cry cut her off.  Birgitta, pale, struggled unsteadily to her 
feet.  Then she looked down at the desk.
	"But I am disturbing you," she said, in a crushed, dignified voice. 
With a shaking hand, she gathered her gaudy baubles. Then she turned, 
still not meeting Marguerite's eyes, and started towards the door. 
	Marguerite, made faint by her own gaffe, weakly lifted one hand.  
Nico, helpless, held the door.
	Birgitta, she could see, meant to hurry out.  But her step was 
halting, hampered by her bones' fatigue, by her habit of moving slowly to 
fill the days. The late sun lit her scalp, making her hair a mocking halo, 
showing the outline of her skull. Stumbling, she swiped weakly at the air 
before regaining her balance.  Then she marched as best she could into 
the street.
	The door closed behind her. But still Marguerite saw that image: a 
woman grown old, alone, with no one to offer her even their arm. All at 
once, she felt dizzy, as if she were standing at the edge of a precipice.
	Nico came up beside her. Dimly, she heard his grave voice:  "I've 
discovered something very important. Do you know where I was 
Saturday?"
	Spinning, she stopped him with her hand.  "Wait!  You have to 
hear about the party."  Ignoring his hurt look, she pushed him towards 
the Hepplewhite chair. Suddenly, it was urgent that she tell someone how 
happy - how wonderfully happy - she had been.


                THE END