Daisy sat reading on the porch, curled up in a white wicker chair. Lazy, she turned the page, pulled her shoulders up and let them go with a yawn; pushing back luxuriously into the cushions of the chair, she reached out for another of the delightful Russian cookies from that little shop near the station. What were they made of? Caraway seeds hard on the tongue while the soft inside of the cookie melted in a sweet pap in her mouth. Quickly baked in a hot oven. How could anyone stand by a hot oven on a day like this, gusts of burning air billowing up into one’s hot face, scorching one’s cheeks red. She began on another cookie. Still, white arms in white flour and her skirt—her kirtle—tucked up, and the smell of new bread; perhaps a baker’s wife? The floor would be bleached with month after month of spilled flour, flour trodden into the broad sill of the open door and blown out onto the grass. Even the flowers by the lintel come up blanched, pink tulips, pink roses, pale pale blue delphinium.

_____________

“Daisy,” her mother called in a weary voice full of sand. Daisy decided to be reading and not to hear.

“Daisy?” Her mother put her head through the open door of the porch. Her hair was pulled up into a roll and her feet pulled into tight shoes. “Daisy, why don’t you answer me; you know perfectly well you hear me,” her mother said.

“I was reading, mother,” Daisy said.

“Now listen, Daisy,” her mother said. “Rae is coming this afternoon to help you fix your white party dress.” Daisy pulled her thin, silky hair back with her hands, trying this way and that how it would feel with a bow. “Are you listening, Daisy?” her mother asked.

“Really, I don’t see why I have to have the dress now, mother,” Daisy said.

Her mother came out into the sun porch and stood pinching the dead leaves and blossoms from a pink plant that grew in a white enameled pot on the table. “I thought you were going to wear it to Mary-Lou’s party. You said you wanted it in time for the party. What are you going to wear instead?”

“Well, I don’t see why I should go to the party anyhow,” Daisy said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” her mother said. She sat down into a chair, smoothing her dress down over her stockings. Her lap was full of dead leaves from the plant.

“You know the kind of people Mary-Lou will have, mother. I don’t want to go. A lot of awful boys like Dickie Prager. I don’t want to go.”

“Dickie Prager is a very nice boy,” her mother said, sitting and crumpling the leaves in her lap.

“Oh, mother,” Daisy said, “you know we said yesterday how he had no chin.”

‘Well, what if he hasn’t,” her mother said wearily. “He can’t help it; can’t someone be nice without a chin?” But she laughed.

The doorbell rang. The maid called to Daisy’s mother. “Wait a minute,” she said. She got up and went out into the hall.

The door closed in the hall. Her mother’s feet came back tapping on the linoleum.

“Who was it?” Daisy said.

“Oh, he was collecting for Jewish orphans,” she answered. “Really, Daisy,” she said suddenly, “why must you keep on eating like that? How are you ever going to get thin if you keep eating like that?”

“I’m on a diet, mother,” Daisy said. “This is part of the diet. You have to have some sweets.”

“Well,” Daisy’s mother said, “you ought to get thin.” There was a moment of silence.

“Listen,” Daisy said suddenly to the other side of the room, “I don’t want to get married; there’s absolutely no reason why I should get married.”

“For heaven’s sake,” her mother said, “did I ever say you should get married?” She took up the box of Russian cookies, covered it, and put it away behind her chair. “I just want you to look nice.”

“Oh, you know you want me to get married,” Daisy said. “You’re always thinking why aren’t I engaged to a nice Jewish boy, and how I’m getting to be twenty. I don’t see why. Look at my sister. Rae’s married and she’s not so happy—”

“Listen, Daisy,” her mother began.

“Look at Rae,” Daisy went on. “And you’re still always thinking I should get married. I don’t want to get married. I—”

“I know just how you feel,” her mother said. “I was just the same as you are about it. All women are alike.”

“Mother, I—”

“Daisy,” her mother said, “all we want is for you to do something, we don’t care. And it’s silly to say you don’t want to get married. All young girls want to get married, even if they won’t say so.” She got up.

“Oh, all right,” Daisy said.

“I’m going down to the station to meet the commuting train now,” her mother said. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No thanks, dear,” Daisy said.

“Do we need any more straight pins for the dress?”

“I don’t think so,” Daisy said.

“Well, I’ll be back,” her mother said. She went out. After a little Daisy heard her start the car and drive out of the garage. She opened her book.

_____________

A bluebotrle fly, perhaps the same one that came every summer, buzzed and smashed its wings against the screen, banging at it again and again just by her chair.

The dress was of white silk, a dancing dress, low in the neck with little tucks at the waist, a sash that tied in back. Rae would take it in for her deftly, fit the sleeves, turn up the hem. And with her hair newly washed, shoes like sandals, she would go—she would go, not to Mary-Lou’s dreadful party, but to New York, Florida, Europe; yes, she and Rae would go to Europe together. England, London, Paris—under the thin chic trees on the avenue they would walk together, in silk with beautiful gloves. They would buy violets and books from little stalls by the Seine. Men would whistle at them in the streets, clever artists raise their eyebrows, gay taxi-drivers call obscene and flattering things, for they would be so; oh, yes, especially she, Daisy, because she was the younger. Rae, after all, was eight years older, was twenty-seven and had had two children.

But they, the children, would have to stay behind. Rae’s husband—no, mother would take care of them. Only Rae and she would go, crossing a colored ocean under the summer sun, depth after depth of translucent wave under their feet. And on the boat, travelers; a serious writer, a secretive diplomat, would take her to dinner, walk with her on the deck at night.

_____________

A car crunched on the gravel in the driveway. A door slammed. “Daisy! Where are you?” Rae called.

“She’s out on the sun porch,” Daisy’s mother said.

Daisy folded her book under her arm and went out into the hall. “Hello,” she said.

“Oh, it’s hot,” Rae said. “God, it was hot on the train.” She went over to the mirror in the hall and began to unpin her hair, letting it fall down off her head.

“It’ll be hotter on your neck, Rae,” her mother said. Rae went on taking out the pins, stooping—she was tall and big—boned-to see her face in the mirror.

“Oh, what a day,” Rae said. “George got it into his head he didn’t want to take a nap this afternoon. Instead he was going to go downstairs, going to ride up and down on the elevator all afternoon.” She began to comb her hair. “Nanny wanted to spank him, but I said to him, ‘Okay, Georgie, don’t take a nap. I don’t care if you get all tired and sick,’ I said. Nanny thought I was crazy. Talk about child psychology.” They went upstairs to try on Daisy’s dress.

“I was thinking about Nanny yesterday,” Daisy’s mother said. “How are you getting on with her?”

“Oh, really, I just don’t know,” Rae said. “Of course she’s such a help with the baby. But I just don’t know.” She turned over stockings and spools in the big straw work-basket, looking for pins. “Sometimes I think I’ll fire her.”

Daisy pulled the new dress over her head. It felt cool and soft. ‘Well, how do you like it?” she said to Rae.

“Nice,” Rae said. “But I see what you mean. Something’s wrong across the front. I like the color on you though.” She stuck a handful of pins into the flap of her dress and went over to Daisy.

“I think the shoulders are off,” Daisy suggested.

“Mmm.” Rae had pins in her mouth.

“Still,” their mother said, sitting down on Daisy’s bed, “what will you do when you want to come out here for a day?”

“I suppose I could try getting a part-time nurse,” Rae said. “Hold your arm still while I fix the sleeve. Maybe I could get somebody afternoons and evenings, through to about eight.”

“I just finished reading The Great Gatsby,” Daisy said.

“What did you think of it?” Rae said.

“You pay nearly as much for half-time as for full-time,” Daisy’s mother said, “and get half the work. If you can get that. I think you’re making the waist too tight. It might be uncomfortable. And what about Georgie? You’re going to have him all confused changing nurses like this.”

“The waist’s all right,” Daisy said. “I don’t want it to wrinkle.”

“The doctor told me,” Rae mumbled, going down on her knees to fix the hem, “the doctor told me I should let Nanny take him out to the park every day, even if it was raining. Do you think that’s right? Turn around.”

“What did he mean, raining?” their mother asked. She began brushing a few tiny pieces of fluff off the quilt.

“How does that look?” Rae said, going back on her knees from the hem. She balanced a yardstick in her hand.

“I just finished The Great Gatsby,” Daisy said.

“A little higher to the left,” their mother suggested.

“Really raining hard, I mean,” Rae explained. “After all, he’s only four. He’s got that yellow slicker from Sears Roebuck though, it should keep him dry. But Nanny says she never heard of such a thing. Turn around.”

“I don’t see why the rain should hurt him,” Daisy said loudly. “My heavens, he takes baths and gets wet all over. What’s the difference?”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” Rae said, laughing. “Hold still.”

“Rain and bath water!” her mother said. “Oh well, you’ll understand when you have children of your own,” she said.

“Why should I?” Daisy said. Rae and her mother smiled. “I don’t want any children,” she shouted at them. “I don’t want to get married.”

“Not yet,” Daisy’s mother said. ‘Wait a while. You just think you don’t now. Nonsense,” she said. “Every young girl wants to get married, doesn’t she, Rae?”

“Turn around,” Rae said, kneeling on the floor with pins in her hand. “Of course she does. Turn around, Daisy, so I can put up the hem.”

“It’s a good dress,” their mother said dreamily, smoothing down the quilt with her hand. “White silk. It’s like the dress I was married in.”