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father and I stood together as though her reproof had been a command, the remains of our breakfast scattered across the tablecloth. The toast crumbs Mother would clear away later with the special scraper she’d recently ordered from a catalog, saying she’d seen one at a luncheon and apparently they were all the rage.
    “It does look like a nice day for the beach,” my father offered, stooping to peer out the window opposite his chair.
    “The weather’s glorious,” Mother sniffed.
    “We could go together?” I already knew her answer.
    “Me? Goodness, no. I’ve got scads of things to attend to around the house,” she said briskly. “Not to mention there’s pie to be made for a luncheon Mary-Lou is having tomorrow. There’s only to be one pie, mind you, and mine is it, which means it has to be perfect. You know how those girls get about their pies.” She put on her brave face. “You go on ahead, Rebecca. Only if you feel like it, of course.”
    I nodded slowly, as though I was thinking something through. “I thought maybe I’d write a letter or two first.”
    She sighed again, gathering up the rest of the pillows from where she’d stacked them on the floor; sometimes it seemed my mother had an entire vocabulary of sighs, each subtly different in speed and volume, the pressures behind the release of air varying one to the next. “Has so much really changed since you wrote her yesterday?”
    “The world, I should think,” my father said, leaning over to drop a kiss on my head.
    * * *
    I must have written Alex at least two or three letters a week that summer, spending early mornings out on the patio with a glass of lemonade and the stationery my parents had given me for Christmas years ago, my initials stamped at the top in indigo ink.
    It’s hot as blazes, I wrote. The club’s packed to the gills. You should see the bathing suit poor old Mrs. Ostrong had on the other afternoon—it must have been from the turn of the century. Prewar at the very least. Are they keeping you busy up here? Have you played Cleopatra yet? Are the other girls nice? Are any of them half as talented as you? Do you miss me?
    Her letters came fairly regularly at first: Dear Pen, First few days here miserable, as to be expected. Bugs thick as thieves. Bed made out of goddamn iron, not to mention lumpy mattress. Company lacking. Present curriculum skewed toward saccharine. If I have to sing “I’M GONNA WASH THAT MAN,” etc., one more time, I swear, though at least the voice coach has a decent head on his shoulders. N.B.: Girls from Santa Barbara slippery little eels & not to be trusted! You should see what some of the idiots here try to pass off as intelligence, she wrote. One of my bunkmates actually asked if Marlowe was still alive—I told her, yes, alive and well and living in London with the queen. Prefers scones to crumpets. Cruel, I know, but honestly ! I have zero tolerance for the prodigiously uninformed. Another: Darling Penny. I woke up this morning in a panic over the early tragedians. Dreamt I was being quizzed by a panel of directors (bearded, white-haired) & they all started shaking their heads when they asked for Aeschylus and I said WHO? I’ve only read the littlest bit of Sophocles. Euripides another story completely, thank God, but what about Aeschylus? Have you read him extensively? Bunkmate Laurie has loads & the plays are nothing short of marvelous. Situation to be remedied immediately upon my return. We’re to read this fall like absolute mad, do you hear? Little by little, however, the frequency of her letters dwindled and then stalled; soon enough, her correspondence had been reduced to the occasional postcard. P: My Othello’s a complete drip, one said. Have you ever seen a red-haired Iago? Another read simply: “In bocca al lupo” means GOOD LUCK— the bottom signed with a sketch of a wolf’s head, a row of x ’s followed by a single A. By August, even those had stopped coming. Meanwhile, I kept