Free After the War by Alice Adams

though, and that was a big improvement, honestly. I hope you don’t mind my saying all this—please don’t mind. Oh, Melanctha, I’m so sorry— ”
    For Melanctha had burst into tears, her whole body shaken with sobs, her throat choked, tears raining from her eyes. She had instantly covered her face with her hands, but the tears leaked through her fingers. So horribly embarrassing—embarrassment made her cry harder.
    Cynthia now stood beside her; she patted and stroked Melanctha’s shoulder, until as suddenly as the tears had begun, they stopped. “I’ll go wash my face,” said Melanctha.
    In the pretty powder room, with its starched embroidered linen towels, jars of scented soaps and oils, as she splashed cold water on her face, Melanctha had a curious sense of feeling better, despite embarrassment, some shame. She had to admit it, she felt better now.
    To Cynthia, in the living room, she said, “I’m sorry, really. I don’t know—I’ve been sort of sick, I guess.”
    “Sit down and have more tea. I’m sorry. God, I’m so dumb sometimes. Harry tells me so. God, I say things that are really none of my business.” She smiled, and laughed a little. “Please don’t tell Abigail what a dumbbell her mother is.”
    Melanctha gulped at her tea, still curiously aware of an improvement in her spirits. “I’m really glad I came out for a walk,” she said. And she forced herself to add, though shyly, “I’m glad I met you.”
    “Oh, I’m glad,” Cynthia told her, and in a friendly way she laughed. “You’ll have to come for tea again. I’ll call you. And at Christmas, Abigail—we’ll all get together.”
    As they regarded each other with affection and some curiosity, one of the things that Melanctha wondered was: Justwhat was going on, back a couple of years ago, between Cynthia and Russ? Impossible of course to ask that question, and so she asked the other pressing question in her mind: “What finally happened to your friend? The one with the big breasts and bad posture?”
    “Oh.” Cynthia seemed to hesitate, then to decide to speak. “Well, actually she had some plastic surgery on her breasts. Seemed crazy to all her underendowed friends, but I guess it worked out. She stood up better, and she was always pretty thin, so she looked more in proportion. And she married very well—at least twice that I know about.” Cynthia finished with one of her small laughs, and Melanctha joined in.
    And Cynthia added, “Of course it cost a lot, those doctors.”
    And Melanctha said, “I’ll bet,” very thoughtfully.
    “I consider it for my face sometimes,” Cynthia continued. “I mean, I know I look okay now, but how about when I’m fifty, or sixty ? What I hope is that by that time I’ll be less vain, more self-accepting. You might work along those lines yourself, Melanctha. Tell yourself every day that you are the way you are, and most women would give anything for a larger chest. And men love it—”
    But Melanctha had stopped listening. It was almost as if she had left the room, though she still smiled in a polite, attentive way.

6
    I N early January of 1945, in Pinehill, there was a stretch of sunny weather. Conversations in the A&P reverted to the warmth, the state of various gardens, local gossip. If anything, there was less talk than usual about the war. Not that wartime news had ever been a major topic—but in this lovely, extraordinary sunshine people generally felt less guilty about not discussing the war. Who wanted to hear about battles and deaths and home-front shortages—not this week!
    “My rosebushes are just plum crazy,” Dolly Bigelow told Cynthia Baird, in a shopping interlude. “They think it’s spring. Just putting out buds all over the place, and the crape myrtle too, and the quince. I’m just mighty afraid they’re in for a big surprise, the lot of them. Next thing we’ll all be taking a dip in you-all’s pool. Tell me, Cynthia darlin’, how’s old London treating