Free Second Chances by Alice Adams

do. I don’t think men worry in just that way, do you?”
    “No, they don’t seem to.” Hammond Spaulding was a confidently handsome young man, generally untroubled. (And uninteresting, Dudley has almost admitted to herself.)
    “My husband worried that he was small. Not tall, I mean.” Celeste hurries over this, then asks, “You’re not married either?”
    “No. I was, but he died,” and now Dudley too hurries. “It seems like years ago by now.” She adds, “Thank God.”
    At still another party, this time near Gramercy Park, at a corner of the buffet table the two young women, Dudley and Celeste, exchange information as to where they live: Celeste, on Park Avenue, near Eighty-ninth. “It’s tiny, really minute, but so quiet, and all my own.” And Dudley: “Mine’s pretty far uptown, near the end of the A train line. It’s called Isham Park. A funny sort of enclave. Some professor friends of a Socialist aunt of mine were there. Oddly enough I have more space than I need, and it’s so cheap I can’t afford to leave.”
    “You must make up for it with cab fare.” Quick practical Celeste.
    “Oh, I do.”
    Tacitly acknowledging whatever affinity has drawn them into so much conversation, they further exchange phone numbers, along with proper names. They mention meeting for lunch, maybe some Saturday, at one or the other’s apartment. Maybe.
    *  *  *
    Not quite luckily, the day that Celeste is to come up to Dudley’s apartment for lunch is the day after the night that Dudley and Sam Venable first met—and spent the night together, which was not a usual occurrence in those days.
    Quantities of bourbon, much love and no sleep have produced in Dudley a high, emptied trance-like state. Very slowly, before the arrival of Celeste, she straightened up her apartment; fortunately she had had it all cleaned the day before, for Sam, her “blind date.” And she and Sam really did not make much of a mess, only their two glasses and two sheets, which, with a slight blush at their condition, Dudley thrust into the hamper before remaking the bed. Two coffee cups and saucers, which she washes along with the glasses. Sam had a downtown appointment at ten this morning, in some ways a stroke of luck. But dear God, how drunk they got! What quantities of booze.
    Having done all the cleaning in slow motion, Dudley commenced the peeling and cutting up of fruit for salad, reflecting that fruit salad is really the last thing she would choose to have today. She would really like—oh, she would love!—a strong, spicy Bloody Mary, and then maybe a piece of cheese. But from observation she has gathered that Celeste does not drink.
    But mostly she is longing to hear from Sam—she is dying to hear from him. She cannot wait for more of Sam. Although for much of the evening they were so drunk that she is not entirely sure just who he is.
    Sam Venable. A good-looking, not very tall painter, from somewhere in the South. Who works in advertising, which he hates. A dark man, with slant green eyes.
    Isham Park indeed is, or was, a small, rather pleasant space of grass and trees, up above the clamor and dirt of upper Broadway. A park surrounded by a modest group of two- or three-story apartment buildings. Where Dudley lives.
    Where now, coming up through the trees, beautifully picking her way in what must be very high heels, Celeste arrives. Celeste in pale gray, something soft, a long fringed scarf. To Dudley, watching, Celeste is a vast surprise, although expected; she simply looks so unlikely in that place.
    Nimble Celeste, slightly hurrying, no pauses for any audience, soon disappears into the building’s entrance as, up above, Dudley has the odd thought that it must be difficult to be so extremely beautiful. Many people would dislike you just for that, your beauty; they might even assume you were stupid, or mean, and certainly that you were self-centered, a narcissist.
    And Dudley further thinks: This is the worst hangover and at