42 • The children

THE FINCHES returned from England in 1933 to find all the banks shut. The usualness of Boston seemed valuable and rare, as it had after the war, a feeling Lilian kept for a little while. A few families had been taken down a rung, otherwise everyone was pretty much where he or she had been three years before, except that the children were older and there were more of them.

It was generally agreed that Marian Wiggin spoiled her children, so a birthday party for her daughter, an impossible ten-year-old, was sure to be swell. Lilian stepped into the hazel hallway of the Wiggins’ house, holding her daughters’ hands in their little white gloves. Underneath their blue coats, the girls wore matching velvet dresses with cuffs. Fay, being older, carried the present and offered it with uncertain arms to Weezie Wiggin who tore the ribbon from the box.

Behind them, Anna carried Porter in her long arms. He slid down his nurse’s front and picked up the ivory boar-head walking stick from the stand. He paced deliberately down the hall, inspecting it solemnly. His shoulder blades were sharp under his little white shirt with the crossed straps over it, his head absolutely round and, in the manner of a wooden doll, his legs and arms were as thin as poles. Lilian reflected how strange it was this little boy, so unafraid and ponderous and confident, had come from her. He gazed with intense curiosity into the Wiggins’ drawing room where everyone under ten was screaming at the top of his lungs.

Fay pushed past, eyes gleaming, heading straight to the area of most activity. Below the mantel on the slate hearth, the Vernon boys were spinning tops. She elbowed her way into the circle and crouched down. Lilian found it hard to believe that Fay was her child either.

Marian Wiggin bustled forward. While most of the women were in their day clothes, Marian Wiggin had a dinner dress on. She directed the maid to put the cucumber sandwiches in the library, and told the ladies to go in for drinks or tea. Across the bookcases and vases were pink and white paper accordions, and ribbons festooned the candle sconces.

Bobby Putnam was barreling around the room, crashing into chairs, knocking over the younger children. Irene Putnam rolled her eyes helplessly. Sis Sedgwick stopped him and made him sit down. Lilian noticed Irene Putnam turn quickly, as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder, and the odd thing was not her thinking someone was there, but that her look was so filled with terror. She immediately tried to hide it, striding over to the bar and pouring herself a drink, and concentrated to keep the little square of napkin tucked under her glass.