The Small Room by May Sarton

Author:May Sarton
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497685512
Publisher: Open Road Media

CHAPTER 11

On the Tuesday before the Thanksgiving break there was already departure in the air, as the clotted unity of the college became atomized into four or five hundred individuals each with a separate destination. Holidays, Lucy sensed, were dangerous; the careful threading together of each class, the continuity, all that had been built up day by day was shifting and would suddenly break apart. But if holidays were dangerous, they were also necessary, and especially this holiday which might divert the underground flow and discontent of spirit in which the college as a whole found itself.

Debby, inviting Lucy over for cocktails, had said, “We all need a drink!” and Lucy had heartily agreed. Now she enjoyed putting on a red dress, looking at herself in the mirror, a woman about to go forth and talk with her contemporaries for a change. It was a relief to saunter across campus, letting the reins she held so tightly slacken a little and tasting the slightly acid smell of the day, overcast but not cold, as if it were a cordial. I’m happy, she thought; in spite of everything, I’m happy. It was that pure happiness she recognized as a friend, happiness that comes from nowhere, for no reason, like a flash of sunlight, happiness made of nothing, a red dress, a party. Debby, who was outdoors raking leaves in the yard, waved. “I’ll be right with you! Walk in …”

The Atwoods had painted the walls themselves, pale gray, streaked in spots, and Henry had put up shelves, long planks, with bricks for ends to hold some of the books; others were still piled on the floor; the furniture was a mixture of wicker garden furniture and shabby Victorian which they had no doubt picked up around Appleton; there was a bunch of chrysanthemums in a tall tin can. Lucy smiled as she noticed Henry’s initials, wreathed in flowers, painted upon it.

“What a lot you’ve done, Debby!”

By the time the Beveridges arrived, bringing Jennifer Finch with them in their car, Henry had mixed a martini, and they settled in, whispering and cheeping, chattering and whistling like a flock of birds, as if they had not seen each other for years. They talked about colors for the room—Debby was still looking for curtain material—about the latest novels, about how much a really good stereo setup would cost.

“What a holiday feeling!” Lucy exclaimed, slipping off one shoe,

“You’re going home?” Miss Finch asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“Oh yes,” Lucy sighed, deflated by the prospect. “It’s rather dreary, as a matter of fact. Don’t let’s talk about that. I envy you people who really live here.” She turned to Henry. “Isn’t it fun to be settling in, making the bookshelves, raking your own leaves?”

Earnestly shining, he agreed that it was.

Maria was sitting on the floor, her legs stretched out before her, ankles crossed. “All I dream of is getting away to some warm place, of going to Italy, with all the children swarming in the back of the car.

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