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My grandmother was the one to set up the match. On my twenty-fifth birthday, in lieu of a gift, she called me in for breakfast in the dining room and explained that she had something she wished to discuss with me.
My betrothal.
At the precise moment she said those heavy words, I was in the process of feeding myself a bite of eggs Benedict. I was startled, as anyone might be, and ended up missing my mouth entirely. Canadian bacon, poached egg, and hollandaise sauce rained down onto her prized 17th-century Persian carpet, and I gasped in horror. There was a big to-do. Three maids were on their hands and knees, combing over that carpet with gloved hands, ensuring they got every last drop (not that it mattered—my grandmother sent it out to be professionally cleaned later that day), and by the time the ordeal was all over, it seemed like our conversation was of little importance. She sat me back down and sighed as if she was sick of having to deal with me for the day.
My grandmother can be like that, and it’s not just because of her age. She’s an introvert and gets overstimulated easily. She hates crowds and disorder, and you can imagine how fun it was to be a small girl living in her house. My toys had to be cleaned up and neatly organized before I was allowed to come down for dinner. She had this sprawling three-story dollhouse commissioned for my playroom, but I was never allowed to touch it because she said it was too much of a hassle to “put back to rights”.
The betrothal already seemed set in stone.
“He’s a fine man,” she told me, staring at the carpet with her sharp brown eyes, looking for residual stains. “His parents have an impeccable reputation. I’ve dug deep and found not even a speck of anything untoward about them. Generations you can go back—the lineage holds.”
She expected me to be impressed by this, so I widened my eyes and made a noise of appreciation.
Beyond the mishap with my eggs, my reaction to her announcement of my betrothal was shockingly calm. I’d already known something like this was coming, and I’d had time to make peace with it.
A few weeks prior, I’d overheard my grandmother having a private conversation with Margaret. I’d just returned from a walk—one of those If I don’t get out of this house right now, I might lose my mind moments, which have become fairly common. I have days where the balcony doesn’t cut it. My anxiety gets the better of me, and I feel this overwhelming sense of urgency. When that happens, I have no choice but to take myself for a long walk. It helps to get out and explore the neighborhood. I like walking by people and guessing details about their life. I like the endorphins and the exertion and usually, by the time I make it back home, all seems right with the world again.
That night, Margaret and my grandmother must not have realized I’d come home, or maybe they assumed I had better sense than to eavesdrop on their conversation because they hadn’t bothered to close the door to my grandmother’s room and they didn’t stop talking as I edged my way closer, listening only because I heard them utter my name as I was about to move past.
I peeked in to see my grandmother sitting at her ornate oversized vanity. It’s the only spot in the house that still enthralls me. It’s always filled to the brim with jewelry carefully displayed, lipsticks lined up in a row, perfumes on silver trays—I can still remember every time I snuck into her room as a child, desperate to try on her jewels, and each of the scoldings that followed.
My grandmother didn’t look like herself, at least not the version she likes to present to the world. She sat on her backless vanity chair in a blue cotton robe and slippers. Her shoulders were slumped, her spine curved forward, her white hair frizzy and limp. Her face was washed and pale, every tender wrinkle and age spot visible in her reflection. She suddenly seemed susceptible to life’s battles in a way I’d never realized, mortal in a way I was careful to never admit to myself.
“And what will become of her when I’m gone? I’m healthy now, but what about tomorrow? She must marry, and soon.”
“She seems happy here,” Margaret protested.
“She cannot remain here forever.”
“I would care for her.”
“That’s not the answer, Margaret. I want her settled with an honorable man, someone to help further dilute that bad blood.”
The bad blood she was referring to comes from my mother, the great villain of my grandmother’s life.
To hear her tell it, my father, James Davenport, was going places. He was a graduate of St. John’s just like me. He continued his studies at Princeton and graduated with honors. He was an investment banker and chairman of two non-profits. He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in Boston when one day he wandered into a café for lunch and laid eyes on my mother working behind the counter.
