9.16.15 That way, quietly smiling

The house where I grew up with my six siblings was nestled down along uninhabited Lane, down into the woods, situated in a pine forest. At this house there were innumerable fundraisers for the Unitarian church, for the civil rights movement, for town recycling fundraisers, for the NAACP, for Cardinal Cushing-even though we were wasps. And there were an alarming number of cocktail parties, as well as mothers galore, coming over most afternoons with their children, thirstily drinking down cocktails, until it grew dark, while the kids ran wild.

One of the mothers had lived in France for years, and have three children close in age, who were as beautiful as she was, all of them bilingual. With exotic names. She was the only woman I have ever seen who didn't wear lipstick, which I recognized from an early age was a great improvement. Or high heels. She had long brown hair falling down her back, and large brown eyes, wore flip-flops and tiny shifts with slits up the sides, had a wonderful deep laugh ,and of course was single. She let my mother use her apartment now and then , I knew. 

My brothers also remember that she was possibly the only adult we met who actually was sincere when she looked at you, actually saw you, actually asked you how you were, actually listened. 

All the other mothers pretended to like her, but they were all a little bit nervous , as well they should have been. She was a woman who enjoyed herself immensely.

At one of the parties, she brought a good friend, a young woman maybe 10 years her junior, a blond woman, sweet and gregarious, very very bright. At this party, she was introduced in that perfunctory matter to all of us kids, and then I had to herd the little ones all upstairs, while she stayed and talked to my older brother, taking a great liking to him right away.

At the time I think he was 18, fresh returned from first wild year of college in Mexico City. A startlingly good musician.

And so, she invited him, his best friend, and myself, 16, to come to her apartment in Brookline for dinner. I remember her name was Celia, and it was the first time I had ever seen a city apartment. 

It was a tiny, very creative space , and she scooted about the miniature kitchen, cooking something very complicated and elegant that we had no interest in. 

We all crowded to sit down to the miniature kitchen table together, ate politely, and talked. But it was clear there was only one reason we were all there. It was my brother.

I still remember that day, a stifling hot summers night , leaving at maybe at 10 ,after we moved the dishes from table to small counter, put our shoes back on, his friend and I going to the hall, while she pushed him over to the closet, laughing, he I knew willing . 
And so we made the best of it , standing around the dank dark hall talking for a bit, waiting. 

On the ride back, I sat in the back , pulled up as close to them as possible. , the windows open, the cool air rushing about, the car speeding down 128, my brother quietly smiling.