Eagle Eye by Hortense Calisher

girls he knew—why should going white make her look like a girl? Thanks to the procession of them between her and him, he could wonder now if she had a lover—something in the way she looked over her shoulder and away from him—looking back:
    “Welcome to your party,” she cried toward him.
    There were people about; this was for their benefit. He understood her need of falsity, compact between them since their shopping days.
    She fell upon him then, saying the archly natural thing. “Where’s your beard?”
    “Left it with a friend.”
    Maeve tapped his shoulder. A little smile. “Mick mouth.”
    His heels were bumped from behind.
    “Sor-ree!” Too loud to be.
    He turned. Wheelchair croquet. The woman who was manning it shed him a hard-nosed glare from behind her navy-blue. Same as the mothers in the park: babies take precedence. Or because they had to be with the carriage all day. And you were with a girl.
    “Mother, this is Bunty,” Maeve said. “He’s been in Wales.”
    He took the little claw, half afraid it would scratch. Under her blanket, Mother MacNeil still looked like a cat they had talcumed over very neatly, and put a hat and bunioned shoes on. Her black wrinkles matched her coat.
    “She can understand you, but you have to bend down,” the attendant said. “She must have been a little deaf even before. Lip-reads a little.” She bent down. “ Wales. He’s been in Wales. ”
    The old woman struggled to speak. Said something.
    “Learning to talk.” His mother said quietly. “That’s the day I leave.”
    “For shame, Maeve.” The attendant had a champagne glass in one hand. Whose companion was she?
    “You remember Mrs. Reeves,” Buddy said behind him.
    “Buddy was so generous, bringing Mother here,” Maeve said at Buddy. “I thought I’d be generous back.”
    He squinted, removing himself. They had never used him like this, or had they. Maeve was looking down—her bronze buckles. Her shoes never showed wear. She wouldn’t look at him.
    Old Reeves’s white hair had been dyed brown. A little of her backbone had gone with it. Or into the wheelchair.
    “I had a mother once,” Mrs. Reeves said. “For a very— hic —long time.”
    The light was pretty here. Acknowledge it. Not a cathedral light, but the old chemical stain gathered anywhere there was a roof and a dusk. Not to be spent with old people. A waiter came up and changed their glasses, each full of light. Mother MacNeil was given a sip too. Their four faces looked at him hopefully. Yes, Bunty, this is how rich we are.
    “Oops, she wants to write something.” Reeves bent to his grandmother. “Well, off we go. She won’t—except in the bathroom. Isn’t that extraordinary? Most people read.”
    “Well, I’m off to my party. I see two possible love-objects over there.” He touched his mother’s arm. “Watch my line, anyone?”
    “Excuse me a minute. Take your father. He never knows many people here.”
    Buddy and he watched her open a door in the terrarium and disappear among the plants.
    “When a depression gets very low, Bunt, people say anything they think. The doctor says.”
    “Wuddya know, I do it without thinking.”
    He would have to cheer them up.
    In succession, he took three fast tries.
    A yellow-haired man came up, and was introduced to him as the designer of the terrarium.
    “Claes Hilversum here—haven’t we met somewhere?”
    “You Dutch? El Paradiso, maybe, I used to hang out there.”
    “That government place? No, I have not been. I have not been a student for some years.” This was no exaggeration. “Cheapest pot in Europe, though, I hear.” He took out a wildly elegant case and angled it. “Have some.”
    Bunty handed Buddy his glass. “Hold my bottle.” He and the blond boy, so called, lit up.
    “Morocco?” Claes said, breathing close. “Rue de l’Art? Leuwenstrasse? Lapses like that bawthair me. We must talk.”
    “The M-Mowzel,” Bunt said quickly. He turned to Buddy. “English