Families and Survivors by Alice Adams

splendid friends of the Chapins, with three marvelous children. Douglas, Allison, and Jennifer.
    Of course they would be there, Louisa had known that; still, their wonderful car further lowers her heart.
    As they approach the house—Louisa and Maude, clutching hands—Andrew comes around a corner, dark Andrew, barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt, carrying the hose. He grins a crooked welcome. “What pretty ladies! Say, Lou, that dress matches your eyes.”
    And in that sunstruck instant all Louisa’s dread dissolves. Her blood warms, and she looks at Andrew, her kindold familiar friend, and she thinks: Of course, I am in love with Andrew.
    Her heart in her eyes, she only says, “Michael had to work on his thesis.” She begins to laugh, somewhat hysterically. “He hates Easter parties.”
    Andrew laughs, too; they share an interest in Michael’s Jewishness. It still seems a little exotic to them both. Michael and Andrew (and Louisa) are agreed that the best American writers (now) are either Southern or Jewish, which holds out no hope for poor Andrew—but as they see it, Maude can’t miss, with her dual heritage. (And curiously enough this prophecy or wish turns out remarkably to be true: at an early age Maude begins to write, and she goes on.)
    Maude is smiling; she has always liked Andrew.
    The three of them go around the side of the house, with Maude in front, then Andrew, then Louisa. Andrew holds back a branch of shrubbery for Louisa, and their hands meet briefly. Electric! He smiles at her, and she is incredibly happy.
    All the Magowans are blond—large blond people, three large blond children, and Alex and Grace. Since Sally Chapin is also fair, as are her children, and Maude, the yard seems full of blondness—yellow hair all over, like patches of sunshine. This lightness of complexion is one of the things that ordinarily alienate Louisa—making her feel dark, a stranger. But today she looks at Andrew, who is darker than she, and terribly familiar. (In fact, he looks like someone from the depths of her life, but who?)
    An uneasy hostess, Sally does not come forward to greet Louisa and Maude: well, after all, they live next door; she sees them every day. But even the most welcome guests (she is crazy about the Magowans; Alex and Grace are the most terrific people)—any guests at all—make Sally feel invaded; her tight family group is easily threatened. Nowshe unenthusiastically says “Hi” to Louisa, and, more warmly (children are easier for her), “Maudie, you’re so pretty in that blue.”
    “Hi, Louisa, great to see you. Old Michael hitting the books?” This is the language of the Magowans, both of them.
    “Yes, still on his thesis.”
    They are relieved that Michael has not come. Sensing this, though dimly, Louisa feels a rare instant of affection for her husband: poor Michael, who makes so many people uncomfortable, and never knows.
    Normally shy and hesitant, Maude runs off to a corner of the garden where the other children have clustered. Looking after her, Louisa is struck (as she is repeatedly,
still
) at the oddity of her, Louisa, having a blond daughter. Despite the fact that Michael is blond, and that she herself was a blond little girl, before it all went dark. In fact today, this Easter, all those seven children—three Magowans, three Chapins, one Wasserman—might be themselves a family, an interrelated California tribe.
    “Lou, what’ll you have to drink?” Andrew has put out some bottles and a bowl of ice under a trellis of wisteria that he finished last weekend. Louisa has noticed this: the Chapins work at the quality of their life, at improving it; they make large and small efforts at having a better time together, whereas she and Michael make none at all. (But if they did?)
    “A gin? Gin and tonic?”
    “Great. How do you feel about limes?”
    “I’m mad for limes.” She laughs.
    “Terrific.”
    He hands her a tall cold glass and they exchange a look—does he feel it,