Happy Endings Are All Alike. Sandra Scoppettone

because they could imagine what would happen in Gardener’s Point if it were ever made public. And they were right.

2

      Peggy Danziger’s mother was dead. She had died in December, three days before Christmas. Dr. Thomas Danziger, Peggy’s father, refused to go to the funeral and locked himself in his room for nine days. On the tenth his sister, Paula, sat in the hall on the floor for two and a half hours and talked to him through the closed door. Finally he came out, looking terrible. He had a scraggly beard and he hadn’t bathed or changed his clothes, so you could smell him when he walked by. Paula led him into the bathroom, stripped him down to his shorts, turned on the shower and ordered him into it, closing the door behind her. When he emerged from the bathroom he was shaved, dressed in a neat, clean outfit and, though he’d lost weight, he was still rather round. From then on he made an effort, although anyone who looked closely could see that a light had gone out of his eyes.

      Claire had never gotten along with her mother, but often said she had “great respect for her even though I cannot agree with her ideologically.” When Mrs. Danziger died Claire was in her junior year at college. She insisted on leaving school until Peggy graduated, even though her father could easily have afforded a housekeeper. And even though Peggy was almost eighteen.

      Claire had a dim view of herself. She was very intelligent but she was definitely not pretty. She had been a shock to friends and relatives, particularly when they saw her beside Peggy. They would say things like:

      “Oh, what a beautiful little girl you are, Peggy. Just look at that gorgeous blond hair and those big green eyes.” Then: “And this must be Claire.”

      The truth was that Claire was quite homely. But not in her mother’s eyes. Never. And she always tried to make Claire feel lovely. Claire, not buying the “inner beauty” pitch, resented her mother for the effort and for her own good looks. It was a world where “pretty” counted; in commercials, print ads, the movies, television, looks were everything. And no matter what her mother, the Women’s Movement, or Ms.magazine told her, Claire still felt homely and hopeless. No man, she was convinced, would ever want her, and although she believed that there were other things in life, having love, husband, children, was tops in her book.

      Her parents tried to explain that what came from inside her was what kept boys and men away, not how she looked. She did not believe them. So when her mother died Claire took the opportunity to be mistress of a household. She would have nine months of running the house on Prospect Street, of being in charge, playing Mother, even Wife. She might never have the chance again and she’d be damned if she’d miss it!

      Peggy and her mother had been extremely close, adoring each other, enjoying the same things. People seeing them together often thought they were sisters. They exchanged ideas, gossiped, laughed. When Erica died Peggy was struck numb. And then she developed mononucleosis. Everyone said it was psychosomatic. Even so, the tests said she had it and she had to stay home from school. Claire was elated.

      “You see, Daddy, you see. It’s a good thing I left school. I would have had to anyway, wouldn’t I?”

      “Yes, Claire.”

      “I mean, who would take care of her if I were at school? I ask you, who would be here to take care of her if I hadn’t left school? I was right all along, wasn’t I?”

      “Yes, Claire.”

      Peggy was depressed by her mother’s absence and Claire’s presence. If Claire hadn’t been there Peggy felt she probably would have been able to deal with her grief. But Claire wouldn’t allow it.

      “Come on now, upward and onward. You can’t sulk forever.”

      “I’m not sulking, Claire.”

      “Well, we can’t have depression. Put a smile on that pretty face.”

      “I don’t feel like smiling.”

      “Well, why not?”

      “My mother died.”

      “Oh, honestly.”

      When Peggy became ill in February, Claire changed her tactics, but not for the better.

      “Now you just take it easy, Baby, and I’ll take care of everything. I’m not going to let anything happen to my pretty, precious baby sister.”

      “Nothing is going to happen, Claire. I just have to rest and I’ll get rid of this gazinga.”

      “I’ll just plump up these pillows for you, Baby, and make the darling more comfy.”

      “The pillows are fine.”

      “Would you like some juice, honey? Got to drink your juice, you know.”

      “I don’t have to push fluids, Claire—this isn’t a cold or a flu.”

      “How about some nice hot tea?”

      “How about shutting up?”

      “You little ingrate.”

      When Bianca Chambers first suggested bringing Jaret Tyler over, Peggy said no.

      Bianca threw back her head and spread her arms as though nailed to a cross. “But why not, my dar-ling? Why not, I ask? Jaret is a fun person. Why do you persist in this way? It cuts me to the quick.”

      “I’m sorry about your quick but I just don’t like her.”

      “You’ll be the death of me,” she said and threw herself into a wing chair, moving it at least three inches. Bianca was very big, almost six feet tall, and her body was literally shaped like a pear. The worst thing was that her head was much too small for her body, so she’d taken to wearing her frizzy light-brown hair au naturel, which meant that it stood straight out at all angles. But at least it gave the impression that her head matched her body. She had a very nice face: beautiful blue eyes and a good straight nose. Perfect for film, she often said. Bianca intended to be an actress and to this end she directed everything.

      “Pourquoi? Tell your dearest friend why you don’t like this person.”

      “She gives me a pain in the gazinga.”

      “You sound like an illiterate. Do you know you use that word for everything?” Bianca shoved a cigarette in her black holder.

      “It’s a good word.”

      “It tells me ab-so-lute-ly nothing.”

      Absently, Peggy started braiding her hair. “You remember when you tried to get us together about three years ago? Well, it didn’t work.”

      “Jaret was a child then—we all were, my dear. Now we’ve matured, become . . . WOMEN.”

      “I guess,” Peggy said. “But why is it I feel like a kid most of the time?”

      “That’s because you’re sick and full of burning.”

      “What burning?”

      “Never mind. Back to our little problem. You see, my dear,” Bianca said, letting the smoke trail from her nostrils, “the whole thing is simply too weird for words. You are my best friend, yes, cherie? And Jaret is also my best friend. So why wouldn’t you naturally adore one another? It stands to reason, yes?”

      “It stands to reason, no.”

      “But why not?” Bianca asked, one arm bent at the elbow, the hand flung out.

      “Well, for one thing she runs around with that humungus crowd, and our crowd’s, you know, very low profile.”

      “So low you can barely see it. I suppose what you mean by ‘our crowd’ is you, me, Mary Lou and Betsy?”

      “And what’s wrong with that? Who says you have to go around in packs of hundreds?”

      “Hundreds?”

      “Well,