“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Mrs. Meriwether complained.  She shifted her large, plump body to and fro upon the divan, settling in for what she hoped (but did not fully believe) would be a pleasurable yet productive conversation.  “No,” she continued plaintively, “I really think that if we want people to keep their respect for us, we have to be careful who we turn away.”

“Well, of course we do,” returned her good friend, Mrs. Marx, who was just now lowering her own, heavier frame into a large white leather armchair that matched her modest skirt perfectly.  “I know that.  And you know I have no qualms about them myself.  I just don’t know how it would look to outsiders.”

Mrs. Meriwether laughed loudly and, perhaps, just a little contemptuously.  “I don’t think we need to be worrying about outsiders when some of our own members disapprove.  I thought your husband was going to have a conniption the moment it was mentioned!”

Mrs. Marx nervously smoothed her skirt.  “Oh, well, he has his faults.  But you know I have no objections.”

“Of course.”

“But you know what I mean?”

Mrs. Meriwether’s face softened as she acknowledged that she did, in fact, know what her friend meant.  The room was quiet for some moments until the tea came, and both women had time to collect their thoughts.  They stared down into their cups, stirring.  Mrs. Marx opened her mouth, apparently to speak, and then decided it would be better to put her cup to her lips instead.  She sipped gently and murmured something about having to replace the tea-bags.

“I – ” Mrs. Meriwether began.

“Hmm?”

“Well I just really don’t think it has to be that way.  I mean, based only on the rules – ”

“They need only be married,” Mrs. Marx finished gravely, as though it were a pronouncement of fate.

“Well, they are married!”

“Yes, I know.  But you know what I’m trying to say.  They, well, they just wouldn’t fit.”

“Wouldn’t fit? How do you mean?” Mrs. Meriwether wondered, knowing perfectly well what she meant.

“I mean, they would never feel comfortable around the other members.”

Mrs. Meriwether could not control herself, and burst out, “They might, if we give them a chance.  Anyway, I was thinking, couldn’t we just say we had no choice?  You know, like that Affirmative Action or whatever it is.”

Mrs. Marx stirred her tea thoughtfully.  “Yes, I suppose that would make it somewhat more acceptable to the club, but that isn’t really the point.  I mean, you know as well as I do they wouldn’t like it here.  They’d feel too uncomfortable.” 

She leaned forward to set her cup upon the well polished coffee-table.  As she did so a thick, dust-filled beam of sunlight hit the side of her liberally powdered face, causing her to flinch and retreat swiftly to the safety of her shaded armchair.  “Besides, half the members are lawyers anyway.  They’d know in a moment what we were up to.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Mrs. Meriwether agreed. “Still.”

“Dear,” began Mrs. Marx, leaning forward, mantis-like, over her teacup. 

She was interrupted by the doorbell’s carefully tuned chime, followed closely by the appearance of Anne, the Marx family’s old and faithfully plain-tempered servant.

“A Mr. Blithe is here to see you, Mrs. Marx.”

The two women shared a look of sudden, hardly restrained fright.  Mrs. Meriwether began shifting her large bottom halfway toward the edge of the couch, preparing to go.  Mrs. Marx let out an unnatural sort of phlegmatic cough, and began to wave her powdered hands furiously in Anne’s general direction.

“Well, send him in!  You know we don’t keep guests waiting.”

Mrs. Meriwether had nearly made it to the edge now, and was reaching into the cushions in search of her scarf.

“I’m sorry dear, but I have to get going.  I hadn’t noticed the time.”

“Sit down!” Mrs. Marx hissed.  “I know you don’t have anywhere to go, and I am not letting you leave me to deal with this on my own.”

Mrs. Meriwether paused, still uncertain whether or not the duties of friendship (or at least, good manners) ran that deep.  In the end, however, it made no difference, for she’d not had the smallest chance to rise from the couch before Mr. Blithe entered, preceded only slightly by the indomitable Anne.

He was dressed in business attire – a deep blue, two piece suit – though he had unbuttoned his overcoat and shirt-neck, allowing his conservative maroon tie to hang loose and askew.

“I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, Mrs. Marx, but I felt I needed to speak with you,” he said placidly.  “May I sit?”

Mrs. Marx straightened herself as if just realizing that this was a real, animated human being.  “Yes, yes of course,” she blurted, motioning rapidly to the unoccupied armchair near the door. 

Mr. Blithe nodded his thanks and sat, crossing his long legs deliberately.  He paused long enough to smooth a wrinkle in his pants-cuff before beginning.  “I’ve come to speak with you about the Chaplaintown Marrieds Association.  I’ll be quite honest with you.  My husband has got his heart set on it.  I have to admit, I don’t entirely understand why.  In fact, I don’t really see what it is your organization does, besides host occasional dinner parties and charity auctions, but in any case I am willing to do whatever it takes to change your minds regarding our admittance.”

“Mr. Blithe I can assure you that we haven’t made any decisions as of just yet,” Mrs. Marx replied, somewhat flustered.  “Um, when did you and – you first apply?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Well, we have twenty couples from this area as members,” said Mrs. Marx, beginning to recover her accustomed poise, “and, you know, all of them have to be contacted before we admit any new ones.  The process usually takes a month or more.  You should be hearing from us very soon, in any event.”

“Probably no more than a week,” Mrs. Meriwether added, smiling in what was meant to be a reassuring manner. 

Mrs. Marx nodded in vehement agreement as she reached for her tea.  She sipped slowly, apparently quite relaxed now that the preliminaries were over with.

“Tell me,” she said, “who is your sponsor, Mr. Blithe?”

“The Wilxes.  We became good friends with them a number of years ago, when we were still living in California.”

“Oh, yes.  Wonderful people,” Mrs. Marx assured him.  “Very nice.  I didn’t know they were from the West Coast, though.  It explains so much.”

Mrs. Meriwether had recovered her cup as well and slid, with some effort, back to her original, comforting position in the couch.  The two women exchanged knowing, bemused smiles.

“How exactly do you mean?” asked Mr. Blithe.

“Oh!  You know what I mean.  They’re just so liberally minded.  Still nice people, of course, but it has caused some memorable disagreements.  I was just saying I understand it better now, knowing they are from California.”

Mr. Blithe regarded the two women coldly as they sipped their tea, seemingly comfortable with the conversation and entirely delighted by his surprise visit.  He loosened his tie another inch.

“Mrs. Marx,” he began in a deliberate, decidedly Continental manner, “Mrs. Marx, I think we both know what the issue is.  You – you have some members who do not approve of homosexual marriage.”

“We have – ” She started forward in her chair, bringing up a second hand to steady her shaken cup.  “We have some members who do not approve, I suppose, but, well,” she cast a questioning glance in her friend’s direction.  “Well, you know, it is a very divisive issue right now –” and turning back to Mr. Blithe, “You know.  In our country, at least.”

“Yes, I know it is, but I thought, at least, I hoped –”

“Well, of course I have no problem with it.  Do you, Emma?” 

“Oh, of course not,” said Mrs. Meriwether, all in one short, blustering breath.

Mrs. Marx appeared now to have regained most of her previous composure.  She leaned over and set her tea down carefully, staring at it instead of her guest as she spoke.

“Mr. Blithe,” she said, “I have been thinking about the issue, and I believe we might reach some kind of agreement.”

“I am more than willing to listen,” he said.

“Well, as you seem to agree with me that it is a very divisive issue and, well, since that kind of marriage isn’t legal yet, at least in this state, I thought we might reach some compromise.  For instance, I don’t think I would have any problem allowing you to join our association if you would agree to some . . . um, candor, regarding your situation.”

Mr. Blithe gathered himself up in his chair, as one does to prepare themselves for some very awful news. 

“And what exactly did you have in mind?”

“All right,” began Mrs. Meriwether, as though everything was already settled, “I have decided that I have no problem with accepting your membership, so long as the two of you enter the association as single, divorced men.  I mean, officially.”

Mr. Blithe loosened his tie some more and sighed.  “You allow single men into your club, then?”

“Divorced men, yes.  And women, of course.  They are some of our most devoted members, actually.  I think it helps them deal with the separation, being around couples again.”

He sighed again, looked thoughtful for a few moments, then acceded, “Well, I am divorced, actually.”

“Great!” burst Mrs. Marx.  “Well, I mean, I’m sorry to hear it, but you know what I meant.”

Mrs. Meriwether leaned back in her cushions, apparently quite pleased with the situation. 

“I’m so glad you’ll be joining us,” she gushed.

Mr. Blithe smiled back, just politely, and rose to go.

“Thank you, ladies, for speaking with me.  I will talk to my husband tonight.”

“Oh, not husband, Mr. Blithe,” Mrs. Marx corrected. “Remember.”

He managed a curt farewell nod and left the room, before his smile could entirely disappear.  When he was gone the two women reclined easily, both aglow with pleasure.

“You see, they really are very nice people,” Mrs. Meriwether mused.

Mrs. Marx agreed.  “Oh yes.  Very nice people.”



The package arrived the following Wednesday.  It came beautifully wrapped, in glossed white paper and silver ribbons, and was very large. 

“Well, bring it in!” cried Mrs. Marx, when Anne politely informed her of its mysterious arrival.

“I can’t.  It’s too big.”

“Then find someone to help you.  I’m busy at the moment, dear.”

“I would, Mrs. Marx, but there’s no one around.  It’s just you and me.”

Her employer looked doubtful.  She replaced her pen in its little stand and sighed.  “Well, I suppose we can get the trundle from the garden shed.  You’ll have to bring it in that way.”

As Anne struggled dutifully to maneuver the heavy package across the threshold, Mrs. Marx stood perplexed in the foyer and examined the little card.  It was written in a neat, almost unnaturally flowing hand:

Dear Mrs. Marx,
I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your offer of admittance to the Chaplaintown Marrieds Association under the conditions you have proposed.

At this, Mrs. Marx was somewhat less perplexed, and a great deal happier.

However, I do believe that you are a generous and understanding woman, and would appreciate further discussion on the matter.  I will take the liberty of calling on you in the near future, in the hopes that we may reach some final agreement. 

That, Mrs. Marx thought, was unfortunate.

In the meantime, please accept this gift in grateful recognition of your understanding efforts.

The card was signed “Tobias Blithe.”

“Should I open it now, Mrs. Marx?”

“What?  Oh, yes, of course dear.”

The package was tied with ample amounts of silver ribbon, so that Anne was forced to retrieve a large kitchen knife in order to open it.  Mrs. Marx leapt back, as best she could, as the sides of the box opened outward and fell lightly to the floor.

For a time, the two women said nothing.  Mrs. Marx stared incredulously at the thing they had unwrapped, now and then twitching her head from side to side and nearly upside-down, in an effort to take it in from every possible angle.  She walked slowly around it, torn at each small step between cool appreciation and avid disgust.

“I don’t . . . ” she said.  “Well, what do you think it is, Anne?”

“I can’t honestly say, Mrs. Marx.  I guess it’s a statue.”

“Yes, I can see that.  It’s not very good, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know much about them,” Anne said, “but I can’t say I like it.”

“No, neither can I.  Though it is rather interesting.”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Marx.  I didn’t mean to say that it wasn’t interesting.  It’s just – I suppose I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Neither have I, dear.  It’s very – well, the angles are all wrong, for one.  They go off in the most unnatural ways.”

Anne nodded her agreement.  With the duties of her position in mind, she asked the question that had been foremost in her mind since the box was opened.

“What should I do with it, Mrs. Marx?”

It was unfortunate, she thought, but as Mr. Blithe was bound to call at any time the bounds of good taste would force her to display the thing.  After a few moments of flustered indecision, they set about finding a suitable place for it.

“No, I don’t think that will do at all,” Mrs. Marx said as poor Anne pushed the statue about on its trundle.  “The trouble is that it’s just so big!  I have begun to think we must put it in the foyer, after all.”

“We could try the sitting-room,” Anne suggested, though her body recoiled at the thought of bringing it down the carpeted steps.

“No, I’m afraid we would break it in the process.  That wouldn’t look good at all.  It does appear to be very expensive.”

So at the end of an hour the statue was dropped with a hollow thud of finality beside the coat closet nearest the front door.  Mrs. Marx immediately called Mrs. Meriwether and asked that she come over right away, to give her opinion.

“It seems to me,” she said after a long and silent deliberation, “Well, it seems to me that this is the kind of article one receives as a gift, and immediately wishes to be rid of.”

“Emma!  Do you mean to say that – ”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.  I wasn’t at first, but now I can say with great conviction that what you have received is no more than a yard-sale piece.”

“But I’ll have to keep it, don’t you think?”

“Oh, certainly you’ll have to, at least for some time.  You know if I look at it again, though . . .”

“I cannot believe it, Emma.  I simply cannot.  They seemed like such nice people.”

“Well, I was going to say, now that I look at it – I mean really look at it – it’s not so awful after all.”

“Oh, Emma!”

“I think I’m almost beginning to like it.  Yes, I am definitely beginning to like it, now.”

“I was just remarking to Anne that the angles seemed all wrong – as though they should be just the opposite of how they are.”

“Yes, I must say I agree with that.  But perhaps that is also what I like about it.  It certainly is interesting.”

“Do you think it might be a matter of ignorance?  I mean, if we knew why it is the way it is – if we could only have it explained.”

“Mrs. Marx, I think you have hit it just right.  I do believe we are in need of a thorough explanation.”

“Then there is nothing to be done,” said Mrs. Marx, “but wait for Mr. Blithe.”

But Mr. Blithe did not appear for nearly a week, and during this time Mrs. Marx went about her home in a state of irrepressible anxiety.  Her daily routines were interrupted by a repeated, overpowering compulsion to see again the unwelcome entity that had invaded her foyer; to stand utterly perplexed, fixed there by alternating waves of disapproval and enchantment.  Above it all, there loomed the unfamiliar, undeniable urge to understand:  First, the inexpressible conviction that there was something to grasp in that twisting mass of curves and angles, the unnecessary swerving and breaking-off of forms and lines that would be, were it not for this deliberately embedded altercation, quite unremarkable.  Then, the unshakeable instinct that her anxieties would not be banished but by a full understanding of the apparent mystery of its creation. 

She was having tea when Mr. Blithe arrived, and nearly broke her cup in her haste.  She found him in the foyer, smiling lovingly at the statue he had so cruelly forced upon her.

“Mr. Blithe,” she gasped.  “I have been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Marx.  I have been looking forward to coming, as well.  I’m happy to see that you received our little gift.”

“I would not call it little, Mr. Blithe.”

He gave a short laugh, baring a set of small, perfectly white teeth.  “Well, I hope you liked it,” he said.

“Oh I do, I do.  But – ”

“But?”

“Well,” she came to stand beside him, so they might view the statue from a common vantage.  “Mr. Blithe, I have to be frank with you.”

“Certainly.”

“Mr. Blithe, I have been staring at this statue for a week.  I really cannot seem to ignore it.”

“Yes, it has that effect, doesn’t it.  One of its finer qualities, I believe.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Marx. “For someone who understands it.  But I must say that I do not.”

“Understand it, Mrs. Marx?”

“Yes.  It is all wrong, you see.  The angles – they don’t go at all right.  I have concluded that this is undoubtedly deliberate, but I can’t seem to decide why.”

“Mrs. Marx!  You mean to tell me you don’t recognize a De Gauss?”

“A –   You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Blithe.  I have never been as good about art as I should be.”

“That’s quite all right.  One can’t be up on everything, I suppose.  You see, Mrs. Marx, what you are looking at is a De Gauss, an original De Gauss.  He was a German artist of the highest caliber.”

“Really?  I had no idea.  Was he – well, was he – ”

“Was he gay, Mrs. Marx?”

“Well, yes.  Not that it matters, of course.  I was only curious.  I had a feeling that, perhaps – ”

He laughed again.  “Quite all right, Mrs. Marx.  Yes.  He was gay.”

There was silence for a moment as Mrs. Marx struggled with her thoughts.  Her mind seethed with the agitation of the past week.  She thought her guest might have the power to dispel this, but no matter how she strived she could not frame the question she needed so desperately to ask.

“I am glad you like it,” he said.  “Now, if it is all right with you, I would like to continue our discussion regarding our admission.”

“Oh, yes.  Yes of course.  Well, Mr. Blithe, I . . .”

“Is something the matter?”

“I have – I have spoken with the other members.  All of them, as is our policy.”

“They didn’t approve, then.”

“Well, they – I’m afraid not, Mr. Blithe.  I did everything I could.  I really did.”

He clasped his hands at his back and sighed deeply, apparently hurt, though still smiling.

“I understand, Mrs. Marx.  I do understand.  Still, my husband will not be pleased.”

She stared for some moments at his profile – very handsome, she thought, against the faint glow of the stained-glass door pane. 

“I am very sorry.”

“I know, Mrs. Marx.”

“I would like you to have the statue back.  I really can’t accept it, you know.  Not now.”

To her surprise, he bent forward and laughed.  “I wouldn’t dream of it!  It was not a bribe, Mrs. Marx.  I would very much like for you to have it.”



“I couldn’t say no, Emma,” she reiterated.  “I just couldn’t.  I think he may be having an adverse effect on me.  I was truly sorry I couldn’t see to admitting them.”

They were watching as Anne caressed the week’s dust from the De Gauss.  It irritated her now nearly as much as it had before, though she had been unable to part with it.  In a strong though inexpressible way she felt that its absence could only compound her anxieties.  She would want to look at it, she knew, and if it wasn’t there when the feeling took her . . .

“Do you think we’ve been very hard on them, Emma?”

“Not at all, not at all.  They must understand that in these times . . .  There was nothing to be done, dear.  You can’t ask men like your husband to simply throw off . . .”  She waved a dismissive hand through the air above her tea-cup.

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