The Progress of Love

thing.
    “It was wonderful,” Laurence said. “You could see the changes in the landscape so clearly.” He began to tell her about a glint lake.
    “It was most enjoyable,” said Sophie.
    Denise said, “You could see way down into the water. You could see the rocks going down. You could even see sand.”
    “You could see what kind of boats,” said Peter.
    “I mean it, Mother. You could see the rocks going down, down, and then sand.”
    “Could you see any fish?” said Isabel.
    The pilot laughed, though he must have heard that often enough before.
    “It’s really too bad you didn’t come up,” Laurence said.
    “Oh, she will, one day,” said the pilot. “She could be out here tomorrow.”
    They all laughed at his teasing. His bold eyes met Isabel’s, and seemed in spite of their boldness to be most innocent, genial, and kind. Respect was not wanting. He was a man who could surely mean no harm, no folly. So it could hardly be true that he was inviting her.
    He said goodbye to them then, as a group, and was thanked once more. Isabel thought she knew what it was that had unhinged her. It was Sophie’s story. It was the idea of herself, not Sophie, walking naked out of the water toward those capering boys. (In her mind, she had already eliminated the girl.) That made her long for, and imagine, some leaping, radical invitation. She was kindled for it.
    When they were walking toward the car, she had to make an effort not to turn around. She imagined that they turned at the same time, they looked at each other, just as in some romantic movie, operatic story, high-school fantasy. They turned at the same time, they looked at each other, they exchanged a promise that was no less real though they might never meet again. And the promise hit her like lightning, split her like lightning, though she moved on smoothly, intact.
    Oh, certainly. All of that.
    But, it isn’t like lightning, it isn’t a blow from outside. We only pretend that it is.
    “If somebody else wouldn’t mind driving,” Sophie said. “I’m tired.”
• • •
    That evening, Isabel was bountifully attentive to Laurence, to her children, to Sophie, who didn’t in the least require it. They all felt her happiness. They felt as if an invisible, customary barrier had been removed, as if a transparent curtain had been pulled away. Or perhaps they had only imagined it was there all the time? Laurence forgot to be sharp with Denise, or to treat her as his rival. He did not even bother to struggle with Sophie. Television was not mentioned.
    “We saw the silica quarry from the air,” he said to Isabel, at dinner. “It was like a snowfield.”
    “White marble,” said Sophie, quoting. “Pretentious stuff. They’ve put it on all the park paths in Aubreyville, spoiled the park. Glaring.”
    Isabel said, “You know we used to have the White Dump? At the school I went to—it was behind a biscuit factory, the playground backed on to the factory property. Every now and then, they’d sweep up these quantities of vanilla icing and nuts and hardened marshmallow globs and they’d bring it in barrels and dump it back there and it would shine. It would shine like a pure white mountain. Over at the school, somebody would see it and yell, ‘White Dump!’ and after school we’d all climb over the fence or run around it. We’d all be over there, scrabbling away at that enormous pile of white candy.”
    “Did they sweep it off the floor?” said Peter. He sounded rather exhilarated by the idea. “Did you eat it?”
    “Of course they did,” said Denise. “That was all they had. They were poor children.”
    “No, no, no,” said Isabel. “We were poor but we certainly had candy. We got a nickel now and then to go to the store. It wasn’t that. It was something about the White Dump—that there was so much and it was so white and shiny. It was like a kid’s dream—the most wonderful promising thing you could ever see.”
    “Mother and the Socialists would take it all away in the dead of night,” said Laurence, “and give you oranges instead.”
    “If I picture marzipan, I can understand,” said Sophie. “Though you’ll have to admit it doesn’t seem very healthy.”
    “It must have been terrible,” said Isabel. “For our teeth, and everything. But we didn’t really get enough to be sick, because there were so many of us and we had to scrabble so hard. It just seemed like the most wonderful thing.”
    “White Dump!” said