osemary looked over the party; her parents and her parents’ friends down below on the sod lawn. Seersucker and espadrilles; white cotton dresses; Brazilian jazz; the costumes of their heyday. They drank beer and Long Island iced tea and white wine punch, a recipe Rosemary’s mother had clipped from a magazine. Two pitchers on the patio table, under the shade of an umbrella, and two more, waiting in the fridge. Ice cubes slugged into the ice chest; smell of window screen like rust. There were Mr. and Mrs. Carson; Mr. and Mrs. Wentz; the Pattersons in matching hibiscus print; Patricia, who cut Rosemary’s hair; Lauren’s father and his nameless new wife. Lauren, a classmate, had been invited by Rosemary’s mother. Did Lauren want to come over and watch movies with Rosemary while the adults got together? No, Lauren was busy—she declined. The doorbell rang once, twice; adults Rosemary didn’t know statued the lawn. Introductions. Scoops of ice; drinks passed hand to hand; a swat at a bee; a tottering heel on the grass. The doorbell rang again. The glasses sweated condensation. The jacuzzi, that vacant lake, threatened to boil over. It was summer, and the clouds had set sail for cooler climes; it was summer, and Rosemary’s parents had snatched up the first party of the season. Rosemary’s mother wore shorts and a bikini top with red and white stripes. Peering navel. Effervescent, she placed herself between an unfamiliar man in a straw fedora and Uncle Bobby, who was not in truth an uncle. Rosemary’s father unbuttoned his shirt; soft, furred stomach exposed to grill. Hamburger or hot dog? he shouted to each guest, spatula in hand. Her mother between
