Only Children: A Novel

by Alison Lurie

Overview

A novel of childlike wonder and adult discord during the Great Depression—by the Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Nowhere City.
 
Dozing in the back seat of her father’s car, Mary Ann Hubbard is the happiest eight-year-old in the country. It’s 1935, and she and her parents are going to spend Fourth of July weekend at her headmistress’s farm in upstate New York. Joining them are the Zimmerns, whose daughter Lolly is Mary Ann’s best friend from school. While the two little girls frolic in the attic, endowing the rambling old house with wonder, creativity, and imagination, their parents are downstairs, mired in all the pleasure, pain, and occasional childishness of adulthood.
 
As an affair threatens to tear the two families apart, Lolly and Mary Ann retreat farther into playtime. By the end of the weekend, the girls begin to realize that becoming an adult and growing up can be two very different things.
 
The National Book Award–shortlisted author of Foreign Affairs gives a joyous glimpse into the innocence and irony of childhood during the Great Depression.
 
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Alison Lurie including rare images from the author’s collection.
 

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781453271216
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	11/13/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	256
Sales rank:	206,625
File size:	7 MB

About the Author

Alison Lurie (b. 1926) is a Pulitzer Prize–winning author of fiction and nonfiction. Born in Chicago and raised in White Plains, New York, she joined the English department at Cornell University in 1970, where she taught courses on children’s literature, among others. Her first novel, Love and Friendship (1962), is a story of romance and deception among the faculty of a snowbound New England college. It won favorable reviews and established her as a keen observer of love in academia. It was followed by the well-received The Nowhere City (1966) and The War Between the Tates (1974). In 1984, she published Foreign Affairs, her best-known novel, which traces the erotic entanglements of two American professors in England. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1985. In 1998, Lurie published The Last Resort. In addition to her novels, Lurie’s interest in children’s literature led to three collections of folk tales and two critical studies of the genre. Lurie officially retired from Cornell in 1998, but continues to teach and write. In 2012, she was awarded a two-year term as the official author of the state of New York. The Language of Houses (2014) is her most recent book. Lurie lives in Ithaca, New York, and is married to the writer Edward Hower. She has three grown sons and three grandchildren. 
Alison Lurie (b. 1926) is a Pulitzer Prize–winning author of fiction and nonfiction. Born in Chicago and raised in White Plains, New York, she joined the English department at Cornell University in 1970, where she taught courses on children’s literature, among others. Her first novel, Love and Friendship (1962), is a story of romance and deception among the faculty of a snowbound New England college. It won favorable reviews and established her as a keen observer of love in academia. It was followed by the well-received The Nowhere City (1966) and The War Between the Tates (1974). In 1984, she published Foreign Affairs, her best-known novel, which traces the erotic entanglements of two American professors in England. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1985. In 1998, Lurie published The Last Resort. In addition to her novels, Lurie’s interest in children’s literature led to three collections of folk tales and two critical studies of the genre. Lurie officially retired from Cornell in 1998, but continues to teach and write. In 2012, she was awarded a two-year term as the official author of the state of New York. The Language of Houses (2014) is her most recent book. Lurie lives in Ithaca, New York, and is married to the writer Edward Hower. She has three grown sons and three grandchildren. 

Hometown:

Ithaca, New York; London, England; Key West, Florida

Date of Birth:

September 3, 1926

Place of Birth:

Chicago, Illinois

Education:

A.B., Radcliffe College, 1947

Read an Excerpt

Only Children

A Novel

---

By Alison Lurie

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 1988 Alison Lurie
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7121-6

---

CHAPTER 1

July 3

—Once upon a time, Mary Ann tells herself, there was a beautiful princess named Miranda who had a wish-box. It was black with shiny gold dots and a long thin hole in the top like a piggybank for the wishes to come out of, one each day. She got it from her fairy godmother for a present, and every day after breakfast she took it out and made a wish very carefully.

—First she wished for a big red horse with wings like on gas stations that could fly up in the clouds and take her anywhere in the world she felt like going. And next day a stable for him to live in, with lots of oats and hay.

—Then the day after that she wished for a castle, with a swimming pool and a Jungle Gym in its backyard. And a tree house exactly like the one the Newbury boys down the street won't let girls into. Only bigger. And she wished that the boys' tree house would fall down into little bitty pieces next time they were in it and they would get bumped and scratched and all their arms and legs would be broken especially Buddy's.

—Then Princess Miranda wished for a free candy store full of every kind of candy there is. And a hundred new story books she hasn't read yet. And the much-too-expensive chemistry set from F. A. O. Schwarz, and a Southern mansion dollhouse with real electric lights like Lolly Zimmern has.

—And then she wished for a magic mirror, the kind in "Beauty and the Beast" that shows you anybody anyplace in the world so you can see what they are doing and if you want to go there.

—And another castle next door for Lolly, and a flying horse for her, a nice quiet blue one. And then Princess Miranda wished for the Depression to end and everybody in America to have a job and enough to eat. No. Kind Princess Miranda wished that sooner, right after the flying horse. And his stable, because otherwise he would be cold and hungry.

—She wished for it never to rain except on school days, or at night if it wanted, and

"Look at that," Mary Ann's mother's voice says from the front seat of The Franklin. "Mary Ann's gone right off to sleep, with her arms round her Teddy."

"Mm," Mary Ann's father's voice says.

Teddy's real name that nobody but Mary Ann knows is Theodore Ilgenfritz. He is named after a boy in fourth grade who can stand on his head. Teddy can stand on his head, too, and at night when everybody else is asleep he wakes up and turns into his real size eight-and-a-half feet tall, and he walks around the house on big furry feet. In the daytime he doesn't do much or say much but he always feels nice and is a good listener.

"Seems to me," Mary Ann's father's voice goes on, "she's getting kind of big to be carrying a toy bear around everywhere. After all, she'll be nine in September."

"Ah think she looks real sweet."

Mary Ann keeps her eyes shut and tries not to look sweet which she isn't and doesn't want to be. Sweet is dumb and sappy and Yes please and No thank you and never losing your temper. It isn't any use except once in a while when company comes with a box of candy, but not always even then, and not everybody is fooled. Mary Ann's mother isn't fooled mostly. "You're no Shirley Temple," she says sometimes after the company has gone. "So what?" Mary Ann says, because she hates Shirley Temple and Shirley Temple hair and dolls and dresses and coloring books. At the movies she always wished everything would turn out wrong for Shirley and she would have to stay in the orphanage. But of course it never did.

"It's a mercy she can sleep at all, in this awful heat and mean old traffic," Mary Ann's mother says.

"Mm."

The traffic isn't mean really, because how can traffic be mean, and it isn't old; anyhow no older than other traffic. Old is just a word Mary Ann's mother uses about things she doesn't like. And Mary Ann isn't hot. Only cozy, with the windy warm air blowing over her, and the engine music speeding and slowing and speeding up again, and ahead and behind and all round it other engines, a whole automobile band playing in different tunes. She can smell gasoline and motor oil and dust and her mother's toilet water, like fading flowers, and feel Theodore Ilgenfritz's furry face against hers. And even with her eyes shut she can imagine-see the fuzzy gray car roof over them with the round white light in the center, and above that the shiny black top of the car, and above that miles and miles of blue air with clouds piling and unpiling far far up away into space.

Against her other cheek she can feel the scratchy-soft back seat, and under it bouncy springs, and then car machinery shaking and drumming, and wheels going round around, and under the wheels the Saw Mill River Parkway curling and uncurling uphill and downhill like the roll of adding-machine tape in her father's office when she dropped it. And under the Parkway is dirt and rocks; deeper and deeper and thicker and thicker until finally you get to the other side of the earth where the Pacific Ocean is stuck on upside down by gravity, so that if she could open her eyes now and look straight through she would see sand and salty seawater and the white slippery bottoms of fishes and boats floating upside down. And the wet waves round them, and then miles of air and clouds and space going on forever and ever.

"What Ah'd like to know is, where did all these old cars come from?" Mary Ann's mother's voice says.

"It's Independence Day weekend, Honey."

Honey is Mary Ann's mother's name; not her polite name on letters, which is Honoria, but what everybody calls her that doesn't call her Mrs. Hubbard. Mary Ann's father is named William and called Bill. And ever since last fall, when she started Eastwind School, Mary Ann calls them Honey and Bill too. It felt funny at first, but now she is sort of used to it. At Eastwind all the kids call the teachers by their first names, and most of them call their parents by their first names. Honey explained to Mary Ann that the idea was for her to think of her parents as people not things. That for her to call Honey "Mummy" was like them calling her "Daughter" or "Child," as if they didn't know what her name was or that she was a separate person.

And it sort of worked out that way. Before she went to Eastwind Mary Ann didn't notice much what her parents were like; they were Mummy and Daddy. Now she notices all the time. But maybe that would have happened anyhow just from getting older.

"Eight miles to Poughkeepsie."

"Ah thought we already passed Poughkeepsie," Honey says. "At this rate it'll be dark before we-all get to Anna's." Her voice goes up high and gets even more different from most people's.

"We're making pretty good time," Bill says.

Honey talks different from most people because she was born and raised in the South. The only other people in Larchmont who talk like her are cooks and maids and gardeners who mostly come from the South too, like their maid Precious Joy. They and their families had lived in hot climates for a long time and got sort of slowed down, the way most everybody gets slowed down in very hot weather, when it's hard to hurry or to speak fast and make all your words clear. Only they sort of got stuck that way. If your family lived in hot places for a really long long time, hundreds and hundreds of years, you also got darker and darker from the sun till you were shiny black all over like Precious Joy, all except the inside of your mouth and hands and the bottoms of your feet that the sun couldn't get to.

Honey isn't dark, but an ordinary light-pink color, and she can talk like other people in Larchmont if she wants to, because her family didn't live in hot places for all that long, but it tires her out. The more tired or cross she is the slower she moves and the more Southern she sounds. Mary Ann sometimes practices moving slow and talking Southern, but she doesn't do it anymore where Honey can see, because Honey gets mad. She thinks Mary Ann is making fun of her.

"We are still just about crawling," Honey says. "But what can you expect, with this damn old jalopy?"

"We're making pretty good time," Bill says again. He steps on the gas to prove this, so that the engine of The Franklin roars up loud; then he eases it back down, because driving too fast wastes gas and is against the law.

The Franklin is named after Benjamin Franklin who was a great Revolutionary patriot and inventor with his picture on the Saturday Evening Post every week, fat and gray with little square glasses. He was very good at saving money and discovered electricity with a kite and a key and wrote an almanac full of dull wise sayings.

Now he is their car and he doesn't mind that. He likes driving around the country and seeing what's become of it since he died and how much electricity there is everywhere. When you are lying down in his fat gray back-seat lap you can hear his engine saying the same dull things he said in history.—A penny saved is a pen-ny earned, he says, over and over again.

The Franklin likes Bill, who understands him and takes good care of him. I understand this car, he says often; he has a collection of sayings too, though usually different ones.—Dirty hands make clean money, he says, and—The more you see of some people the better you like dogs.

The Franklin loves Honey because she is so pretty. When she gets dressed up to go for a Sunday drive in him she looks just like the smiling ladies who sit in new automobiles in ads. But Honey doesn't love The Franklin. She thinks he is ugly and ordinary looking, and also now she thinks he is too old, five years old, which is middle-aged for cars. Like cats. A year for a cat or a car is the same as seven for a person, and when they get to be more than ten (times seven is seventy) without dropping dead or having to be Put Away (like Tallulah when she wouldn't eat and kept spitting up on the rug) then everybody is surprised. It isn't fair because The Franklin is really only (seven times five is) thirty-five, five years younger than Honey. But she wants to get rid of him anyhow and says so even when he can hear it. "Ah would just adore to trade in this darn old jalopy for one of those beautiful new Buick roadsters," she says. So it is no wonder The Franklin gets discouraged sometimes and lets Honey down in emergencies.

Mary Ann doesn't exactly like The Franklin all that much; he is too square-shaped and black and his lap is too scratchy. But she feels sorry for him. She hopes he lives to be a hundred and stays just as strong and healthy as he is now, which can happen with cars if they are taken really good care of, though not with cats or people. (Minus thirty-five is sixty-five; divided by seven is nine years and two left over.) Mary Ann will be nearly a grown-up lady when The Franklin is a hundred, and she will keep him in the garage mostly resting like Greatgrandma in the old ladies' home, but sometimes on nice days she will get all dressed up as pretty as Honey and take him out and drive around in him.

"It's going on six already," her mother complains. "Ah don't understand why we couldn't have started sooner, and avoided some of this crowd....If you would have quit work early for the holiday like most people, we'd be there by now. Ah really don't understand why you couldn't do that, considering you're the boss of that whole old office."

"It's because I'm the boss that I can't leave early, Honey. I have to set an example."

"Ah don't see why. Mah father never fussed about examples down home. He took off whenever he felt like it to be with his family."

"Yeah, I bet he did."

"And you needn't throw aspersions on Daddy-Jack. He was one of the best...

Mary Ann stops listening. She has heard this conversation before and probably she will hear it again. After a while, if it goes on long enough, Bill will say that Daddy-Jack (who died when Mary Ann was a baby, so she never really met him) was a hopeless alcoholic who couldn't even stay sober for his only daughter's wedding, and drank so much bourbon whiskey that morning he nearly fell down in the aisle of the First Presbyterian Church. And how Honey had to hold him up, looking cross and far away like a movie star the way she does in the silver-framed photograph on Mama-Lou's piano, in her white lacy wedding dress with her knees showing and a big bouquet of lilies of the valley.

Then Honey would laugh a special mean little laugh and start saying things about Grandpa and Grandma Hubbard up in Maine. She would say that Grandpa Hubbard knew how to pinch a nickel so hard it squealed and that Grandma Hubbard was so darn respectable she made Honey feel like the Original Scarlet Woman, whoever that was. Probably it had something to do with scarlet fever and was a fancy way of saying that Grandma Hubbard made her sick.

Honey talked much faster than Bill in these conversations and said worse things. In a way she was a lot madder than him; but in another way she was just kidding, and she always got over being mad much quicker. Pretty soon she would start to laugh at something she'd said and her laugh would get all bubbly, and she would lean up against Bill and say, "Aw, sweetie. Ah'm sorry. Ah don't know what got into me. Don't pull that long horse face. Ah'm sorry Ah lost mah temper and said all those awful things."

"That's okay," Bill would say; but his face would look long and horsy for hours afterwards, sometimes for days.

Mary Ann must have slept some, because they are out in the country now. She can tell that even without sitting up. The road is bumpy, and there is no noise of other cars, and the wind goes past in a close steady rush, except when there are fence posts: then it comes in short breaths like somebody working hard. Besides, it's cooler, and she can smell cut grass.

"Something I'd like to make sure of right now, Honey," Bill is saying. "I don't want to have to play any of those games Anna always organizes at parties. She and her friends are supposed to be so smart, real intellectuals, but they're always hunting around trying to find where some damned ashtray is hidden, or making lists of ten animals that begin with the letter B."

Mary Ann knows that game already; it isn't ten with the same letter but one for each different letter in a word, and not just animals. Categories, it is called, and they played it when Anna came to their picnic only it rained. She hopes they will play it again, because she is very good at it.

"You said that already, darling," Honey tells him, which is true. "Ah told Anna you don't like playing those kind of games. Ah said they made you feel silly."

"Well, they do. Anyhow, I've got to work. I've brought all the figures for last month's report with me, and I'd like to get a draft written by Monday."

"Aw, Hubby," Honey says. "Ah want for us to have a good time this weekend. Can't you forget that old report?"

Hubby is a special private name Honey calls Bill sometimes, that nobody else can use, because besides being short for Hubbard it means Husband. Bill's private names for Honey that she likes most are Kitten (because she is supposed to look like one) and Beautiful. Sometimes when dinner is late, which it usually is on Precious Joy's day off, he calls her Mother Hubbard. "Come on, Mother Hubbard," he says. "Time to go to the cupboard and get this poor dog a bone." So Honey goes to the cupboard and to the stove and to the refrigerator, but she doesn't like to. She doesn't like being called after Mother Hubbard, who is an old woman in a baby bonnet, even more than she doesn't like being called Honoria. "That name practically ruined mah entire childhood," she said once. "Ah wanted to make darn sure Ah gave mah little girl a name nobody in creation could make fun of."

But she hasn't. "Mary Ann, Mary Ann, washed her face in a frying pan," they sang at her on the playground at recess. Soon as she grows up she is going to change it to another one, sort of like it maybe, but nicer, more like books: Marian, or Marianne. Or maybe Miranda.

"I can't do that, Kitten. If you knew what the situation in the city was now, you wouldn't ask me to. There was a case I heard of just this afternoon, a family with five children. The father was hurt in a factory accident and he's been out of work two years, and the mother has TB, and they're living in—"

"Aw, Bill, darling. Ah want you to get your mind off all those miserable people, just for a couple of days—"

"I will, Kitten. Soon as I get my report done. I hope it won't take all weekend, but I'm going to need some time to myself at first, and a quiet place to work. I'd like you to explain that to Anna and everybody."

"How come you can't explain it yourself, darling?" Honey says in a sharp dragging voice like running your fingernails over cloth.

"It'll sound better coming from you."

"Ah don't think it matters who it comes from," Honey says. "Ah think it's going to sound pretty damn rude."

"Please," Bill says after a while.

"All right, sweetie. Ah'll tell everybody to leave you alone, and you can just sit upstairs in the bedroom all day. Only Ah don't know why the hell you insisted on coming along with us today if that's all you're planning to do."

"I wanted to get out of the office. Besides, I couldn't let you drive for three hours through this traffic."

(Continues...)

---

Excerpted from Only Children by Alison Lurie. Copyright © 1988 Alison Lurie. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---

Table of Contents

Contents

July 3,
July 4,
July 5,
July 6,
July 7,
A Biography of Alison Lurie,