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Merilyn had set the table with what looked like the most expensive china in the world. I was afraid to touch the paper thin crystal goblet for fear it would shatter if I pressed my fingers around it too hard. The plates had gold trim and pink roses at the center. The silverware was so heavy, I thought my trembling fingers might drop a fork or a spoon on a dish and shatter it, and there were so many forks, even one with another spoon at the top of the plate. What were they all for?

My setting was placed where I had sat to have my lunch and my grandmother's was at the head of the table. She wasn't there when I arrived, and I had arrived on time.

"What are we having, Merilyn?" I asked when she came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of ice water. I was too nervous to just sit quietly and watch her work.

"It's Tuesday. Mrs. Hudson has fish on Tuesdays. Poached salmon," she added with a tone of voice that added "whether you like it or not." The tick of the dark hickory grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room seemed louder than before, especially while I was sitting there alone, waiting. I stared at the mural, wishing myself in that scene. It looked so peaceful, friendly and, unlike my present circumstances, so uncomplicated. Finally, I heard footsteps in the hail and then my grandmother entered the dining room.

Once, when I was very young and walking with Roy, we saw many rich and elegantly dressed people arriving at what looked like a major social event in Washington, D.C. It was at one of the finer restaurants. Limousines stopped to empty their affluent passengers in front and out stepped lavishly adorned women, their hair styled and glittering with jeweled hairpieces, their necks roped in diamonds, their bodies encased in furs and black cashmere furtritnmed capes, and their gentlemen all in tuxedos. They glowed under the lights and I had to stop and drink in all the glamour and wealth. They looked like royalty to me. I imagined them coming from some magical kingdom where skin blemishes were forbidden, where everyone was born with perfect features, where laughter was musical and smiles fell like rain upon their blessed faces.

"Who are they, Roy?" I had asked my brother in a loud whisper.

"Them," he replied, not without a little bitterness in his voice.

"Who's them?"

"Them's them," he told me looking back as we continued on. "There's us and there's them. That's them."

It made no sense to me, of course. I wasn't very class conscious at-nine years old, and it wasn't something that haunted me as much as it haunted Ken, Beni and Roy. Mama seemed aware of it, but resigned to the division of the world, and I tried to be more like her. What good did it do to walk about with green eyes and a stomach churning up unhappiness?

However, when my grandmother entered the dining room, her diamond necklace so prominent, her matching earrings sparkling under the light of the chandelier, her beautiful, black velvet dress making her look even more stately, I had to catch my breath and remind my heart to beat. She was definitely one of them, which reinforced the fact that I was not.

She did seem like royalty. She moved like a queen, head high, posture regal, pausing before she had come halfway to her chair.

"It's proper for young people to stand when their elders enter the room," she said through her nearly clenched teeth. "Especially in the dining room."

I rose quickly. She looked me over intently; checking my hair, my make-up, and of course, my clothing. Once again, I saw that tiny gleam of warmth in her eyes before they turned indifferent.

"Who chose that outfit for you? Your mother or you?" she demanded.

"We both did, I suppose," I replied.

She shook her head and continued to her seat.

"Megan has such a difficult time being the wife of a conservative man. The little rebel in her like some persistent ember won't go out. Are young people back to wearing skirts that short?"

"It was what the store featured," I told her.

She sat and nodded at me and I sat.

"You look like you do take care of yourself and know how to wear your hair," she admitted with a little surprise echoing behind her words.

Merilyn hurried in to pour her a glass of water and then filled my glass as well. Then she rushed out with a look of abject terror on her face. Despite her coolness to me, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her and wished that I could just get up and help serve the dinner. I would have been glad to prepare the salad or something instead of waiting around for the sacred dinner bell to ring or my grandmother to make her grand entrance.

"Why shouldn't I know how to take care of myself?" I asked self-defensively. I couldn't help but sound like Beni with a chip on my shoulder. Some people just made it appear, people like my rich and conceited grandmother.

She didn't answer. Instead, she unfolded her napkin carefully and placed it on her lap. Then she gazed at me. I quickly did the same with my napkin.

"From time to time," she said, "you will be present at the dinner table when I have important guests. Of course, they will know you come from unfortunate circumstances, but they will nevertheless expect a show of proper etiquette simply because they will know you are under my roof and I would demand nothing less. I expect you to look presentable, even at breakfast."

"I'll always be presentable, but I'm not going to be a phony," I said.

She laughed coldly, shaking her head. Then she sighed, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were of great weight.

"What is that saying, 'The more things change, the more they stay the same?' Megan used to tell me something similar." The smile evaporated and she leaned forward. "Mealtime manners have nothing to do with being a phony. Good manners are part of what makes the experience pleasurable, for others as well as for you. Sprawling posture, elbows akimbo, or talking with a mouth full of food are simply unacceptable. It's simply a matter of courtesy toward other people at the table.

"Besides," she continued, "tomorrow you will register in a prestigious school. You will eat in their cafeteria with young people who come from the finest homes and backgrounds. You wouldn't want to look foolish, would you? Unless, of course," she added with a tiny smile on her lips, "being foolish is who you really are."

"I'm not foolish," I insisted.