That Afternoon

Millie was the first to see the car.

She had also been the first of the girls to slip off her shoes, sit on the edge of the pool, and dip her feet into the water. The pool was a frivolous, tiny rectangle in an otherwise palatial landscape and garden. Even in the live-and-let-live days of Newport, Rhode Island, in 1925—where the future was regularly toasted with terrible gin and only slightly less terrible whiskey—most felt it served no purpose. It called to mind the public baths of the Roman Empire or Saratoga Springs near the racetrack. The waiters saw it as an obstacle, having to walk all the way around it with trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of ill-gotten champagne, smuggled in from Canada on the host’s boat and stacked carefully in the root cellar.

As the afternoon wore on, some of the women decided to take off their shoes, sit on the edge of the pool, and dangle their feet in the cool water. The host smiled at his wife when they saw this, as if it justified their extravagance. See? It does serve a purpose. He may have even imagined what would happen if some of the younger ladies’ inhibitions continued to fall away—if they might decide to have a swim as the sun set, the contraband champagne serving its own purpose. The men, for the most part, stood at a safe distance, finding relief from the heat under the scuppernong arbor and dispatching the Canadian whiskey, which flowed from a cask whose spigot leaked unless jiggled just right.

From there, Millie had a perfectly fine vantage point to observe Tommy Irving, who had come in from New York City with a small crowd gathered on the lawn. She thought he would make a perfectly fine husband one day and might even tell him so should the occasion arise. They had met once before at this very house, at the Christmas party last year, where many of the same people strutted around and listened to themselves talk. Tommy was a handsome young man whose family owned a hotel or two back in New York—or so she had been told. She had noticed his strong hands at the Christmas party, not delicate like so many of these pencil pushers and money counters. Perhaps they had gotten that way from working at his family’s hotels as a young man—a porter or bellman, she thought, tossing guests' bags around while home on summer break.

Oh my. She thought she must have been right. Young Mr. Irving had seen fit to remove his jacket in the July sun and had draped it nonchalantly over his shoulder, hooked on his finger. Not chalant whatsoever, she laughed to herself, knowing full well that there was no word chalant. Tommy was at the party with some young lady she had never seen before; she had been watching them all afternoon. They had entered from the house, clearly guests of the host and hostess. He had tenderly held the door open for her—but not too tenderly. Had it been tenderly at all? Perhaps he was just being kind. Maybe it was his sister. No, she thought. Your sister doesn’t look at you like that. One hoped.

The car was coming up the driveway too fast. From the front, she was fairly certain it was a Lincoln L Series. She only knew this because her father had bought one from their neighbor last year; its grille made her think of a locomotive, and its headlamps looked like a bug’s eyes. A waiter brought Tommy Irving and Miss So-and-So two more drinks. Millie waved her empty glass at the waiter.

She glanced back—the car was still racing up the drive. Who could be in such a hurry? Were they even going to stop? The engine suddenly revved as if the automobile were mustering its last bit of courage. Some of the people on the lawn noticed, turning toward the sound.

Millie stood, perhaps to get a better look at what, if anything, was happening. He’s going to drive up onto the lawn, she thought. And just then, the car punched through the white fence, sending pieces of it flying into the air. People screamed and scattered.

That was when Millie noticed someone jump out of the driver’s side, spring to their feet, and start running back down the driveway—a detail she wouldn’t recall until hours later. Like a child’s toy tossed amok across the grass, the car bounced and rollicked, pushing through the stunned crowd of hot, half-drunk revelers.

Everything happened so fast, as everyone always says after such things. The bright sun—a speeding car, ripped from the street and dropped into their peaceful backyard soirée. Happy, well-dressed people diving this way and that, some not fast enough. And then, as if the whole thing could make any less sense, Millie watched as the car drove straight into the pool, splashing her quite thoroughly.

She looked up, making eye contact with several men and women who stared back at one another, seeking confirmation that this had, in fact, just happened.

Then Millie noticed a man writhing on the ground in the middle of the lawn. A woman screamed, and some of the men rushed toward where Tommy Irving lay. Millie ran around the pool toward him.

By the time she got close enough, someone was keeping people back—for their own good, presumably. But not before she saw Tommy’s mangled legs.

Her poor, beautiful Tommy—ruined and twisted up. By who?

What had just happened?

She turned back toward the car, searching for answers. And then—another scream.

Floating in the pool were several sticks of dynamite, with several more still lodged in the back seat of the car.

“It could still blow!” someone shouted.

“No, no,” a calmer voice—an old man’s—said matter-of-factly. “It’s all soaked. That’s probably what saved us all. If it hadn’t gone into the drink like that, it would’ve blown us all sky-high.”

“Who would do such a thing?” a woman asked.

Without a word, the shaken host stormed toward the house, his wife running after him.