Okay, in this thread I collected words to use in a short story for a writing class I’m taking. It’s taken three-count 'em-three Cosmopolitans (thank you Dopers! for getting me turned on to cocktails, instead of boring old beer) before I have the courage to finally post this. I’ll have to post in two or three posts as it’s too long for one. I could qualify away, but I’ll let the story stand, except to say, I know the title sucks (insert appropriate expletive her). Thanks for the help, guys and gals. 
Clarissa’s Birthday
“Such bellicosity from a child!” Elisabeth cried. “Tell me, why are you so quarrelsome?” she continued softly, regaining her composure quickly.
“I am not quarrelsome Mother, nor am I a child! I am sixteen years old today and as big as you are.” Clarissa petulantly stomped her foot for emphasis.
“You will always be my child Clarissa. Do you understand me? Now go, before I send for your father.” Elisabeth returned to her reclining position and continued her reverie, staring out the window at the spring garden. Clarissa skulked away, only her feet expressing her utter frustration in their thump, thump, thump across the floor. Sometimes her mother could be absolutely irksome!
Presently, Evie arrived with a tray of food, Elisabeth’s typically abstemious lunch. There was a small bowl of sliced oranges, a rare indulgence that Geoffrey had produced upon his return from Atlanta. Three jam-smeared crackers, a teapot, cup and saucer, and small containers for milk and sugar stood out starkly on the large silver tray.
As Evie set the tray down she remarked, “It is a wonder you don’t waste away on such a paltry diet, Ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying. You hardly eat a thing, Mrs. Appleton!”
“Oh no Evie, you shouldn’t worry yourself on my account, truly. I’ve never been in better health,” Elisabeth replied earnestly. Turning away from the window, her reverie broken by Evie’s declaration, she poured a bit of milk into her cup as Evie dispensed the tea. She stirred the tea and dipped the damp spoon in the sugar, using only that which clung to it.
Her son Leo was scheduled to arrive on the two o’clock train from Pittsburgh. He was a singularly gifted young man, at the top of his class at Lincoln, and the pride of the Appleton family. Exceedingly handsome and quite the raconteur, his company was highly regarded, especially with the young ladies. Elisabeth hadn’t noticed him favoring any one of them yet, but now that he was home for good perhaps he would be more inclined to settle down.
Penny had polished the furniture to a high luster; the dinner table was set with eight settings, the newly polished silver gleaming in the sun that fell across the table from the west window. She could smell the mutton cooking out back and the warm bread Evie had just brought in from the ovens. Fresh flowers were secured and Elisabeth had spent the better part of the morning arranging them and placing the vases throughout the house. The rooms were exploding with the color and scent of a variety of lilies, red and white roses, yellow and pink irises, lilac and assorted sprays of greenery. Windows throughout their roomy home on Shaw Street were open wide, allowing the co-mingling scents to waft through the house as the light breeze swept through it. Elisabeth strolled through the house, inspecting each room to make sure it was as straight and as clean as could be, making sure it was all perfect for tonight, then retired to her room to make the final repairs to her dress.
Clarissa was incensed at her mother’s insolence. It was her birthday after all, and what did she care that Leo the Magniloquent was coming home? What a bore he was and what a lot of fuss people made over him! As if the American Negro never produced a finer specimen, not one single being so well spoken and erudite, so handsomely magnanimous. What rot. There were plenty of men twice as smart and infinitely more genuine at Howard. She knew because she’d seen them, and once stopped to talk to a young man while taking lunch to her father. The man had been talking excitedly to his friends about a lecture he had once heard about a movement to return to Africa when Clarissa walked by. He leaned into his cohort and whispered something while nodding in her direction. The reply caused him to stand a little straighter, check his tie and smooth his jacquard vest. His heavily lashed eyes were cast downward as she passed.
When she returned the way she had come fifteen minutes later the courtyard was empty of the loud group, just the boy remained, and the occasional bystander. When she passed by him again he called out to her, “You must be the smartest girl in all of Washington, in addition to being the prettiest.”
“And why should you think that?” she retorted, more bravely than she felt.
“Aren’t you Clarissa Appleton, Dean Appleton’s daughter? Everyone knows about your family. Your brother is a brilliant scholar, your father a founding member and Dean of the School of Arts and Letters. You’re Mother, of course, was well educated as a child in New Orleans.”
“And what a lot you know about everyone but me. Have you anything to report about me?” The young man blushed and bowed his head again, his brown eyes so thickly lashed they looked painted. Clarissa could not help but laugh at his obeisance. He was startled by this reaction at first, but soon found himself laughing along. Clarissa suggested they sit on the bench under the large oak on the north side of the courtyard—the opposite corner from her Father’s office—and they talked until the clock tower bell made Clarissa aware that an hour had passed. Her Mother would not be pleased. Preparing to leave she realized he had never introduced himself and was just asking him as he blurted out, “Can I ask you a question before you go? A question of a sensitive nature?”
“I suppose,” Clarissa replied, uncertainly.
“I trust you won’t take offense, I probably shouldn’t ask, but it is a rumor and well, there is just no way to be cordial about it. Is it true what they say about your Mother? Is she really a Quadroon? Is that how she came to have green eyes?” He looked at her expectantly, but cautiously. He knew he was taking a risk asking, but over the course of their hour-long chat she had appeared so open and frank in her opinion and discourse that he hoped she wouldn’t take offense. He felt safer knowing that she did not know his name.
Clarissa was shocked, but deftly concealed it. “No, as a matter of fact she is not. She was educated in New Orleans, you were quite correct about that, but she is originally from the British West Indies. She moved to New Orleans with her Mother when she was very young. I have never heard her discuss her Father. Now, are you quite certain you’ve had enough of this genealogical discussion? I must be going home.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you, Clarissa, for a delightful afternoon. I would very much like to do this again some time.”
“As would I, Mr… Mr… do tell me your name, sir.”
“Happily. Elijah Yates, at your service.”
. . .
She did not look forward to the dinner that night. She was resolute in her enmity towards her mother and especially that rapscallion Leo. She had tried all morning to induce her mother to allow her to go to the Spring Dance at church instead of this grotesque display of son-worship they called Leo’s coming home party, but Elisabeth had steadfastly refused. She was supposed to go to the dance; her mother even took her shopping for fabric and Penny had made a brand new dress just for the occasion, a beautiful dress of deep coral with tiny green brocade vines running vertical, punctuated perfectly by petite yellow roses every two inches and a large yellow bow over the bustle. Evie had been elaborately braiding Clarissa’s thick, waist-length black hair when Leo’s telegram came saying he would be a day late, her happiness impinged upon by what she was sure was his tomfoolery. Her father ordered her to attend the dinner and her mother ordered her to wear her new dress, a double affront since she hoped to debut it at a truly special occasion.
Hearing her father outside, she crept down the hall to the stairs to peek over the banister, hiding behind the fern. Her mother was at the window, peering out. Elisabeth turned abruptly, clasped her hands together and looked up—Clarissa could see her face clearly, the eyebrows arched, the mouth pinched and Clarissa wondered what Leo could have possibly done to earn that look, a look reserved for her and her alone.
The ride there had been pleasant enough, he thought as he wound his way through the afternoon crowd at Metropolitan Station, his head high, proudly disregarding the odors inevitable to train stations in large cities like Washington. Geoffrey was a well-traveled man who was accustomed to the disadvantages of public transport. Nervously twirling his derby in front of him as he walked, he made his way to the platform to wait for Leo’s train, which was scheduled to arrive at two o’clock.
When Leo finally disembarked, Geoffrey quickly approached him with an open arm, but Leo turned away to help an obscenely expectant young mother off the train. Her abdomen was so swollen it appeared she couldn’t even keep her balance, for she clutched Leo’s arm in spite of being firmly on the platform. She was pretty enough; a light-skinned beauty with full lips and bottomless eyes, petite in every way save that engorged belly. Her gingham maternity smock was plain but her straw bonnet had been pinned with an elaborate floral spray, which made her face all the more pretty. Geoffrey was waiting for the woman’s husband to appear, feeling quite good about the fact that he had raised such a polite son when Leo addressed him. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Father. Father, this is Constance.”
Geoffrey looked at Leo and then Constance and down to her belly, his mouth agape. He quickly overcame his astonishment, however, and managed to say, “Why, I’m pleased to meet you.”
He absentmindedly extended his hand for a shake, but quickly withdrew it and embraced Constance, gingerly, taking care to avoid her stomach. “Welcome,” he added. “I’m sure my wife will be mightily surprised, but I trust she will recuperate even faster than I have, and will welcome you with open arms.”
On the ride across town Leo explained to his father how he and Constance had fallen in love last summer, married soon after, how this was the reason he could not come home last Christmas and how sorry he was about his dishonesty. Leo’s timid wife sat quietly while Leo and Geoffrey talked and did not appear flustered by Leo’s sudden explanation of his marriage to his father. Still, Geoffrey was a well-mannered man, and he would never ask the questions he wanted to in front of her, not that they necessarily needed asking—the situation seemed obvious enough.
As Leo helped Constance out of the carriage in front of the brownstone on Shaw Street, Geoffrey worried about the dinner party to come. Leo wasn’t even aware of his mother’s plans for a party and it would take every minute of the remaining three hours to acclimate Elisabeth to the existence of her son’s sudden and pregnant wife. He knew she was there in the foyer already, peeking out from the strip of etched glass on one side, he knew she had seen Constance and that horrible possibilities were being created in Elisabeth’s mind even as they moved slowly up the steps with their cumbersome charge. She would be hysterical before they reached the door.
When Penny opened the door, however, Elisabeth was noticeably absent and the white rose boutonniere she had made for Leo that morning was crushed on the floor. Leo looked to his father apprehensively, and Geoffrey made a sweeping movement with his arm, encouraging Leo to go find her while he made certain that Constance was comfortable. Leo stacked their baggage in a corner of the entryway and undertook the stairs en route to his mother’s room while Geoffrey introduced Penny and Evie to his daughter-in-law.