House Party Page 11

  "Oh for God's sake!" Elly growled. Throwing down her racket, she stomped off the court.

  "Elly . . ." Bryan had never been so stunned. Grasping feebly at the frail reed of sportsmanship, he smiled half-heartedly at Joe. "W-well, I guess that just about winds up the game," he called. "Congratulations, old man!" He leaped for the net, his hand outstretched. But unfortunately, Bryan misjudged his leap in the general confusion. His toe caught the edge of the net. He hurtled forward, striking Joe full in the chest and the two of them rolled over and over in the red dust.

  They got up silently, eyeing each other furiously. Keeping a good distance apart, the two walked wordlessly to the tennis house, from which Elly was just emerging. She was once again wearing the little plaid cotton dress, which she swore she was going to burn the minute she got back to the house. Her face was beet red and innocent of make-up. "Here's your B.V.D.'s," she said, holding out Bryan's shorts and T-shirt. "Thanks."

  Joe sat down on the bench and began putting on his shoes and socks. He was just beginning to realize how much his feet hurt.

  Bryan walked silently to the tennis house and went in. He was about to slam the door, but then thought better of it. "Shower, Sullivan?" he called. After all, it was only a game.

  "No thanks," Joe said. "I don't usually bathe until Saturday night." Bryan laughed nervously and then disappeared. Joe and Elly sat in complete silence. Elly knew perfectly well that the showers in the tennis house hadn't been turned on since last summer, but she decided that Bryan could just find that out for himself. All his smug talk about sportsmanship and playing the game! She was terribly ashamed of herself and she knew she ought to apologize to both Bryan and Joe. But she'd rather die than do it Suddenly she decided that she hated all men.

  Padding naked across the floor of the tennis house, Bryan couldn't understand what had happened to the place. It was airless and dusty and smelled of mice. The Italian chintz curtains in the windows—once a gay riot of reds and blues, patterned with rackets and tennis balls—hung limp and dispirited. "They don't look as though they'd been washed all summer," Bryan reflected. The dead showers were the last straw. "Poor Mother," Bryan said, as he sat down gingerly on the gritty bench. "She just doesn't have any sense of organization. I'll have to come out here more often and get things going again."

  Now he was beginning to feel a little better. "It's only a game,” he told himself again, as he struggled back into his damp clothes. "He won and he won fair, although if Elly had just returned that easy serve and . . ."

  Bryan came out of the tennis house and smiled benignly on the two of them. "Well," he said, "who's for a swim? Everybody's down it the beach, I guess."

  "A swim would be great," Joe said. "Just great." He'd cooled down. After all, Bryan was a good egg. He was trying to be decent to make up for his sister. No reason to snap at him.

  "Oh, I can't wait to see your Australian crawl," Elly said with heavy sarcasm. "I'll bet you were on the Olympic team and everything."

  "I'm certain I won't swim nearly as well as you do, Miss Ames," Joe said sweetly. "After all, you have all of Long Island Sound as your swimming pool, while back in the middle west we only have . . ."

  "Say," Bryan interrupted brightly, "you certainly play an unusual game of tennis. Where did you ever learn?"

  "In the park back home," Joe said. "They've got a couple of beat-up old concrete courts where anybody can play. Nothing like these, of course."

  Bryan was once again conscious of the shabby condition of the tennis courts. "Well," he said with a laugh. "Let's head down for the beach. Bring a suit, Sullivan?"

  "Yes. I'll go up to the house and get it." Joe limped off, feeling like something of a heel.

  "Listen, Elly," Bryan said. "I think you ought to watch your manners and your language. After all, he's a nice guy, he's your guest, you invited him here and just because he beats you at tennis . . ."

  "Oh, shut up!” Elly said.

  Mrs. Ames felt that she might be suffering from a touch of the heat. Even under the umbrella, the sun was becoming unbearably hot. She thought she'd go out of her mind if Violet and Uncle Ned didn't stop chattering. The children, at least, had been taken well down the beach by Fraulein, but now Felicia and that dapper Mr. Stone were exchanging continental recollections right along with Uncle Ned and Violet.

  Paul was another mystery. He'd arrived at the beach this morning as black as a thundercloud. Not a civil word out of him and then, all of a sudden that strange, stylish Claire girl had screamed to him from the top of the cliff—shrieked as though the end of the world were coming, and Paul, bathing suit and all, had rushed away. Then half an hour later the two of them had reappeared. Paul looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary—kind and courtly and making little jokes—and Miss Devine as cool as you please in a silver brocade bathing suit. Terribly thin, though, Mrs. Ames thought, much too thin.

  "I don't know what you must have thought of me, Mrs. Ames,” Claire was saying again, "but all of a sudden I had this sort of premonition that Paul"—Claire was thinking fast and making as good a story as possible out of an impossible situation—"that is to say, Paul's work was in some sort of danger. Terribly silly, I know, but I'm so interested in—in architecture that I simply had to make sure that . . . "

  "That's very interesting," Mrs. Ames said. Now she was certain that Claire was wearing Paul's signet ring. Yes, it was the old, heavy ring dear Papa had worn. "Of course I'm so stupid about architecture that . . ."

  "Oh, but my dear, isn't that exciting!" Violet cried. "I know such an interesting clairvoyant down on Madison Avenue. The things she told me. She said Felicia was going to get a divorce and . . .”

  "Mother, please,"

  ". . . and that I'd better unload my television stock right away and . . .”

  Felicia looked irritably out toward the raft again.

  ". . . coming back on the Liberie lahst summah," Manning was saying, "we ran into Bobo and Dickie again and . . .”

  "I beg your pardon?" Felicia said.

  Mrs. Ames watched Paul's thin hand reach out and cover Claire's. She looked discreetly out to sea and said: "I do wish Kathy would come back in. She'll be burned to a cinder out there on that raft all morning."

  "That would be a shame,” Felicia said.

  "Why don't you swim out and tell her, Felicia?" Mrs. Ames said.

  "I say, that's a capital idea," Manning said. "Will you join me?"

  Felicia got to her feet and put on her bathing cap. At Manning's Hide, she strode smartly down to the water's edge.

  "Did you ever see such a handsome couple," Violet said. "He's no distinguished and tall and just as brown as an Indian. While Felicia . . ."

  “. . . and so for the last five years I've been working for the Save-the-Trees Foundation," Kathy was saying. "It was nip and tuck as to whether I'd get the job. There was a Miss Goldbaum who tried for it, but she would never have done. She only had a degree in botany and knew how to do an honest day's work. That's much too efficient for Save-the-Trees. So they hired me. They said I was their kind. That's really something of an insult, you know, but it takes a girl like me a little time to catch on." As a matter of fact, Kathy was a little mystified at herself right now. She'd always been told that girls loved her and men respected her. But she had never been able to entertain a man as she was obviously entertaining this Mr. Burgess—this John.

  "Go on," he laughed. "Now tell about the plaques."

  "Well, I told you that no limb fell in Central Park without Mrs. Vanlandingham dictating an angry letter. But we also gave out plaques shaped like oak leaves every time the Rockefellers put up a new tree in front of Radio City. Naturally the bus fumes kill the poor things off right away. And we won't patronize Best and Company because they refuse to plant on Fifth Avenue and . . ."

  "I say, good morning!" Manning sprang up onto the raft and stood wet and glistening in the sunlight

  Kathy could only stare. She had never believed that any man could be so
beautiful. Next to John Burgess the contrast was overpowering.

  Felicia followed him. "Good morning, darling," she said to John. And then she crossed the raft and kissed him. "Manning and I have just been talking about the old days in Europe. We've decided that we probably knew one another well in an earlier incarnation. And you two seem to have been occupying yourselves out here with all sorts of athletic pursuits, haven't you." She looked at Kathy with a cool glitter.

  Kathy was about to answer when the air was rent with Elly's voice. With an unnecessary amount of plunging and splashing, Elly and Bryan and the sullen Mr. Sullivan crashed into the waves. In a moment the raft was a swarm of arms and legs.

  Kathy felt a little nervous. She always felt nervous when Elly got as manic as she was today. Boys for some reason seemed to like the gamine. Oh, but not Manning, she thought. No, Manning's different.

  Now Elly was being the hoyden again, playing her part to the hilt. Standing on the end of the diving board Elly called: "Let's just see who can get me off this board. I'll take all comers." How cute she looks in that disreputable old moth-eaten bathing suit, Kathy thought. She must have got it that summer she went to camp. She . . . The raft thumped hollowly with the bare feet of the men. There was a scream and splash. Bryan had pushed Elly in. John pushed Bryan in. Manning—the darling—had called “What-ho, Burgess!” and pushed John in and then that young man of Elly’s pushed Manning in—too hard, really—lost his balance and landed in the water with a painful plop.

  Giggling, Kathy looked up at the only other person left on the raft—Felicia.

  "Isn't this fun, Felicia? Isn't it . . .”

  "Listen," Felicia hissed, "I don't know what you think you're doing but lay off. Do you understand me? You lay off John Burgess or I'll. . . .”

  "Felicia! What are you talking about? I never . . ."

  "You know damn well what I'm talking about, you king-sized Shirley Temple. But if you know what's good for you, you'll . . ."

  "Children! Children!" Mrs. Ames called from the shore. "I hate to spoil your fun, but lunch is ready. Lunch!" she shouted emphatically as though they were all feeble minded. "Lunch. It's ready.”

  12: Convoy

  Pruitt's Landing had always been a very social community, and the weeks between Memorial Day and Labor Day used to be crammed with such dazzling functions as private dances, al fresco luncheons, clam bakes, smart weddings and elaborate picnics complete with servants, linen, the second-best silver, and insecticides. Grand-daughters and great-nieces of the older residents were brought out first at Pruitt's Landing before braving the big dances In New York. Those were indeed the days.

  Those were the days when vans from Sherry's and Robert Day-Dean's lurched across the wilderness, loaded to the gunwales with pâté and champagne and golden chairs. Those were the days when maple floors and striped marquees sprang up overnight on well-tended lawns; when fairy lights flickered in every other tree, when the red-coated gentlemen of the Alexander Haas band roared up blue gravel driveways in a chartered bus and sat plucking damp violin strings and swigging rye in a bower of laurel until the gentry were ready to fox trot. No issue of Town & Country appeared without at least one photograph of the citizens of Pruitt's Landing at play in what T & C chose to call the Little Season.

  Pruitt's Landing still had its Little Season, but it was very little indeed, and Town & Country, out of respect for the dead, still sent a wandering photographer, but his pictures of brilliant functions at Pruitt's Landing looked exactly like totally unnoteworthy parties held simultaneously in Sioux City or Waco or Little Rock. Now the bubble had burst and only Pruitt's Landing and Town & Country were unwilling to admit it.

  The social whirl of Pruitt's Landing had boiled down to a cocktail party every Saturday afternoon, attended by the same people, the same cateress and the same accordionist. There were tepid Manhattans and scalding martinis and a bowl of grape juice punch for the older ladies. If the day should be fair, the parties were held outside and there were fewer men and young people in attendance. If the day should be rainy, then furniture was shoved back against the walls, the rooms were thronged with disappointed golfers and tennis players and the temperature and the humidity soared into the high nineties. One or two women were likely to faint in the crush and there was inevitably a deep cigarette burn left on a carpet to remind the hostess that her social debts were paid and a good time had been had by all.

  It was just three o'clock when General Cannon, resplendent in a Chinese robe, descended to the pantry to compound his famous brew. The Hell-for-Leather Cavalry Punch. "Dja squeeze them lemons, Little Soldier?" he shouted. There was no reply. "Little Soldier! Front and center!"

  "What is it, Daddy?" Betty Cannon called, rushing in from the front of the house. She was wearing a slip and curlers. The party was just an hour away and she knew that nothing would be ready on time.

  "I said, dja squeeze them lemons I told you to?"

  "Yes, Daddy. And the pitcher is in the icebox. Here, let me help you."

  "Not on your tintype, Little Soldier," the general chuckled. "This punch is old Hell-for-Leather's own invention and I'm not givin' the secret away to anybody. Not even you."

  Betty resisted making the obvious answer. "Well, if you don't need me any longer, I’ll finish the flowers and then get dressed before the Gustafsons come to do the canapés. I'd like to look decent for once," she added with a touch of bitterness.

  "Don't worry about that, Little Soldier," the general laughed good-naturedly. "Nobody's gonna notice you, anyways. It's my birthday, ain't it? By the way, did you press my uniforms like I told you?"

  "Yes, Daddy. Oh, dear, here come the Gustafson sisters now."

  "Well, shut the kitchen door then. I don't want them Swedes snoopin' in to see how I make my punch."

  "Yes, Daddy."

  The Gustafson sisters, who catered to all Pruitt's Landing parties, marched stolidly into the kitchen bearing their cross of cardboard boxes, platters and pastry tubes. Still wearing their hats, they began wordlessly to perform their weekly rites with anchovies, olives and egg yolks.

  General Cannon cast a suspicious glance toward the door shielding him from the enemy intelligence and began the ritual which was to be his famous punch. He withdrew the recipe, written in code, from the pocket of his dressing gown. "Now let's see: light rum, dark rum, apricot brandy, bourbon, anisette, creme de cacao, grenadine, lemon juice, orange crush, pineapple ice and five cans of fruit salad. Check!” With the air of a medieval alchemist, General Cannon set about the task of ruining as much good liquor as possible.

  When the general had emptied just thirty bottles of liquor into the big galvanized washtub, he stirred vigorously with his riding crop and then dipped a tumbler into the concoction. He held his glass up to the light and squinted critically at it. Yes, the color was perfect—opaque and almost pitch black. He raised the glass in an imaginary toast: "To you, Lily," he said. "To you and I and to the day when we'll be one." With a cavalier gesture, he tossed down the contents of the glass. It hit him with the force of a mule's kick. He made a wry face. "Perfect," he said aloud. "Absolutely perfect."

  Tentatively patting the place on his head where the hair grew thinnest, he opened the door to the kitchen. "Hey, listen, Swenska," he said to the senior Gustafson sister, "this punch is all ready. You can pour some of it in the bowl now, but don't put in none of that pineapple ice until the folks start coming. I don't want it to di-lute. Savvy?"

  "Ja,” Miss Gustafson said, sprinkling paprika over the stuffed celery.

  General Cannon sauntered into the front of the house. "Damn foreigners, don't know their place," he muttered. He thought once again of the beautiful Lily Ames and wondered if he might not have Betty touch up his hair a bit. "Timberline," he shouted, "Timberline. Come on up an’ dress me."

  It seemed to Betty Cannon that never had so many things gone wrong in one hour. A string on Daddy's corset had broken just as Timberline was squeezing his waist down to a thirty-six. The
n he popped a button off his uniform and screamed at Betty so much while she was sewing it on that she stuck her finger and left a tiny drop of blood on the general's tunic, which had to be cleaned off and then aired so that the general wouldn't smell of spot remover.

  Betty felt sure that she had her father all dressed when she began frenziedly dressing herself. She'd bought this beautiful white dress just for the party. It was a sensational dress, a real Felicia Clendenning sort of dress, only more demure—all skirt and petticoats and short enough to show off a pretty pair of legs. Betty struggled to get the dress over her head and then do something really smart and different with her hair. That was when Daddy came in and decided that she should touch up his hair with the mascara brush. When she finished that chore, he decided that she must clip the hair in his nostrils. She'd just finished when the first car appeared in the driveway.

  "For God's sake, child, why ain't you ready? Here come my guests and you not even down there doin' your duty," the general growled.

  So Betty yanked the curlers out of her hair, ran a comb through it and raced down the winding stairs to greet the first guests. In her hurry, she brushed too close to a rhododendron bush, ripped her skirt—ever so slightly—and put an inch wide run into her sheerest stockings. Betty felt like lying down on the lawn and crying. Instead she beamed artificially and said: "Mrs. Bascom, Mr. Bascom! How good of you to come so early. Daddy will be right down."

  The house party from the old Pruitt Place rolled up General Cannon's driveway in close convoy. Sturgis led the procession at the wheel of the Hotchkiss, its two roofs temporarily in working order. In the tonneau sat Uncle Ned, dapper in his cutaway and gray top hat, flanked by Lily and Violet.

  Mrs. Ames was feeling a little distrait. So many, many things had happened today—nothing you could put your finger on, but a kind of current in the air. She wanted to talk to Paul and to talk to Kathy. She was worried about Elly—so sullen today—and she wanted a word with Bryan. Sitting here in the car with Violet and Uncle Ned, monocle and all, got up for Ascot, while Violet was done up like a grande cocotte on her way to Deauville. Mrs. Ames glanced at her sister again, at the red hair, the bangs, the gold lace dress, the gold fox boa, the gold lace parasol, the gold bird of paradise roosting on her picture hat, the gold star glued to her cheek. "I guess I look all right, after all,” Mrs. Ames said aloud.