House Party Page 12

  "What's that, dear girl?" Uncle Ned said, patting her knee with his antelope gloves.

  "Nothing, Uncle Ned." Silently Lily thought, At least everyone here knows Violet, so there won't be any misunderstanding.

  "Oh, darling! Don't you adore a lawn party!" Violet screamed. "It seems, Uncle Ned, that only you and I still dress in the beautiful, beautiful tradition of the lawn fête."

  "Not so loud, please, Violet," Mrs. Ames said. "All those women in seersucker dresses can hear you."

  "One sees so few chauffeurs nowadays, Lily dear " Uncle Ned said. "Can this be the right party?"

  "One sees no chauffeurs nowadays, Uncle Ned " Mrs. Ames said patiently. "The only person left out here who has one is Mrs. Dudley Marchbanks and that's because she's ninety-five and nearly blind." Then she thought, Why am I being so unpleasant to poor silly old Uncle Ned? Why can't I just let him and Violet live in their little dream world? At least they can still afford to.

  "Aha," General Cannon roared, "the bride of the regiment!"

  What on earth is that man talking about? Lily asked herself. Then she said: "Hello, General Cannon. Happy birthday and how nice of you to ask us all." She smiled at Betty and said: "Hello, Betty, how pretty you look."

  Bryan's car followed, blazing black and chromium in the hot sun. Even handsomer than the car was Bryan himself. Right after lunch he'd taken the car into the village and had it washed. Then he had availed himself of two free hours, gone up to the roof of the old Pruitt Place, stripped and sunned himself. While he had been upset by the condition of the shingles, he was glad he had done it. Being sunburned was part of being fit. He owed it to the family and to the community to look his best; no crumpled seersucker suit like that Sullivan guy was wearing, no untrimmed hair like Paul's. I ought to say something to Paul about his hair. It's all right if you're an artist instead of an architect, but for all Paul knows, he might meet someone here who might want to commission a building or something.

  Bryan looked ahead at Uncle Ned's car and smiled. Uncle Ned, in a swirl of coattails was helping Mother and Aunt Violet down from the Hotchkiss. Bryan watched his mother—poor Mother—with a glow of pride. Maybe she wasn't having such an easy time, but she stepped out like a queen, as straight and slim as she had ever been. Maybe Uncle Ned and Aunt Violet and the car were a bit too much, but still Bryan had to admit that they had style. When they showed up at a party, they owned Pruitt's Landing, there was no question about it.

  His own carload wasn't anything to be ashamed of, either. Bryan himself had showered and shaved again. He looked ruddy and well turned-out in his tropical suit. In the rearview mirror he could see Felicia, dark and stately, like some barbaric princess. She was wearing a skin-tight red dress that seemed to be made out of bandana handkerchiefs, except that Bryan knew you could buy a whole bandana factory for what the dress must have cost. Her arms were covered to the elbow with gold bracelets. A girl with any less breeding, Bryan thought, would look like a slut in that get-up, but Felicia can carry it off. John Burgess, sitting next to her, made a good impression, too. No oil painting, but solid and strictly okay with his stocky figure and his funny face.

  Now Bryan cast a sidelong glance at Elly sitting next to him. Elly was still sore about something and it made her dark eyes blaze wonderfully. She was looking pretty sharp this afternoon, herself. Nothing like Felicia or that Devine girl or even poor old Kathy, but right for Elly. She had on lipstick and a clean dress—kind of a dressy one, too—and pearl earrings. Bryan smiled when he thought of Elly, seething there beside him. He wasn't really mad at her because of what she'd said this morning—only disappointed. He was perfectly willing to forgive her, even anxious to.

  Looking again in the mirror, he saw the station wagon from the old Pruitt Place rounding the bend in the drive, Paul at the wheel. The station wagon was a sight. Bryan, for the life of him, didn't know why Mother hadn't bought a new one. But at least Bryan had given Jonas a buck to shine it up this afternoon. He was glad he had. Bryan didn't know what was the matter with Paul, he'd been as silly as a kid all day. If he didn't know better, Bryan would swear that Paul drank in his room. Well, Paul looked like hell. He needed a haircut and his suit was as badly in need of pressing as that Joe Sullivan's. But, it didn't matter, Paul was an Ames. Everyone here knew that. As for Joe Sullivan, well, Bryan didn't know quite what to make of Joe. The Devine girl was a looker. Style. Dressed to kill. Bryan wondered how a guy like Paul had ever latched onto her. Manning Stone was a character, and kind of fancy for Long Island. Bryan would have liked to know a lot more about him. But if he was okay with Uncle Ned and Felicia, he must be okay—not that Bryan would trust Kathy's judgment for a minute. And even poor old Kathy was a glass of fashion today in a great big hat and a dress that was all skirt and hardly enough top to keep her out of jail. No, Bryan thought, with the exception of Paul and that Sullivan rube, the Ames family is making a pretty damned good impression—not bad a-tall. We're holding our own. Bryan stopped the car neatly. "Here we are. Pile out." Just then he heard Uncle Ned say: "Enchanté, mon général!” He was about to remark on what a wonderful old character Uncle Ned was when Elly said: "Golly, but Uncle Ned's a jerk!"

  “Elly!" Bryan whispered. "He's our uncle!”

  "No fault of mine. Do you suppose I'd better put on my shoes, or could I just show up barefoot?"

  "You put on your shoes, damn it!” Bryan growled.

  "All right! Don't yell the place down." Elly flounced out of the car and slammed the door. She felt terrible. She'd felt terrible all afternoon and now she felt worse. She'd been on the point of telling Bryan how sorry she was for being such a shrew this morning, and then he'd gone all stuffy about her shoes. Naturally Elly was going to wear shoes. Couldn't Bryan take a joke? She'd counted rather heavily on him to be by her side this afternoon after what she'd just gone through with Joe Sullivan.

  Joe Sullivan! The very name made her blood boil. Not only had he been a perfect monster last night, not only had he beaten her at tennis and swum out to the raft first—those things she could forgive. But right after lunch today, when she was feeling a little mellower, she'd said to him "Don't you think we ought to do a little work on your book?" Not that she wanted to. And he'd said, "Sure, That's what we came out here for, isn't it?" Well, Elly had let that pass. But what really burned her up was that all he did was work. He didn't talk about one other thing but his book. When she bent her head right next to his he didn't even try to kiss her. He just rambled on about developing this character and reworking that scene and . . .

  "Damn 'em all," Elly snarled.

  So of course she got herself all gussied up in this green outfit and sneaked a pair of Kathy's pearl earrings which were killing her and hopped ostentatiously into Bryan's car instead of going along with Joe in the station wagon and . . . Well, now she'd alienated Bryan, and the one man in the world she'd ever thought she might care about turned out not to care about her and her ear lobes throbbed with pain and . . . "Hello, Betty," she said, "swell party." Elly liked Betty Cannon and she would have lingered longer to say a little more, but Bryan, who had just introduced Felicia and that homely Burgess man to General Cannon was heading this way. "I'll see you later, Betty," Elly said brusquely. "I've got to wish your old man a happy birthday."

  Betty Cannon stared in wonder. How typical of Elly to call the general her old man. Betty always knew she'd like Elly if she weren't so in awe of her. But Betty was always in awe of girls who got everything they wanted as easily as Elly Ames did. There isn't a man in the world Elly can't have eating out of her fingers if she wants, Betty thought. Now just watch, she'll go up and lead Daddy around by the nose like a trained bear when he's been so cross all . . . "Hello, Bryan, so glad you came." Bryan was a heavenly man.

  13: Fête Champêtre

  "Happy birthday, General," Elly said. Privately and semi-publicly, Elly thought that boiling in oil was too good for General Cannon, but she'd been so rude all day—not without provocation—that she felt she'
d better try to be polite to someone.

  "Well, if it ain't the little Ames girl. Just the one I wanted to see most!” General Cannon threw his arms around Elly and kissed her noisily. He reeked of Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch. "Now, sup-posin' you just grab hold of my arm here and you an' me'll take a little prommynayde inta my study. You know all about this pub-lishin' business and there's somethin' I wantcher advice on. Tim-berline," he roared, "bring a pitcher of good strong Hell-for-Leather inta the study for Elly and I."

  Joe watched Elly and General Cannon with sardonic despair from some fifty yards. "That's right, kid, always head for the generals in this world. You and your bunch wouldn't look at a private like me if . . ."

  “I beg your pardon?" Claire said, smoothing the long suede gloves up over her arms.

  "I said, Jeest, imagine being at a real live general's shin-dig when just a year ago I was cleaning out the enlisted men's latrine in Korea."

  "Excuse me," Claire said faintly, "I have to find Paul." She hurried away, not entirely unconscious of the admiring eyes focused on her. She hadn't been altogether sure about this dress. It was from one of the new Spanish designers, and they were apt to be risky. But now that this chance to land Paul had come her way, she could relax a little. Risky or not, she wore the untested Spanish design and she wore it proudly. And as much as she feared being seen twice in the same thing by the same people, she put on Hildegarde's hat again—just to show the Ameses she didn't give a damn. After all, she thought, I'm practically an Ames myself, and I haven't seen a hat around here that cost anything like this one, except Mrs. Clenden . . . Auntie Violet's.

  "Here I am, sweetheart," Paul squeezed her arm.

  "Oh, Paul. Please. My gloves. They're brand new."

  The first sip of Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch made Kathy's knees give and her throat contracted violently. She should have remembered last year and the year before about the general's secret formula. But the next sip went down a little easier and the third made her feel a lot better.

  "Why, Katherine Ames, as I live and breathe. How stylish you look!"

  "Thank you, Mrs. Colby. I'd like to present Mr. Stone."

  If one more woman came up to her in front of Manning and told her she was looking smart in a tone which implied she usually looked like a ragpicker, Kathy swore she'd throw the whole punch bowl at her. Couldn't a girl get a new dress without everyone acting as though she'd spent her whole life in sackcloth and ashes? First Elly, then Mother, then Aunt Violet, then Betty Cannon, then four women at the party. It was a beautiful dress, too—severe and cut very low. It was one of her Manning dresses.

  "Darling," Kathy said, laying a proprietary hand on Manning's impeccable sleeve, "would you be a love and get me another glass of punch?"

  "Righto, darling," Manning said and strode elegantly to the bar.

  What a funny, funny day this has been, Kathy thought. Yes, it had all been ever so odd. First this morning that nice lawyer-man of Felicia's had been entertained—almost enthralled—by every word Kathy had said. Then Felicia was the first female in twenty-nine years who had let Kathy know that she was a, well, a menace. Felicia could just go chase herself. It's strange to find out you're a wit and a menace all in one hour after never knowing what you are. Kathy had been so upset that she'd had three old fashioneds before lunch and washed down her meal with a full bottle of vin rosé. I ought to watch my drinking, Kathy thought. But it had helped so much this afternoon with Manning.

  That had been a scene—pure French farce; really one for the books. She'd asked Manning to come to her bedroom—just to talk, nothing else. Kathy had sat on her orange chaise longue in a very proper robe, with Manning at her feet. He held her hand, but that was all. And talk was exactly what they did. Feeling a little mellow, Kathy had wanted to try out her newly discovered sense of comedy. She'd said things that seemed awfully witty, like "Oh, but darling, we might be terribly, terribly bohemian and live on love in a garret down in the Village. Rudolph and Mimi. Or perhaps we could be that cunning little Lord & Taylor couple who live in one expensive room and both have fascinating careers and know scads of well-dressed people with long eyelashes. Or we might just pig it in a suite at the Plaza after your play has been produced and . . ." Well, she had been absolutely killing herself with her brilliant repartee when the door opened and Paul lurched in, a pencil over one ear, his working glasses down on the tip of his nose, his dirty old robe and all the hair on his chest hanging out,

  "Oh," Paul had said and lurched right out again.

  Well, it hadn't been as though they were doing anything they couldn't be seen doing in the drawing room. But Paul was so moody with other people. Goodness, Kathy giggled, I wonder what he did think was going on?

  Paul's arrival and departure had given Kathy the cue to play the scene as though it were one of those sophisticated, light-hearted English comedies of bad manners. "This is really seductio in absurdio, isn't it, Manning, dear?" she had said, biting the tip of his ear. Kathy assumed that one did bite the tip of an ear in the haute monde of sexual debauchery.

  "Ouch!" Manning had said. Then he got the idea and said, "Darling," and had thrown his arms around her waist burying his head in her bosom.

  At that moment the bathroom door had banged open and Elly padded in, wrapped in a bath towel. "Ooops, sorry. I wont be a minute, Kath. I just wondered if you'd let me borrow a pair of earrings." Elly had gone right on with her business, just as though Manning hadn't even been in the room. By then, Manning had jumped to his feet and stood there looking terribly mystified and a little flustered. Elly had departed and that just about ended the boudoir scene.

  "One might as well try to find ecstasy in Grand Central Station," Kathy had said with a tinselly laugh. "It's pure You Can't Take It With You around here, I'm afraid." She had suspected this speech of trite imagery, but it was too late to find more worldly similes. Manning was on his way out.

  "Well, I'd better be getting dressed, darling. Perhaps . . .”

  "Ah, yes," Kathy had said, stretching her arms snakily above her head. "Perhaps sometime later we can meet clandestinely in the conservatory or in a rococo suite in a West Side hotel." She laughed airily, feeling very witty and very seductive.

  Manning had been stunned. "It's a very smart room," he had said and bolted out.

  Smart, witty, seductive. Seductive, witty, smart. Kathy had got up, poured herself a strong drink from the pint of rye in her suitcase and lain down on the bed for a little nap. Very, very, curious.

  Now she waved gaily across the garden to him. "Manning, darling, hurry over with the replacements. I can't hold out much longer. Hahahaha!" This has got to be the last drink, Kathy told herself sternly. The last till dinner.

  Manning's hand shook and the Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch sloshed wildly in the cup he was filling for Kathy. Who did she think she was, Beatrice Lillie? Ever since he'd met her, she had been putty in his hands—just like all the rest of them, only worse. She had practically slobbered every time she saw him. Then all of a sudden she was putting on this high comedy act. Manning didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. It reminded him of that Irish girl back home in New Jersey—back at Passaic High. Maureen, that's what her name had been. Well, this Maureen had acted just like Kathy; led him on and on until he was all ready for action and then she'd laughed in his face; laughed him right out of town; laughed until he had to quit high school, leave home and come to New York to spiv around until he landed a job in the chorus of Anything Goes,

  Manning never thought of Passaic any more. He never thought of Momma or Poppa or the store or how he had been in the dramatic club's presentation of The Honorable Crichton or the job he might now have at the Forstmann Woolen Mills. He only thought of Maureen laughing at him. That was nearly twenty years ago and he hadn't forgotten it yet. So Kathy wants to laugh too, does she? Okay, we'll see who's the best laugher before we settle down to anything permanent.

  But Manning knew when he was beaten. He had to settle down to so
mething permanent pretty fast. The June rent wasn't paid and there was little hope of paying July's. Maybe this career had more glamor than one at Forstmann's in Passaic, but a steady source of income never hurt anybody. He'd bring her around, God damn it. Just throw a little scare into her and then the big reconciliation. Maybe he could even get old Auntie Ned to be best man.

  The lawn was filling up with people. The Hemenways had arrived. So had the Heminways and the Hemingways. The two-m Hemmingways were expected momentarily. No one who had lived in the vicinity of Pruitt's Landing for less than three generations could tell the difference between any of the four families, but as each of the H'ways felt that his genealogy was the most illustrious, there was certain to be misunderstanding, confusion and difficulty when they all—a total of twenty-three people—appeared at the same party.

  The accordionist, temporarily free from the general's musical despotism, stopped playing "The Caissons Go Rolling Along" and launched into “Tea for Two," "She Didn't Say Yes," and "Who"—hummable old standbys which had kept him gainfully employed every Saturday afternoon since the depression. Timberline had to refill the punch bowl four times and the Gustafson sisters noticed that even the anchovy paste and pimiento sandwiches were beginning to go—always a sign that a party had turned the corner and was on its way to being a success.

  Still the cars kept rolling up the drive. Betty Cannon was feeling a little desperate. Even if it was Daddy's birthday, it wasn't fair of him to disappear with Elly Ames and leave her to greet the guests and make excuses for him. Where was he, anyhow? "Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Crum, I'm so glad you could make it . . . Daddy? Oh, he's around someplace. Do go and get some of his famous punch before it all disappears. Timberline will serve you." Betty considered having a cup of Hell-for-Leather herself, but then thought better of it. She hadn't had lunch today.