Love & Mrs. Sargent Page 15

  “Yes, Floodie,” Sheila said. “If you’ll give me the pen, I’ll sign it now.” In her firm, stylish hand she signed the check. “Thank you, Floodie.”

  Mr. Christensen slid the portrait gently into its crate.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll certainly miss you, Mr. Christensen,” Allison began.

  “I’ll miss you, too, Allison. And do keep up your work. You can’t just lay talent aside in a bank vault and expect it to be the same when you want to take it out and use it again—like diamonds,” he added pointedly, “Even in a benighted place like this, try to meet people who know a little about art so at least you can talk about it.”

  “That’s not easy, Mr. Christensen. Although last night I met such a nice man. . . .”

  “Who was that, dear?” Sheila asked.

  “Oh, just a man from New York who runs some kind of art studio. He had a funny name. He calls himself Gustave G. Gustave, and. . . .”

  “You don’t say!” Christensen said. “My God! We went to the Beaux Arts together when we were kids. I even worked for him during the depression when he was just starting out. No talent, but a very good critic and teacher—and a very successful businessman. I’d like to see old Gussy again.”

  “Well, he’s staying at the Drake. I drove him home. He gave me his card.”

  “Tell you what, Allison, how would you like to come into town with me, help me pack up my studio and maybe have lunch or something with Gus?”

  “Oh, I’d love to, Mr. Christensen. . . .”

  “Of course she’d love to,” Sheila said. “But she’s going to a dance tonight and she’s got to have her hair done, I have an appointment today at four and I know that if I take you along with me Mr. Mario can slip you in. But it was very sweet of you to ask Allison, Mr. Christensen.”

  “Mother, my hair is. . . .”

  “Is a perfect sight. And if you call for an appointment Mario will say No, whereas if you just show up with me. Besides, a nap wouldn’t do you any harm, Allison. You must be dead, dancing all night. . . .”

  “I wasn’t dancing, I. . . .”

  “I thought that today,” Sheila continued, “I’d drive Mr. Johnson around to look at the countryside. We’ll have lunch out somewhere and I’ll pick you up just before four. Well, I certainly can’t go dressed this way. Sit down, Peter. It won’t take me a moment to change into something sensible. And as for you, young lady, I’m going to put you to bed right now. You need your beauty sleep.”

  “Mother, I. . . .”

  “Come, dear, so you’ll look all radiant and dewy for Billy Kennedy. Well, this is good-by, Mr. Christensen. It’s been . . . well, it’s been interesting sitting to you. Have a pleasant trip. I’ll be right down, Peter.” With that she was gone, taking Allison with her.

  A slight rumbling of Mrs. Flood’s stomach interrupted the silence of the house. It was almost one o’clock and she hoped that there would be something very good and quite a lot of it for lunch. The mail today had been so light, and Sheila’s replies so brief that the work was already done. With any luck, Mrs. Flood could pay whatever bills there were and then drive into the village and buy the jets she needed to finish off that little cocktail veil. She might even buy some inexpensive gloves and apply jet cuffs to them—an ensemble, so to speak.

  She put the outgoing letters into a pile for Sheila’s signature and then turned to the bills. There weren’t many. The bill from the florist had arrived. She glanced at it nervously, saw that it was unusually high and included, as well as her own furtive bouquet, flowers wired to shipboard, to New York and Cleveland and Beverly Hills and quite a lot of other places. Her own indiscretion would go unnoticed. She okayed it quickly and dashed off a check for Sheila to sign. Just as quickly she did the light bill. No use trying to fight a public utility. On her adding machine she totted up the butcher’s bill and was both pleased and surprised to discover that the two totals came out to the penny. Things were going so smoothly today. The bill for office supplies seemed high. She added it on the machine and, brandishing the tape triumphantly, caught the stationer in a ten-dollar error—in his favor, naturally. She stapled her adding machine tape to the bill, wrote a check for ten dollars less and scrawled “Incorrectly calculated” on the bill. She liked to be able to show Mrs. Sargent how efficient she was. The next bill was from the druggist and it was Mrs. Flood’s monthly despair, what with merchandise, Illinois Sales Tax and Federal Tax for cosmetics and things like that all appearing in three separate columns.

  “Oh, fudge!” Mrs. Flood said, yanking the fourth incorrect tape from the adding machine. “Why the government has to slap on ten per cent for a bottle of bath essence. . . .”

  “What’s the matter, Floodie?” Dicky asked, coming into the office.

  “Oh, Dicky, it’s this damned—excuse my French—this damned drugstore bill. I can never do it. All these awful taxes. I’m sure they’re unconstitutional.”

  “Would you like me to . . .”

  “Oh, would you, dear? There’s been so much work today my poor brain is just worn out. Here, Dicky, sit here. I’ve only got two or three more to pay and then. . . .”

  Calmly and efficiently, Dicky sat down at the desk and began pressing buttons on the adding machine. “As far as I can see, Floodie, the bill is correct, assuming we actually bought all this stuff. My total and their total. . . .”

  “Good heavens!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Would you just look at the bills from the bookstores! These cant be right. The Main Street Book Store three hundred and ninety-five dollars and one from Kroch’s & Brentano’s for six hundred and fifteen! Why, even at Christmas they’re never as high as that by half. Why, it’s highway robbery! If they think I’m going to allow your poor mother to pay. . . .” The words dropped dead on Mrs. Flood’s scarlet lips.

  “Here, Floodie, let me see.”

  “Uh, never mind, Dicky. I remember now what it is. Just some books your mother had sent around to various hospitals. You know. Charity.”

  “That’s some charity. Let me see.”

  “No, dear, that won’t be necessary, at all. They’re absolutely correct. I don’t even need the machine.” Mrs. Flood spoke rapidly, racing on. “Oh and Dicky, speaking of checks, I have yours. Mrs. Sargent signed it just before she went out. Here it is, dear. Don’t spend it all in the same place. Hahahahaha!” With a movement she considered deft, Mrs. Flood handed Dicky his check while popping the bookstore bills inside her cardigan,

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right today, Floodie?” Dicky asked. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, never better, Dicky. Wellll, perhaps I have just the teeny-tiniest little bit of a hangover today really a beautiful dinner party last night at my dear old friends the McGraws surely you know their house the big Norman one down in the ravine in Hubbard Woods. . . .”

  “Yes, you told me this morning. Quail, endive salad and creme brûlée. But if you’d like me to help you with the bills, I have time before. . . .”

  “Dicky, you must fly. You’ll be late for the barber.”

  “I have more than half an hour and he’s never busy anyhow.”

  “Not another word, Dicky. ‘Punctuality is the politeness of kings,’ you know. Hahahahahha! Now don’t keep the barber waiting. I can finish these . . . well, these odds and ends myself. Ta-ta!”

  “Whatever you say, Floodie,” Dicky said. “Any mail today?”

  “Mail, Dicky?”

  “Yes. You know. Letters, magazines, things like that.”

  “How odd that you ask. As a matter of fact, no mail came today at all. I’ve called the post office to put a racer on it. Well, good-by!”

  Alone at last in the office, Mrs. Flood heaved a sigh, mopped her brow and sat down to pay The Main Street Book Store for one hundred copies of Bitter Laughter and Kroch’s & Brentano’s for one hundred and fifty.

  VI.

  Except for the steady snip-snip-snip of the shears and the muffled sobs of a woman, the barbe
r shop was still.

  “I don’t care what you say, Julian,” the woman sniffed, “I think it’s just mean to cut his hair when he’s so young.”

  “You want him looking like a damned sissy, Effie? How do you think I felt when that jerk in the supermarket said ‘And what’s your name, little girl?’ A little shorter, please.”

  “Yes sir,” the barber said.

  “But, Julian, he’s just a baby. Those lovely curls “

  “I’m savin’ them for you, lady. Put ‘em all in an envelope. Make a nice momentum for you some day.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you, Clyde?” the father asked. “Getting your hair cut just like Daddy does.”

  “What little there is left of it to cut,” the woman said hotly. “Now, Effie.”

  “Poor little thing. He’s just terrified.”

  “Takin’ it like a reg’lar so’jer, ma’am. You should see some of the kids I give their first haircut to.”

  “That’s right,” the father said proudly. “You don’t see Clyde crying, do you?”

  “He’s too frightened, poor baby,” the mother said and blew her nose noisily into a wad of Kleenex.

  Dicky Sargent came into the barber shop and hung up his topcoat.

  “Morning, Mr. Sargent,” the barber said. “You’re early today. Be with you five, ten minutes. Have a seat. Now here’s a young man I gave his first hair cut to, musta bin twenty years ago. His father brought him in just like you done. The mother stayed home,” he added darkly. “Bin comin’ ever since.”

  “You see, Effie?” the father said.

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “Like to look at a magazine, Mr. Sargent? There’s Esquire, Life, Sports Illustrated. There’s Look. The new Time just come.”

  “Thanks,” Dicky said. He picked up the latest issue of Time and sat down.

  “Clippers on the back, sir?” the barber said.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh!” the woman sobbed.

  “Give yuh a nice lollipop when this is done, sonny.”

  “You’d like a lollipop, wouldn’t you, Clyde?” the father asked.

  “No,” the child said.

  As always, Dicky began reading the magazine from back to front and so he hadn’t flipped more than two or three pages before he saw his own face staring out at him from the book section of Time. It came as a slight shock. He took a deep breath and began to read the review.

  “. . . a first novel by 20-year-old Richard Sargent, Jr. To son of late, great 3-time Pulitzer Prizewriter Dick Sargent and lonely heartbalmshell Sheila Sargent (see TIME August 23) has passed his father’s name if not his talent. In 20 turgid chapters he has rewritten Tom Brown’s School Days in a style that should remind readers of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. . . .”

  Dicky’s head swam. He clutched the magazine and tried to go on reading. The words danced and jumped on the page before him.

  “Look like a reg’lar grown up adult man, now, little fella,” the barber said.

  “He looks just awful!”

  “He looks perfectly fine, Effie. He looks like a real boy now. You like your hair that way, don’t you, Clyde-boy?”

  “No,” the child said.

  Transfixed, Dicky tried to read on. But somehow the words made no sense to him.

  “Thank you, sir,” the barber was saying.

  “And this is for you.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. Here’s your envelope of curls, lady.”

  “Oh!”

  “Good day, sir, Clyde. G’by, now.”

  Dicky felt a terrible sensation in the pit of his stomach, saw the magazine actually shaking in his grip. He read on.

  “Stock characters . . . school bully . . . usual sexually twisted teacher . . . school might well be named St. Cliché. . . . Only surprise is that the son of Richard Sargent could have so little promise.”

  “Any time you’re ready, Mr. Sargent,” the barber said. Dicky got to his feet and stumbled out of the door, leaving his coat behind him.

  “Aw shi-i-i-it,” Shirley sobbed, switching off the television set. With the sleeve of her soiled kimono she wiped the tears from her cheeks, Shirley and Almeda loved daytime television. Indeed, they were rarely at liberty to watch in the evenings. They considered themselves connoisseurs of soap opera. At one time, when the television set was a novelty in their trailer, they had watched anything and everything hour after hour. Now they had developed definite tastes in soap opera, could take or leave most of them and were scornfully critical of the general run of daytime fare. But they were slavish devotees of As the World Turns—Almeda’s favorite—and of Shirley’s special program, Young Doctor Malone. In floods of tears and sniffles they would sit in the darkened trailer following the day-to-day trials and tribulations of their particular pets. When poor little Ellen on As the World Turns had her love child, Almeda had bought a pink bonnet and booties and mailed them straight to the Columbia Broadcasting System. And on Young Doctor Malone when it seemed that kindly old Emory Bannister was going to be deprived of his millions, his liberty and possibly even his life at the hands of his perfidious young wife and that slimy Lionel Steele, Shirley had written a long, explicit letter of warning, signing it “A Freind” and sending it by registered mail to N.B.C.

  Having almost no emotions of their own, Shirley and Almeda experienced heartbreak and gladness, triumph and defeat vicariously through the lives of their soap opera people. Illegitimate children, brain tumors, incipient blindness, amnesia, financial disaster and death found the girls racked by sobs. On the other hand, false friends, double dealing, infidelity and britde urban itypes left Shirley and Almeda quivering with indignation,

  “Crissakes,” Almeda said, yanking back the curtains, “don’t the poor bastid know she’s messin’ around with another John? It’s as plain as day. Now on As the World Turns when Penny found out that. . .”

  “Yeah, but dontcha see, honey, David dint have any way of knowing what Dorothy Mae done behine his back an’ Eve Dunbar wun’t tell him because she’s too much of a lady.” Sterling qualities and silent suffering appealed more to Shirley than to her sister. Almeda had a more worldly turn of mind, although she was a pushover for babies, illness and death.

  Almeda was about to counter with the succinct statement that young David Malone didn’t know his ass from his elbow when a knock at the door broke the spell. It was Dicky and he was drunk.

  Dicky hadn’t gone to the liquor store today. Instead he had driven straight to a roadhouse where he had been refused service because he was unable to prove that he was over twenty-one. At the next roadhouse the bartender hadn’t been quite so choosy and Dicky had stayed there drinking straight vodkas until the management decided that he could be served no more.

  He had undergone a series of conflicting emotions until, finally, he had told himself that Time was only one reviewer’s opinion of his book. To bolster his confidence he took the Weekend Bookworm review out of his pocket and read it again and again. If this Shelly Sands—whoever he might be—said he was a good writer, a gifted writer, Dicky would string along with that. Now, in the quest of physiological relief and literary research, he had come to call on Shirley and Almeda,

  “Hi, honeybunch,” Shirley screamed, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her pelvis against him. “Yearly ta-day, Mr. Orthor.”

  “Yeah, cutie pie,” Almeda said. “How come you tole us yer name was Royal Steward? We dint know you was a celebrutty.”

  “What?” Dicky said flatly.

  “We seen yer pitcher. Right here inna magazine. Some guy left it las’ night.” Shirley picked up a copy of Worldwide Weekly and waved it in front of Dicky’s nose. The girls were quite thrilled. They had never before met a real, live writer.

  Nor, in fact, had they ever before seen a copy of Worldwide.

  One of their more literate clients from Great Lakes Naval Training Station had left it behind the evening before. Almeda was a great reader. She liked Confidential, True Confessions, True Stor
y and True Romances, in that order. And so naturally this morning she had picked up Worldwide Weekly and thumbed idly through it and had let out a shriek of joy when she spotted Dicky’s picture on the book page. Neither of the girls had read the review and neither would have understood it had she done so—not that Worldwide was intellectually taxing. It was a liberal-slanted imitation of Time and Newsweek. However, it was awesome to Shirley and Almeda. Save for vice raids and arrests for armed robbery, they had never known anyone who had had his picture in print and they simply assumed that whatever book Dicky had written had been the greatest.

  “Yeah, look right here,” Almeda said. “They give yer real name. Richard Sargent, Junior. I think I’m gonna call yuh junior fum now on. An’ they say, ‘Bitter Laughter is far an’ away the most toxic novel of the year.’ Jeest, a famous orthor!”

  “They say what?’ Dicky asked.

  “Here, honeybunch, see fer yerself. Shirley an’ I are so proud.”

  Dicky began to read the review. It was unbelievable. Halfway through, he closed the magazine and staggered out of the trailer where he was very, very sick.

  “Whatsamatta, honeybunch?” Shirley said, gathering her kimono about her. “Aw, y’eat somethin’ din’t agree with yuh?”

  More realistic, Almeda stuck her head out of the door. “Listen kid, I’m sorry but if yer gonna be sick y’ull have to get outa here. We don’t want no trouble with the. . . .”

  “Almeda, the poor kid’s pukin’ all over the. . . .”

  “That’s no skin off our ass, Shirk I on’y say he can’t stay aroun’ here.”

  “But, Almeda, he shun’t drive no car. He hadn’t oughta be. . . .”

  “Come back in here, Shirk Sorry, junior, hope yuh feel better.” Almeda yanked her sister back into the trailer and slammed the door. “Jesus,” Almeda said, “he took our magazine.”