House Party Read online

  "Quite the Vernon Castle aren't you, young man?" Mrs. Ames teased. "But I suppose you young people have never even heard of Vernon Castle."

  "Well, gee, Mrs. Ames, sure," Joe sputtered. "Sure I've heard of Vernon Castle but you dance awfully well for . . ."

  "For such an old hag?" she asked mockingly.

  "No. I didn't mean that. But where did you ever learn to dance like this?"

  "I had lessons from Salome, herself. Of course, I was just a chit of a girl at the time. But really, Mr. Sullivan," she went on, "you should try dancing with Elly, She's a much better dancer than I am. Kathy tends to be a little stiff and my sister a little too vibrant. Elly's by far the most natural dancer of all of us. Of course Felicia's very good, too."

  "Somehow I get the feeling that Elly would just as soon not dance with me. She seems to have more partners than she can manage."

  "She can manage her partners. That's the trouble," Mrs. Ames said.

  "What do you mean that's the trouble?"

  "Well, just what I said: That's her trouble. She grew up with all these boys. She's known them since they were all babies. And all the other boys she's ever met are right out of the same mold. She doesn't give a rap for any of them. It's like having steak every meal of your life. You get sick of it."

  "Well, she's a pretty fussy eater, Mrs. Ames, because she's found a pork chop in me and she still doesn't give a rap. I guess her score stays at one hundred." Joe said.

  "I'm disappointed. I rather thought she cared for you quite a lot. You're the first young man she's ever thought enough about to bring home."

  "Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's strictly business between us. Author and editor working together."

  Mrs. Ames threw her head back and laughed delightedly.

  "Did I say something so funny?" Joe growled.

  "Well, yes, you did. Did that silly girl tell you that?"

  "Well, no, but . . ."

  "I'm glad she's retained something of her almost overwhelming candor. An editor. That's wonderful!"

  "Well, isn't she?" Joe snapped.

  "About as much as my sister Violet. Oh, she works for a publisher. I gather that's where you met. Naturally I'm proud of my children, just like any other mother, but to hear that lazy little baggage described as a force in our intellectual life does come as something of a shock. I just thought . . ." Mrs. Ames stopped short.

  "You thought what?"

  "Oh, nothing," Mrs. Ames said. The music stopped and she broke away from him. She wished she could be struck dumb.

  "We're not going back to the table until you tell me," Joe said, taking her arm. "We'll stroll—or should I say promenade?"

  "Aren't you a forceful young man!" Mrs. Ames said, trying to muster some sort of outraged dignity. She gave it up as a bad job. He was forceful and she admired it. Being propelled across the dark verandah she smiled to herself. He was such a nice young man. No nonsense.

  Joe led her to a splintering bench overlooking the men's dressing room where a few rust-spotted athletic supporters hung limply on a clothes line. Mrs. Ames thought briefly of her late husband and then averted her eyes.

  "Cigarette?" Joe asked, proffering a crushed pack.

  "I don't smoke, thank you. But you may," she added hastily since he was going to anyway.

  "Thanks. Now what's all this about Elly?"

  "Well, nothing, except that I just thought you were the, er, pork chop, as you say, that she's been needing all these years. Just as Mr. Stone is the cock pheasant poor Kathy . . ."

  "You mean you thought this was the big romance?"

  "In a word, yes."

  "Well, it was."

  "Was?"

  "Yes, was!”

  "What happened?" Mrs. Ames asked. This interested her.

  "You."

  "Me?"

  "You; this club; the house; old—I mean Mr. Pruitt."

  "Forgive me. I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "Well, when I first met Elly I didn't think she was different from any other secretary."

  "Well, is she? Except that she can't do any of the things secretaries are supposed to do."

  "Sure she is."

  "I don't believe I know quite how."

  "Look, this is probably all Greek to you, but see if you can work it out by simple mathematics."

  "You should probably be warned, I've a very poor head for figures."

  "Well try. I've got a job. It pays seventy-five bucks a week. I live at the Y."

  "Y?"

  "Y.M.C.A. Young Men's Christian Association."

  "Oh yes. Athletics and cigarettes for the doughboys."

  "And cheap rooms. I've written a book that might just earn a thousand bucks and probably a lot less."

  "Yes?"

  God, she's dense, Joe thought. "Well, so here I am just scraping along. I meet a girl I like a lot. I think about pooling our resources; getting married; settling down; finding a little apartment someplace."

  "And very right that you should. The idea, living with a lot of athletic men!"

  "So I come out here with Elly, all set to ask Mama for her hand—I believe that's the term."

  "I believe it is."

  "Only I find that the little secretary has been pulling my leg all along and that Mama lives in the Taj Mahal complete with family heirlooms and hot and cold running servants. And all of a sudden I discover that the Hoosier hotshot—I come from Indiana, I guess I told you."

  "Yes. It must be very picturesque."

  "So I discover that Mooseheart's gift to Pruitt's Landing has wound up not only hopelessly outclassed, but mooning over a little secretary who happens to be the daughter of a great lady, the sister of a banker, the most popular debutante of God knows what year, and the heiress to more millions of dollars than I'll ever be able to . . . Hey!" Mrs. Ames's evening bag clattered to the floor, its modest array of cosmetics, coins and keys rolling every which way.

  "Ex-excuse me," Mrs. Ames breathed. As Joe scrambled in the dark to retrieve her belongings, she clutched the bench with both hands. She felt as though she were going to faint. A wild desire to burst into hysterical laughter nearly got the better of her. Heiress to millions, she thought, heiress to millions of dollars in debts. Can anybody in the whole wide world actually believe we're still rich? It's, it's . . .

  "Here," Joe said, sitting down next to her and handing her her bag.

  "Thank you." Mrs. Ames grasped both his hands and held them tightly. "You know, you're an appalling snob."

  "Snob?" Joe roared.

  "Yes. You won't give poor Elly a chance because you fancy she's too far above your station. What's that if it isn't snobbery? Now in opera if a heroine had someone like you to deal with, she'd have to go to a convent in the last act. In operetta, we'd all have to wait around until an old nurse came in and confessed that you were actually the heir to a mythical throne, who had been sent away in infancy by a wicked regent. In real life . . ."

  "Cut the comedy, please. I don't happen to think this is very funny."

  "Neither do I. I think it's tragic. Just what do you think of all those young men who are dancing with Elly right now?"

  "I think they're a bunch of meatballs."

  "Oh, dear. Back to the menu again. And how do you think the pork chop stacks up? Do you think you re less attractive?"

  "No. Not really."

  "Do you think you're less intelligent?"

  "Certainly not!"

  "In fact you think you're a little more intelligent, don't you? Well, I daresay that with one or two exceptions you're about ten times as smart. You're certainly as bright as my boys and they really shine in this crowd."

  "Yes, but they all went to Eastern colleges and . . .”

  "They're Eastern boys, Joe—Mr. Sullivan. And a lot of them flunked out."

  "Well, I mean they all went to dancing school and . . .”

  "You dance very nicely. I've told you that."

  "Yes, but they've all got dough and good jobs and r
ich parents . . ."

  "You've got a job. It probably pays as much as any of theirs—more in some cases, And their parents, I can tell you, aren't as rich as you think. You mustn't believe everything you hear—or everything you see, either. You're being just as insular and rigid and, yes, snobbish as you accuse us of being."

  "What you don't understand is . . ."

  "If you really love Elly, and you really have a job that pays seventy-five dollars a week, go right ahead and ask her to marry you. She'll do the deciding."

  "But . . .”

  "You can consider that my official permission." Mrs. Ames rose and swept down to the ladies' dressing room.

  18: Romance

  "Awfully nice of you to decide to dance with me—finally," Elly said to Joe.

  "Shut up."

  "Now see here . . "she began.

  "Look, can we get out of here? I want to talk to you."

  "What's the matter," Elly said, "something gone wrong with your plot construction?"

  "Has any man ever pasted you right in the teeth?"

  "No, and I'd like to see the man who wants to try."

  "Well, here he is. Can we go now?"

  "Why not?" Elly said airily. "I assume you've got your manuscript down in the check room and . . ." She was jerked off the dance floor with a frightening velocity.

  "Where can we go and be alone and get a drink?" Joe asked, pulling her after him down the stairs.

  "I don't happen to want a drink," she said haughtily, "but I'll be glad to sign for one in the bar down here. In fact you can have all you . . ."

  "I don't want you to sign for anything. I want to buy you a drink. Isn't there someplace we can go where the Ames signature doesn't make people drop dead with . . ."

  "Now, listen," Elly began, "if you got me out here to . . ."

  "Elly, I mean it," Joe said turning his eyes on her, "I want to be alone with you someplace away from all these people so I can tell you I love you and I want to marry you and it's okay with your mother and I'm sorry I was such a heel and . . ."

  Elly's mouth dropped open. "Well, gee, Joe! Why didn't you say so? Sure there's a place. It's just a little juke-box joint about fifty yards down the road. Nobody ever goes there. We can walk it in a couple of minutes. Come on!”

  "Hey, wait a minute. Don't you want your coat or something?"

  "To hell with my coat! I've got you. Let's go!" Elly raced on ahead, pulling him down the darkened driveway behind her.

  Claire rather wished that Paul would stop kissing her. Other men had kissed her before and Paul did it very nicely and very gently. It wasn't that she minded being kissed by Paul. She just minded being kissed, period. Nothing could ruin a really good dress, your make-up, a careful coiffure, like passion. She didn't know why men thought women liked it. Well, they were all alike; those pimply boys back in Chicago; those salesmen from Seventh Avenue, before she became a buyer; and even Paul, who was a gentleman and well born, all of them had these same base instincts. It was revolting!

  "Oh, Paul, darling," she sighed, pushing him gently away, "we've got to stop! Your mother will wonder where we've gone. Just look at my dress—a mass of wrinkles!" Through her tinselly laughter she remembered bitterly that this particular dress cost seven-fifty every time it was cleaned.

  "Claire," Paul moaned, "Claire! I've never been so happy before in my life. You've made me the happiest man in the . . . Gosh," he laughed, "talk about corn. I guess every man in the world says that."

  I guess so, too, Claire thought. Well, if there's one thing I didn't come out here for, it's to sit and smooch in this dirty old station wagon. Why don't they get a new one—something smart, like Bryan's car. Really, if Paul only had Bryan's style; his get-up-and-go. "Darling!" she sighed again. "There now," she said sitting up straight and edging slightly away from Paul.

  Paul said, "We ought to be making some plans, I suppose."

  "We certainly should," Claire said, "and some fairly definite ones. It there's anything I hate it's these couples who go off half-cocked." Claire wondered just how Mom and Granny would go over with the Ames family. "As for the actual getting married, I don't want anything big—frankly, I can't afford it—and I'm sure you don't want it elaborate either. I thought just your family and Mom—my mother and grandmother—and a few people from the shop who've done quite a lot to help me. It really doesn't pay to offend people who can . . .”

  "Claire . . .”

  "Oh, and of course you must ask anyone you like, too. Certainly Mr. Rabadab and Mr. Zuleikian and Mr. Nahigian. You're obviously partner material and they'll probably give it to you as a wedding present. Well, anyway, just twenty or thirty people in simple afternoon things. I can undoubtedly find something perfectly heavenly in the fall collections—beige, I think . . . "

  "Hey, Claire . . ."

  "Now, Paul, darling, don't be disappointed about not having a big church wedding. We can use the money for so many other things—things that last. Besides, a lot of terribly smart people are playing down this year. It makes a wedding a more personal, intimate thing, don't you think? As for where well be married, I think it would be chic to have the whole thing in our apartment."

  "Our apartment?"

  "Well, yes, darling. We certainly can't live in my little one-room, and yours is far too small and 'way downtown. I was thinking that the new building your boss is putting up on Fifth would be just perfect. I could walk to work. And I know that if you talked to Mr. Rabadab he'd give you your choice of apartments—and at a price. Or, I tell you what, maybe we could all have cocktails some day soon and I could talk to him."

  "You mean you want to live in one of those Rabadab buildings?"

  "Certainly. They're very smart. Everyone's doing it. Besides, what a slap in the face to live in some other building! Paul, it just doesn't pay to . . ."

  "Do we have to live in any building at all, Claire?"

  "Darling, don't be so silly. Did you expect us to nest under a bush in Central Park?"

  "No. Of course not, but . . ."

  "Well, then! Now, as to the actual time of the wedding—give me a cigarette, would you darling? I left my case on the table. As to the actual time of the wedding, now is too soon. We've got to plan this thing out so that it will run smoothly, I'll be rushed off my feet with the fall things from Labor Day right through the end of October, and then the Christmas business starts hot and heavy from Thanksgiving on till January, when we start with cruise clothes. But there's usually kind of a slump at the beginning of November, so I could take a week then and we . . ."

  "Claire! Do you mean you plan to go right on selling dresses after we get . . ."

  If there was any kind of talk that made Claire see red, it was talk like this. How like a man to deprecate a woman's work—her career! "If you mean," she said coolly, "do I intend to pursue the career which I have made for myself after working like a nigger for seven years, the answer is . . .”

  "Don't use that word!"

  "Very well, then, Neee-gro!" Claire stopped short. She'd never seen Paul angry before. How his black eyes blazed! No, she thought, get hold of yourself, girl, calm down. Give in, or at least pretend to give in. It's what women have to do with men. But just remember that you're the strong one. It's like the row you had with M. Chapon up in the design room. Give in and they'll come around—every time. "Paul," she said, laying a hand on his wrist, "we must stop this. Darling, do you realize we're almost quarreling?" She laughed prettily. "It's too early now to know what we'll do. It's all going to work out, darling, really it is. Believe me . . ."

  "Claire, don't you understand about . . ."

  "Hush, darling," she crooned, laying a finger on his lips. She was pleased to see how her iridescent nails flashed in the darkness, "Just remember one thing. That while you create beautiful buildings, I create beautiful women and my work means a lot to me. I'm sorry I lost my . . ."

  "I don't create beautiful buildings!"

  "Paul! Everyone says the Rabadab buildings are
the smart-est . . ."

  “I help to create fashionable tenements; overpriced beehives made of shoddy materials that won't hold up for ten years for a lot of suckers and snobs to swank around in. And what's more I'm going to quit and . . ."

  "Darling," Claire breathed, "kiss me!" She had to work fast.

  "I'm going to quit right away and move out to the country and . . ."

  "Kiss me, Paul, now." She threw her arms around his neck and stilled his lips with her own.

  "Claire!" he gasped.

  She tensed as she felt his fingers working clumsily at the snaps of her dress. This is one weapon, she thought grimly. This will do until I can pound some sense into his head. I'll have a talk with Bryan, hell make Paul stop this nonsense. I know he will. But until then . . . She felt her cigarette burning her fingers.

  "Paul, angel," she whispered, "we've got to be getting back to the others."

  Reluctantly Paul released her and opened the door of the station wagon and helped her to the ground. Then they headed back toward the club.

  The bar of the North Shore Bath and Tennis Club was the center of all abandon. A few old codgers still drank sullenly in the dark corners of this pseudo-English taproom, but it was really G.H.Q. for the young marrieds. These were the gay young couples who were sent—prepaid—to the club dances by parents who preferred to dine well and baby-sit in their cavernous houses along the shore. These were the well-tailored young men, just beginning to go to fat, who were rising (slower than they had intended) in brokerage firms on Wall Street, advertising agencies on Madison and banks on Fifth. These were the Peters and Davids and Sandys who could sign Dad's name to bar chits until it seemed as though they were almost spending their own money, while their Glorias, Barbaras and Patricias forgot, temporarily, about the backlog of bills from Saks and Brooks and Sloane's and upstaged one another in new evening dresses which they did not quite own. They had all been educated to expect more from life than they were receiving for far less than they were giving, But if they were disappointed it didn't show tonight.