Love & Mrs. Sargent Page 17

  Mr. Malvern would far rather have gone home and worried. Only his love for Sheila and his pity for her, having this nosy reporter right under the same roof, had brought him all the way out here tonight. But he was determined about one thing: Sheila would not be allowed to coax him into staying until all hours.

  “Well, Mis-ter Malvern!” Mrs. Flood said, opening the front door. “It looks like we’re the early birds. Everyone else is upstairs dressing. Do come in and I’ll fix you a little drinkie.” She had spread purple into her hair until it was the color of amaranth, jazzed up an old black dress with a Nefertiti collar of multicolored spangles and endeavored to carry the glittering effect to her eyelids by use of a silver lining pencil that made her look rather as though she suffered from cataracts. “Here,” she said, “we’ll just have a nice little visit until the others come down.”

  Over excellent bourbon, Mr. Malvern was hearing all about what Mrs. Flood had eaten for dinner the night before at the home of her dear friends, the McGraws, who lived in a Norman house in a ravine in Hubbard Woods when the recital was halted, mid-endive, by Peter’s entrance.

  Malvern was gladder to see Peter than Peter was to see him. And Mr. Malvern noticed that Peter seemed a good deal more relaxed, neater looking than he had on Monday. “A good sign,” Malvern told himself. “At least he and Sheila are getting along together.” While Mrs. Flood twittered over the ice bucket, Malvern cleared his throat and said, “Well, Johnson, and how is the story coming along?” The conversation continued in a strained, pseudo-relaxed fashion until Allison appeared.

  “Allison!” Mrs. Flood cried. “How lovely you look! Oh! That heavenly blue! And I love what Mr. Mario’s done to your hair. Oh, but won’t she be the belle of the hall tonight, Mr. Malvern?”

  “Did Mother tell you to say that?” Allison asked. Mrs. Flood’s jaw dropped. “Good evening, Uncle Howard.”

  “Great Scott, Allison!” Malvern said with heavy jocularity. “You very nearly gave me heart failure. When you came into the room I thought you were your own mother. Doesn’t she look exactly the way Sheila did as a bride, Floodie?”

  “Oh, she does, she does! The living image! My, I remember that wedding as though it were yesterday!” Mrs. Flood had good reason to do so. As the relict of a distant Sargent relative, she had been invited to both ceremony and reception. In order to attend, she had borrowed a cartwheel hat from the woman in the next room at the Hotel Villa d’Este, a pair of fox furs from the whore across the hall and, without consulting her employers at the Thelma Shoppe, a Wallis blue dress, carfare from the cash register and the afternoon off. A photograph in the following day’s Tribune showing Mrs. Flood, decidedly not suffering from cramps, but going through the reception line in the Thelma Shoppe’s newest and costliest creation ($16.95), had brought about her immediate dismissal.

  “You look very pretty, Allison,” Peter said.

  “Thanks,” Allison said. She sensed that Peter was at least not in league with her mother, whereas Mrs. Flood. . . .

  “Oh, and Mr. Malvern, do you remember the lovely going-away costume Mrs. Sargent wore coming down that lovely old staircase in Evanston! It was almost precisely the same shade Allison has on tonight with accessories in the very palest. . . .”

  “Uncle Howard,” Allison said, interrupting Mrs. Flood’s 1937 fashion commentary, “do you keep any kind of art department down at Famous Features?”

  “Art department, dear?”

  “Yes, you know. People who are paid to sit around and draw things.”

  “Oh, well, there’s sort of a bull pen—ten or twelve youngsters who do cartoons, maps, fashion sketches, diagrams, whatever we happen to need. It’s not very interesting work and they’re always coming and going.”

  “Could I take my samples down there someday and show them to—well, to whoever does the hiring. I mean no inside track or anything like that. Just like anyone else looking for a job. I’m pretty good.”

  “Allison!” Mrs. Flood squealed. “Why on earth would anybody want a job when they don’t have to work? I swear, this Communist bug has got young people even here in Lake Forest. Don’t listen to her, M. . . .”

  “Floodie, please try not to be quite such an ass.”

  “Oh!”

  “No, I mean it, Uncle Howard. I really want a job.”

  “Oh, Allison, you wouldn’t want that. It’s very dull work, I believe, and not very well paid. Besides, you have your work all cut out for you.”

  “And what’s that?” Allison said.

  “Why, to come out this year. Make us all proud of you. Meet some nice man. Marry. Settle down. Have children. In other words be just as much like your lovely mother as you can be. After all, you look alike, why shouldn’t you act alike?”

  “Yes, dear,” Mrs. Flood said nervously, “and the class of people one meets going to business. . . .”

  “Mother has a job,” Allison said.

  “Well, that’s rather different,” Malvern said. “Uh, circumstances. But you don’t think she’d be down in my stable if your father hadn’t. . . uh . . . well, you see what I mean.”

  “No, Uncle Howard, I don’t see what you mean. If I’m good enough to get a job, why shouldn’t I take it? I’d like to have something to do.”

  “That’s just marking time until the day when I give you away to some fine young buck here on the North Shore. No, Allison, the best thing you can do is be just like your mother was when she was your age.”

  “That’s right, dear,” Mrs. Flood gushed. “You a popular leader of the Younger Set, just like your mother. And Dicky writing important books, just like his father.” There was a silence. Malvern and Johnson pointedly avoided looking at one another. Flustered, Mrs. Flood went on, ‘Well, I mean, you know the saying: ‘Like father like. . .”

  “Dicky isn’t in the least like Daddy,” Allison said flatly.

  “Oh, come, child,” Malvern said, “how would you know? You were just a baby when your father died. I’ll bet you can’t even remember him.”

  “No, but I can read. I’ve read all of Daddy’s books and I’ve also read Dicky’s. That’s why I say that Dicky isn’t a bit like my father.”

  “What’s all this?” Sheila said, bursting into the room. “Howard! How good to see you.” The chaste kiss was exchanged.

  “Eugenics hour,” Peter said. “Allison was saying that she doesn’t think Dick is much like his father.”

  “What nonsense!” Sheila laughed. “Heavens, Allison, you were barely out of diapers when your poor father was shot down. Dicky’s exactly like Dick. He’s still wearing some of his father’s old clothes. That Scotch tweed jacket for. . . .”

  “I didn’t say he didn’t look like Daddy or didn’t act like Daddy or wasn’t the same size. I meant he didn’t write like Daddy.”

  “Well, Allison,” Sheila said pleasantly, “before you set yourself up as a literary critic. . . .” Noticing that both Peter and Malvern were staring at her, she broke off. “I mean would you fix your poor old mother a drink? That dress does do a lot for you, I knew it would.”

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Mrs. Flood said. “When I think of the millions of girls who have to work for a living and here Allison goes and begs for a dull old job. . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” Sheila said. “I missed the first reel. What is all this?”

  “I told Uncle Howard I’d like to apply for a job in the art department at Famous Features.”

  “Well, if you really want it, Allison. . . .” Malvern began.

  “Allison,” Sheila said, “Howard is a guest in our house. We don’t invite people here and then hit them for jobs.”

  “Isn’t that how you got yours?” Allison said.

  “Allison!” Mrs. Flood said.

  Sheila took a sip of her drink. “Allison, I don’t know exactly what’s ailing you today, but I suggest that you get over it ve-ry quickly. The dining room isn’t large enough for separate tables.”

  “I won’t be eating here tonight,”
Allison said. “It’s a gay dinner dance. Don’t you remember? I’m just waiting for Billy Kennedy.”

  “Then,” Sheila said, “would you mind very much waiting in your own room until Billy gets here?”

  “Not at all,” Allison said. “G-good night.” She dashed out of the room and ran up the stairway.

  “Poor Allison,” Mrs. Flood said,” she’s just high strung.”

  “Mm-hmmm,” Sheila said, raising her glass. “Well, here’s to the older generation.”

  Malvern said his good nights at ten-thirty. Immediately afterward Mrs. Flood, saying something about Café Dormé, took her leave.

  “Will there be anything else, Miz Sargent?” Taylor asked.

  “Nothing more, thank you, Taylor, You can lock up now. Oh, and Taylor, Dicky didn’t say where he was going tonight, did he?”

  “No, Miz Sargent. He just said he’d be out for dinner.”

  “Well, it’ll do him good to get out for a change. Good night, Taylor.”

  “Good night, Miz Sargent, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Well,” Sheila said loudly, “I’m plumb tuckered out. I hope you won’t mind my leaving you at this early hour, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Uh, not at all, uh, Mrs. Sargent,” Peter said.

  “Half an hour,” she whispered. “Good night, Mr. Johnson,” she said aloud again. “Just leave a light in the hall when you go upstairs.”

  IX.

  Billy Kennedy’s shiny new convertible shot northward up Sheridan Road. The car had been a gift from his proud mother as a reward for the remarkable feat of becoming twenty-one years old. As he did everything, Billy drove with style and dash—one hand on the wheel, the other on whichever young woman happened to be favored by his company.

  Billy was lithe, agile and quick. But so was Allison. She knew the road by heart and she knew at just which turning he would have to remove his hand from her leg. Furiously, guardedly, she waited. Fifty yards from the twisting ravine, she got ready. She felt Billy braking the car, she knew that by the time she counted to five, he would have to put his right hand on the wheel. Silently she began counting. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. In a flurry of skirts, Allison was over the front seat and sitting bolt upright in back. It was quite a trick.

  “Hey!” Billy said.

  “All right now, damn you,” Allison said, “keep driving. You sit there, I’ll sit here.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a gun aimed at the back of my neck.”

  “If I had a gun I’d have shot you dead before we got to the dance. I’ve told you to keep your hands off me and I meant it.”

  “Aw, Allie. . . .”

  “You’re not very bright, Billy, but I thought at least you’d understand a simple, two-letter word like No.”

  “You’re just frigid, baby. You need a little thawing out.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m not planning to get defrosted by anyone quite as horrible as you.”

  “Horrible?”

  “Perfectly horrible. You may be the cutest trick in Winnetka, Billy, but to me you’re just like some horny little terrier sniffing at every skirt you see.”

  “Then why do you go out with me at all?”

  “Do you really want to know? It’s because your mother and my mother are old, old friends and they think that’s sufficient reason for us to like each other. Somehow it doesn’t work out that way.”

  “Baby, if you tried it with me sometime you’d sing a different. . . .”

  “When I decide to try this famous it you keep talking about it’s going to be with a man I love and respect and like. Not with a Class D human being such as you, Billy. Slow down, it’s just around that bend.”

  “Couldn’t we park for a little while and talk this over? I could come back there with you and. . . .”

  “I’m known as the quiet type, Billy, but if you want to hear me yell down the. . . .”

  “Okay, okay, okay. Jennifer Duncan says I. . . .”

  “Jennifer has no sense and less taste. So I suggest that you give her your undivided attention from now on. We’ll both be grateful. Dim your lights please. There’s no point in waking up the whole family—unless I find it necessary, that is.”

  Billy stopped the car at the front door of the Sargent place and started to get out. “Just stay right where you are, Billy. I can make it to the door fine.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in for a little nightcap? Which reminds me of a French story. This man goes to a drugstore and asks for. . .”

  “I heard that story when I was thirteen, Billy. I don’t think it’s got any funnier with age. Try it on Jennifer, she’ll probably love it even though she flunked French two years in a row. And, no, I’m not asking you in. I’m asking you out.”

  “I believe you’re jealous of old Jennie.”

  “Do you? Well that should be a balm to your enormous ego on the long drive home.”

  “My ego isn’t the only thing that’s. . . .”

  “So long, Billy.” Allison was out of the car and standing in the driveway.

  “Not even a good night kiss?”

  “This isn’t good night, Billy. It’s good-by.”

  “Hey, listen, when I drive some broad all the way out to. . . .”

  Allison laughed in spite of her anger. “What a face, Billy! You look just like some little neighborhood bully who’s . . .”

  “Ah, you damned teaser, you. . . .” Billy’s face, so serene in repose, so cute and boyish in animation, was not pleasant to see when he was crossed. It gave a depressing indication of how he might look thirty years hence.

  “Good-by, Billy.”

  “Okay, Miss Virginity. When you change your mind, give me a ring.”

  “I’ll do that, Billy. Now get going.”

  Billy’s car shot forward in a spray of gravel. Allison let herself into the house and turned out the big French lantern that hung over the front door.

  Allison leaned against the newel post and held her head. If Billy Kennedy was sex, she didn’t want any. She’d had a rotten time at the party. She danced well without particularly enjoying it. She was medium popular with boys—neither a belle nor a wallflower—and didn’t care whether she was or not. They were so inane! “My God,” Allison said aloud, “their conversation!” If she ever did meet a man with something intelligent to say—and there were a couple at every dance—some stag was certain to cut in and the talk would once again revert to college pranks, dances, football and other girls’ parties. But at least it was better than being alone with a reptile like Billy Kennedy.

  Allison had had enough of Billy. She decided that she was going to have one of her rare heart-to-heart talks with Mother about him right away. It was funny how blind grown-ups could be about their children’s contemporaries, even someone as smart as Mother. But even at the risk of wounding Mother’s old friend Kitty Kennedy, Allison swore that she would never see Billy Kennedy again—not even ask him to her own coming out party. When Mother heard the whole unabridged account of Billy’s tactics—his pinching and groping, his pressing into her when they danced, the way he helped her on with her wrap, his graphic descriptions of girls he’d had, his blatant propositions. . . . Well, maybe it would come as something of a shock to Mother, but Mother would send Billy packing. Allison turned out the lights in the lower hall and wearily climbed the stairs. There were a lot of rooms in the Sargent house and not many people to occupy them. Sheila was always doing one or another over. Shifting someone from one wing to a different one, turning a study into a bedroom, a bedroom into a sitting room, a sitting room into a dressing room. Over the years only Sheila had stayed more or less put in a huge paneled bedroom at the head of the stairs, with a large bathroom connecting it to a small sitting room which was connected by yet another bath to what was now Allison’s bedroom. As a very small child Allison had been prey to dreams and night frights. For that reason, she had slept in the sitting room, sandwiched between her mother and her nurse with the bathroom doors open so that Sheila co
uld hear any noise, and so that Allison, if upset, could come to her mother. Grown now, her nurse retired, Allison occupied what had been the nurse’s room, her old sleeping quarters turned into a big dressing room which she and her mother shared as amicably as seemed possible for two women. The route from bedroom through bathroom through dressing room through bathroom was the shortest but one that had not been traveled in more than a decade.

  Removing her evening gown in the dressing room, Allison hoped that her mother might still be awake so that she could get this Billy Kennedy thing off her chest once and for all. It was half past two, but Sheila often stayed up late reading in bed, Allison squared her shoulders and decided to take a chance on Mother’s still being awake. She tiptoed into her mother’s bathroom and was pleased to see a faint light under the door.

  “Mother,” she whispered, “are you still awake?” There was no reply. Probably fallen asleep over A Passage to India, she thought. (Sheila was on an E. M. Forster jag at the moment.) I’ll go in and take the book off her lap and turn out the lamp. She might even wake up and. . . Silently Allison opened the door. It was not Sheila’s reading light that was on, but a very dim lamp in a far corner of the room. Allison advanced into the semi-darkness and tripped over something. It was a man’s shoe. Stunned, she stood stark still, afraid even to breathe. From the alcove where Sheila’s big French bed stood, Allison heard a rustling of sheets, a deep sort of sigh and then a soft, dulcet snoring. Clutching her robe to her, Allison took another step. There in the bed she saw her mother and Peter Johnson sound asleep.