The Loving Couple Read online

  Left alone in Fran's living room, Mary looked cautiously around the place. Somehow she had expected it to be a bit neater, a bit smarter, a bit grander. She preferred rooms with a casual, lived-in look to the severe Model Home style of decoration, but there was something about Fran's living room that was a little too lived-in—wallowed-in you might even say. It seemed casual to the point of downright uncleanliness. She felt disappointed and then she immediately felt disloyal at feeling disappointed in her old friend—well, new friend, really.

  Mary's years with Mrs. Manley Updike, Inc., Interiors had given her a quick, sure eye for style and quality. She could pick real Chippendale from Best Grand Rapids in the middle of an eclipse. The real stuff was here, all right. There was a perfect fortune in antique furniture, but why was it somehow all wrong? Why, for example, were those superb Adam elbow chairs covered in that sleazy rayon with the stripes running crooked? Why had whoever arranged this room—and presumably someone had—put a ten-cent paper shade on a two-hundred dollar bronze lamp and a solid gold inkwell on a borax "modernistic" desk.

  She took another sip of her drink and almost gagged. She wondered if she might not just take the tiniest advantage of her hostess' absence, pour a bit of her drink into that alabaster urn of wilting chrysanthemums and dilute the evil potion Fran had mixed for her. The flowers were beyond harming and had already begun to smell like an old aquarium.

  She got up slyly and tiptoed toward the vase. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. No. Surely those draperies couldn't be made of that plastic stuff you thumb-tacked up. Not at Fran Hollister's! She reached out gingerly to feel the curtains that hung limply at the dining-room doorway and then her hand struck something warm and almost furry. There was a deafening screech and she jumped back spilling a good deal of her drink on the dirty Aubusson rug.

  The idiotic face of Fran's cleaning woman leered around the curtain and mouthed a series of animal grunts and wails and giggles. While the facial expression was one of friendly warmth, the experience had the effect of chilling the very marrow of her bones.

  Mouthing carefully and with the slow, loud voice she would generally reserve for making a long distance call to a very old relative in, say, Nome, Alaska, she said "Miss-iss Holl-iss-terr is up-sstairss." She pointed nervously to the ceiling.

  The deaf mute put her finger in her mouth, giggled. Circled the dining table. Looked back at her. Giggled again. And then shot out through the kitchen door.

  Totally shaken, Mary decided not to dilute her drink, after all—rather, to strengthen it. She slopped some more bourbon into her glass and went unsteadily back to the uncomfortable old sofa to await Fran. Now she buried her nose into the glass and took a colossal swallow, grateful for the warmth she felt from the drink.

  Fran stomped down the stairs in a cold fury. Here she'd been on the very verge of finding out a few fascinating facts about this fascinating man when—wouldn't you know—that blasted telephone had rung. And had it been anything interesting, anything important? No! Only some wretch of a salesman offering her a turn-in price of fifty dollars on her old vacuum cleaner if she'd order a new Tank-type Kleenzall. She didn't even have a vacuum cleaner to turn in—at least she didn't think so.

  Well, the spell had been broken, all right, Fran thought angrily. Now her guest was prattling away—and rather nervously—about all manner of things that had nothing to do with anything! Baldwin School, fall hats, Adele Hennessey, Lisa Randall's party . . . Well, it was maddening. Now Fran would have to bide her time and get her around to Topic A at the lunch table.

  Fran finally interrupted the floodtide of small talk. "Here, let's have one for the road and then shove off."

  "Oh, no more for me, Fran, please." What with no breakfast and the drinks and the shock she had just received, her head was spinning.

  "Well, if you don't mind watching me . . ." Fran made for the Haig and Haig bottle.

  "Oh, not at all, Fran." Really, how sweet Fran was underneath her hard exterior, she thought a little maudlinly. This dirty house, the poor deaf-mute Fran had befriended, the split seam and the spot on Fran's dress—they all made her a little more human, a little more endearing. Like a little girl, really. "No, I just can't have another drink." Then she thought wickedly for a moment. "At least not until lunch.”

  Four

  "There," she sighed as she eased the glossy big convertible into a parking space and switched off the ignition. She had made it without killing either Fran or herself and she was amazedly, prayerfully thankful. This enormous new car—the first they had ever owned—with its gadgets and levers and buttons and dials, always threw the fear of God into her. Even if the car was in her name, it was his, and this would hardly be the propitious day to end up in jail on a drunken driving rap. But here they were at the shopping center, safe and sound.

  There were two shopping centers handy to Riveredge. One was a mammoth affair that served the people in the town. It had a Woolworth and an A & P and a Macy's and a Rexall and a Howard Johnson's. Pork stores and cheap dress shops and cut-rate cleaners abounded and there were ten acres of supervised free parking. It was considered fine for the villagers, but infra-dig for the residents of Riveredge, except in the direst emergencies. Once a Riveredge matron had survived so dire an emergency, her adventure always made for a deliciously witty, self-deprecating and slightly patronizing anecdote over cocktails—"Well, today I had to go to the shopping center; the big one. Well, you know me and my sense of direction . . ."

  But this shopping center was different. You could tell immediately by looking at the cars—either much smaller or much larger and in more subdued colors. It was called the Village Green and it was terribly genteel. It was planned and planted on more or less quainty-dainty colonial lines with bowed windows, fanlights, carriage lamps, venerable elms and air conditioning throughout. The prices ranged from high to outrageous and you had to be fairly erudite to find whatever kind of store you were looking for.

  The Mad Hatter, for example, implied millinery. You went to the Apothecary Jar for vitamin pills and bathing caps, to Frou Frou House for underwear (ladies'), and to Man-About-Town for ditto (gents')—also a distinguished collection of shirtings, waistcoats, imported ties, walking shorts and cashmere hose. Le Cave sold liquor and occasionally wine. The Gift Horse trafficked in bric-a-brac. It took some discernment upon meeting Margot Carpenter Austin Leach, who looked like a madam but was actually in the Social Register, to understand that the scarlet door which bore her name—or names—led to nothing more exciting than expensive dresses in misses' sizes. Heir Unapparent sold maternity clothes exclusively.

  A shop called Oddments, Unlimited, dealt in such essentials as antique umbrella handles, sequined sweaters, lederhosen, monogrammed shoe trees and beads. Et Cetera, three doors north carried roughly the same merchandise. As You Like It was not a bordello but a hairdressing establishment—shampoo and set, $4.00. And Le Chien Blanc—despite a runny-eyed poodle wandering morosely among the customers and glowing obscenely pink beneath his dirty white fur—was not a pet shop, but a moderately-priced restaurant, featuring lunch at $1.50.

  "Well, hop out," Fran said in her booming contralto, "here we are at the dog house." Fran gave the padded leather door an appraising pat and wondered whether his money or hers had paid for this perfect yacht of a car. (In truth, it hadn't been paid for at all)

  "Oh, the Chien Blanc?" Mary said. She hoped that she hadn't sounded as disappointed as she was. Le Chien Blanc was worse than a bad restaurant, it was a nondescript restaurant, except for the poodle and a certain unfortunate cuteness in its decor. John and Mary had eaten there almost nightly when they were first settling into the new house in Riveredge and they had since taken to dining at Le Chien Blanc on Heavenly Rest's Thursdays and alternate Sundays, if they had nowhere better to go. She had expected Fran to chose someplace terribly smart and possibly a little sinister. Just coming to Le Chien Blanc, with its eternal omelette fines herbs, Salisbury steak au champignons and chef’s salad bowl,
was like sipping from a champagne glass only to find it filled with ginger ale.

  "Come on," Fran said, "don't bother to lock the car it's . . . Oh, my God!"

  "Wh-what's the matter?" Mary asked.

  "Look!" Fran breathed, pointing with a long, chipped, red fingernail. "It's Adele Hennessey! Come in here, quick!" Grabbing her by the wrist, Fran dragged her into the nearest door. It belonged to the Mad Hatter.

  Mary had got just a quick glimpse of Mrs. Hennessey—a woman of uncertain years, doubtful blondness and dubious antecedents—strolling along the sidewalk in black Bermuda shorts and nutria jacket bleached the same blond as Mrs. Hennessey herself. With her was a small, dark woman wearing leopard slacks and a green suede coat. Riveredge approved of slacks and it approved of shorts, but never outside the gates of Riveredge. As for the Hennesseys, Riveredge disapproved of them on either side of the gates. Jack Hennessey was loud, vulgar, nouveau and disgustingly rich. His wife, Adele, was, if not downright C-O-double-M-O-N, certainly not out of the top drawer.

  "Jesus," Fran gasped. "That's the second time in a week that Hennessey tramp has almost caught me red-handed."

  "May I show you something, Mrs. Hollister?" the saleswoman asked. Fran wouldn't own a hat, but still, her name and fortune cut a lot of ice at the Village Green.

  "No thanks," Fran said. "We're just hiding out till Mrs. Hennessey gets past."

  "Oh, certainly!” the woman said, with a mournful roll of the eyes which made it perfectly clear that she, a forty-dollar-a-week clerk, and a rich nymphomaniac like Fran were sisters under the skin—rarefied, untouchable, and above all, ladies—at the approach of Adele Hennessey. "I quite understand."

  If the Hennesseys were unpopular with the gentry of Riveredge, many of whom owed Jack amounts ranging from fifty to three thousand dollars, they were anathema to the tradespeople of the Village Green. This was undoubtedly because the Hennesseys spent so freely and paid so promptly that one just sensed that they weren't, well, Quite Nice.

  Mr. Passepartout of Le Cave fairly snickered at Jack's pronunciation of the French wines and champagnes which he ordered in magnums and Jeroboams and methuselahs and case lots. The two Lesbians who ran Oddments, Unlimited, made it a point never to show Adele their nicest imports—unless Adele insisted—and always to pad her bill by ten bucks a month. And Margot Carpenter Austin Leach's impersonation of Adele asking for "a creation by Balenciago, or one of the other Eye-talian designers" was an immortal favorite among women who never bought anything from Mrs. Leach unless it was marked down below cost and then rarely paid her before ninety days.

  At that point Adele Hennessey and her raffish companion had drawn up to the window of the Mad Hatter. "Peggy!" they could hear Adele cry. "Just look at that hat. It's de-vine! Gee, honey, you'd be a living doll in that!"

  "It is nice," her friend said. "I'll think about it. But hadn't we better latch onto Jack and Dan before they get so sozzled that . . ."

  "Oh, migawd!" Adele shrieked. "They promised to buy you and I a drink at Lee Sheen Blank at one and it's already ha' past. Come on! We can come back later. You'll love Lee Sheen Blank, sweetie, it's so . . ." Mrs. Hennessey's words were lost as she propelled her friend along the street.

  "Saved!" Fran gasped as she stepped out from the wall against which she had flattened herself.

  "Oh, poor Mrs. Hollister!" the saleswoman cooed. "I know just what it's like to be absolutely pursued by one who could never hope to have anything in common with . . ." Here her syntax broke down and, rather than parse the sentence out and start all over again, she just changed the subject. "That beautiful hat in the window! I'd almost rather not sell it than to have someone of—well—of that class wearing it. It just came in this morning and it's . . . Too bad you never wear hats, Mrs. Hollister. Hahahahaha!" (If Mrs. Hollister had worn hats she would have bought them at a fire sale, and all the merchants knew it.) "But it would be ex-quiz-it on your friend. The color is . . .” With a neat motion, she scooped the hat out of the window. "Just look. Perfect with your skin, my dear, and that gorgeous dress."

  "It's lovely!" Mary agreed. Before she knew it, she was sitting before the mirror trying on the hat. Tiresome as the saleswoman was, the hat did do something for her.

  "Not bad," Fran said, lighting a cigarette and dropping the match on the Mad Hatter's pale blue carpet.

  "Here's an ashtray, Mrs. Hollister," the saleswoman said,

  "Don't bother " Fran said.

  "It's perfectly beautiful," Mary said aloud to the saleswoman.

  "I knew it was right for you, my dear," the saleswoman said, becoming all motherly. "The minute you come—came—into here with Mrs. Hollister I said to myself, 'Now there's one lady in a million can wear that lovely big chapeau in the window! It's almost like Fate . . ."

  Yes, Mary thought a little drunkenly, Fate and her husband and Fran and Adele Hennessey really had conspired to make her ransom herself out of this place with this wonder of a hat. She'd been told that she was pretty so often that she very nearly believed it. But this hat, casting its delicate shadow over her face, made her almost beautiful. An expensive new hat—wasn't that one of the classic antidotes for a woman whose man has left her? "I'll take it," she said suddenly. "How much is it?"

  "Sixty, my dear."

  "Jesus!" Fran muttered.

  "And I'll wear it, so you needn't put it in a box." She thought just a little wistfully that a year ago she would have gone down to the wholesale millinery district and done herself very nearly as proudly with five dollars and a needle and thread. Still, she considered as she signed her name to a check, this was one hell of a hat . . . and Fate, as the woman said.

  "You're sure you wouldn't like to open an account, my dear? Any friend of Mrs. Hollister's is . . ."

  "No thanks," she said. "I won't be here long enough to need an account."

  "That hat's o-kay," Fran said, flicking her ashes onto the rug. That was high praise indeed, coming from Fran.

  "And where shall I send the old one, my dear?" the woman chirped as she discreetly glanced at the label—Saks.

  "Why, why, just throw it away, I guess." My God, Mary thought, I must be mad. It's a perfectly good hat in a mousey way.

  "Why don't you sell it to Adele Hennessey,” Fran growled.

  "Oh, Mrs. Hollister!" the woman shrieked. "Hahahahaha! I’ll have to tell that to Mrs. Leach next door. Oh, you are terrible! Sell it to . . . Hahahahaha!"

  "Goodbye, and thank you,” Mary said.

  Amid peals of laughter, they left the Mad Hatter, the new hat more glorious than ever in the brilliant sunlight.

  "Christ but I hate that bitch!" Fran said.

  "Well," Mary said, settling back into the car, "I guess we can't go to the Chien Blanc—the dog house, that is—after all. Not unless you want to run head-on into both Hennesseys and their friends." She was really a little pleased at the outcome of their thwarted trip to the dreary restaurant in the shopping center. Then she caught a fresh glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and almost gasped with pleasure. Really, this hat was a masterpiece! Too good for Chien Blanc.

  "Wouldn't you know, damn it," Fran snarled. "Well, where do you suggest?"

  "There's Tradition House," Mary said tentatively.

  "We-ell," Fran said, "if you have any money on you. It's kind of expensive."

  "I—I have about thirty dollars in my purse," she said.

  Fran's income hovered at just about a thousand dollars a day. She lived rent-free and ate almost nothing. Her only expenses were clothes, which came to a negligible amount; liquor, which was somewhat higher; small amounts of hush-money; and an occasional new mink coat to replace whichever one which she had just lost in the woods or a taxicab or a tourist cabin. (Not even the insurance company Fran owned would insure Fran's fur coats any longer.) Yet with the income taxes, the blackmail, and the new mink coats, Fran came out fairly well at the end of each year. But she was perennially without cash and the quarters and dollars and fives which she had borrowe
d from her relatively poor acquaintances—and never repaid—came to a small fortune.

  The car shot backwards from its parking place. There was a grinding of gears and they were off.

  Tradition House was typical of the hundreds of expensive little inns that spring up over the countryside, like dandelions, when times are good, only to go to seed and blow away when Sunday trippers reluctantly decide that the hamburger platter at Johnnie's Drive-In is the more prudent choice in the face of increasing unemployment and decreasing dividends. Like the hundreds of other smart little country restaurants, Tradition House had been doing a land office business for the last fifteen years. Spurred on by small snobbish ads in The New Yorker and Gourmet and Cue, by yards of purple prose written by restaurant editors, and by queues of other suckers waiting for tables on weekends, the public had continued to drive up the Hudson, dressed in its best, to swoon in ecstasy over Tradition House's low ceilings, medium food and high prices. It had become an institution, a symbol of the American Way of Life. No upper-middle-class kitchen was complete without its Compleat Tradition House Cook Book, its jars of Tradition House Herb Salad Dressing, India Relish, Sauce Diable, and Formula 12—"Available at fine stores everywhere,"