Love & Mrs. Sargent Page 9

  “Hello, Mother. Uncle Howard.” She kissed them both.

  “Allison!” Sheila said, “How lovely you look. I see that you and Mr. Johnson have met.”

  “Well, on to the ball, Cinderella?” Malvern said. “Which Prince Charming has the honor this evening?”

  “Nobody very exciting, Uncle Howard. Just plain old Billy Kennedy.”

  “Again? This is beginning to look serious. A new romance?”

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Howard. There’s a big difference between a new romance and an old acquaintance. After all, Billy came to my first birthday parry. Oh, a fire! How cozy.”

  “Yes,” Sheila said. “Our first this fall. Howard says there’s a cold snap expected.”

  “Has the Daily News come yet? There’s an article on Modigliani I’d. . . .”

  “How strange you mention it,” Sheila said quickly. “I just this moment asked Bertha if the afternoon paper was here. We seem to be out of luck. I suppose the delivery boy is in love or playing football or something important like that. But Howard can have Miss Roseberry clip the Modigliani article. Can’t you, Howard?”

  “Oh. Certainly. Certainly. Make a note of it right now. Then I must be off.”

  “Howard! I do wish you’d stay for dinner.”

  “So do I, my dear, but duty calls. There’s some important reading I have to do tonight. But I’ll be talking to you in the next day or so. Good night, Johnson. I know you’ll turn out a corking story. If there’s anything I can do for you down at Famous Features, don’t hesitate to. . . .”

  “Thank you, Mr. Malvern,” Peter said civilly. “And thanks again for lunch.”

  “I can find my way out all right, so don’t bother seeing me to the door. Good night, Sheila, Allison.” With that he was gone.

  Standing in the office, the three of them could hear the front door close. No one said anything and Sheila sensed a lull. So did her daughter and her guest. Then everyone started talking at once and then everyone stopped and laughed.

  Finally Sheila took over, all charm and self-assurance, “Allison, be an angel and ask Floodie to come down and have a drink with us. She’s certainly earned it. The stack of letters I left this morning! And then you and Floodie can entertain Mr. Johnson while I get out of this gorilla suit and Slip Into Something Cool, as they say.”

  “Certainly, Mother,” Allison said, running out of the room.

  Alone in the room with Johnson, Sheila was not unaware of the warm, flattering glow the fire light cast on her face. She appraised him frankly.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson?” she said.

  “Well, Mrs. Sargent.”

  XV.

  The family was still lingering over dessert when the doorbell rang.

  “That’ll be Billy for me,” Allison said.

  “Yes,” Sheila said. “Taylor, would you please park Mr. Kennedy in the office with a drink and tell him that we’ll be right in. I’m sorry, Floodie, do go on telling Mr. Johnson about Pearlie Powell.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Flood said, “as I was saying, it was one of the loveliest dress shops on Michigan Avenue. . . .”

  Good God, Sheila thought, can she imagine that he cares? Clarence Powell was probably dead and buried before this boy was born. Still she was grateful to Mrs. Flood, a loyal alumna of the old school that believed any lapse in the conversation, a single moment’s silence, to be an egregious breach of etiquette. Dinner hadn’t gone too badly.

  “Good evening, Taylor,” Billy Kennedy said. “Been in any good razor fights lately?” Billy laughed inordinately. Taylor did not.

  “Good evening, Mr. Billy,” said Taylor, who loathed the young man. He took Billy’s top hat, his coat, the clean white kid gloves. “Mrs. Sargent says for you to wait in the office. Miss Allison be finished with her dinner directly.” He wondered if he might just not get a chance to spit into the little squirt’s top hat,

  Billy sauntered into the office, studied his reflection quickly, efficiently in the mirror, patted his watch-fob pocket to make sure he’d brought along some condoms—just in case. He had. He spread the tails of his coat, sat down and poured himself a brandy.

  Billy was the kind of boy mothers adore. Fathers, on the other hand, were not so sure. At twenty, Billy was tall, broad-shouldered, with far better than average good looks. He was good at games and danced beautifully. Stunning in a bathing suit, he was breathtaking in evening clothes. There had even been talk once about a screen test, but it had never come to more than that—or if it had, Billy didn’t mention it. His short, yellow duckling fuzz hair, his sincere dark eyes, his quick, winning grin just naturally made him irresistible to women—and to Billy Kennedy. At least the eyes and the grin, coupled with suave manners and a kind of spurious charm, disguised the spoiled, selfish sensualist behind them.

  Billy heard laughter from the dining room and wondered if Sheila were giving a dinner party and, if so, why she had not invited him. Other mothers around the North Shore would give a lot more than dinner to have Billy Kennedy as a prospective son-in-law. Glancing around the room he saw what he thought might possibly be a check book on the desk. He’d always wondered just about how much Sheila Sargent was worth—not that you could tell the whole picture from one lousy check book. However, it might give some indication. In a flash he was across the room. As his hand reached out, Sheila called from the dining room. “Billy! Billy Kennedy!”

  A silent pirouette and Billy was leaning against the mantel far away from Sheila’s desk. “Y-yes, Mrs. Sargent?”

  “Don’t just sit there twiddling your thumbs. Make yourself a drink or something. We’ll be right in.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Sargent, I’m just fine.”

  “In fact I’m sending Allison in to keep you company. Run along, Allison. You may be excused.”

  Billy was across the room again, invisible from the hallway.

  Allison entered the room, glanced first to the left and then to the right. “B-Billy?”

  With the grace of a ballet dancer, Billy sprang from behind, one hand cupping her breast. “Here I am, baby.”

  Allison struggled free and faced him furiously. “Don’t do that, damn you! I’ve told you to keep your hands off me. If you ever do that again I’ll. . . .”

  “What’s the matter, beautiful? Afraid I’ll muss your hair?”

  “Just let me alone. I’ve said No and I mean No.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, pretty-face. I can produce references. In fact, your old school chum. . . .” Billy heard voices approaching. In a trice he was across the room, decorative on the arm of a chair, his brandy balloon twirling in his fine, capable hands.

  “Goodness, I don’t know when I’ve eaten so much,” Mrs. Flood said, arch and coquettish on Peter’s arm. Mrs. Flood had put on a lot more eyeshadow and one of her numerous evening sweaters. She had seen advertised on television a contraption for applying beads and sequins to almost anything. It had been most reasonably priced and carried a full money-back guarantee. Since then she was forever embellishing things. It was a rare Saturday when Mrs. Flood did not return from town with an inexpensive sweater, a scarf or a blouse and bottles and bottles of paillettes and seed pearls, brilliants and jets. Every night found her up in her room clamping dazzlement to the most run-of-the-mill garments. Nor was she content to stop with herself. Sheila, Allison, Bertha—no female in the household was safe from Mrs. Flood’s sequin machine. As a graduation gift she had given Allison a rose silk ascot with her name—lacking one L—across it in crystals. Daily Bertha contemplated with horror a collar and cuff set, ablaze with bugle beads, reposing in her bottom drawer and never to be worn. In honor of her last trip to New York, Sheila had been sent off with a huge evening handkerchief so heavy with rhinestones that she could hardly lift it. The ladies looked forward now to Christmas and their birthdays with some trepidation. This evening Mrs. Flood was being frankly seductive in a mauve cardigan encrusted with sequin roses in all the colors of cyclamen. As a final flirtatious fillip, she ca
rried a fuchsia handkerchief with her monogram executed in pink pearls and an unsteady script.

  Sheila swept into the room wearing an elaborate rig advertised as ideal for Little Evenings at Home. “Billy,” she said, “how nice to see you. And don’t you look elegant! Now let me see, you know Mrs. Flood, of course, but you haven’t met Mr. Johnson. Peter Johnson, Billy Kennedy.”

  “How do you do,” Peter said. Here was just the kind of young man he loathed the most.

  Billy brought the eyes, the grin, the firm handshake into play. “Oh, very well, thank you, sir, A great honor to meet you. Your first trip out to the Middle West?”

  “Hardly,” Peter said. “I was born in a place called Purviance, Kansas.”

  “Oh yes,” Billy said knowledgeably.

  “Oh yes what?”

  Temporarily floored, Billy turned his eyes, his smile, his charm upon Mrs. Flood. “Good evening, Mrs. Flood. You’re looking ravishing as always.”

  “In this old thing?” Only yesterday had Mrs. Flood battened down the last sequin. “Billy Kennedy! The way you go on! Hahahahaha,” she giggled shrilly.

  “And Dicky! How’s the famous author?”

  “Hello, Bill,” Dicky said. He was civil and nothing more. He had despised Billy Kennedy as a cheat and a liar and bully all his life. Nor was Dicky entirely himself. The cocktail hour had been longer than usual tonight. Under Allison’s watchful eye he had downed three—not the usual two—scotches and the wines at dinner had put him almost over the edge. The Ritalin, which had made him fearfully animated for a time, was wearing off and he felt a terrible, leaden fatigue. Every word was an effort and he was almost glad of it. If he said nothing to Billy Kennedy there would be no danger of saying something belligerent or rude. He wondered dully if his sister was sleeping with Billy—as, according to Billy, almost every other girl was doing—but the problem seemed too weighty to think about now. He remained on his feet, knowing that if he sank into one of the down-filled chairs he might never rise again unaided.

  There was a long lull, during which Mrs. Flood’s roulade of giggles wavered and died. A little desperately Sheila said, “Coffee, anyone? What about you, Floodie?”

  “Oh, dear no,” Mrs. Flood said, making a general announcement. “I wouldn’t close an eye, I keep a little immersion heater up in my room and I always have a jar of Café Dormé on hand. Have you heard about Café Dormé, Mr. Johnson? It’s from the French for coffee and the French for sleep.”

  “So I would gather,” Peter said, not impolitely.

  “Well, it’s completely decaffeinated and it tastes just like. . . .”

  “I can imagine,” Sheila said. “Allison, coffee?”

  “I’d love some, Mother.”

  “Except that we don’t have time,” Billy said smoothly. “The dance is all the way down at the Saddle and Cycle Club and. . . .”

  “Does it matter if we’re late? Or, for that matter, if we go at all?”

  “Well, it certainly does, Allison Sargent,” Sheila said. “If Stephanie was nice enough to ask you to her coming out party, the least you can do is. . . . Heavens, darling, don’t look so glum. Why, when I was your age, wild horses couldn’t drag me away from a dance. And how would you like it if nobody came to your party?”

  “I’d be absolutely . . . Excuse me. I’ll get my jacket.” Allison strode out of the room. There was another spell of silence.

  “Goodness,” Mrs. Flood said shrilly, still keeping the party alive. “Just look at how late it is! Time for my program. Oh, I don’t usually even glance at television. But there’s this one program—it’s called Late Love and it’s about this widow in her fif—Well, a middle-aged woman who thinks that romance has passed her by until she meets this distinguished Italian count who. . . . Have you ever seen it, Mr. Johnson?”

  “No, Mrs. Flood, I usually watch the fights.”

  “Oh, I know it’s silly. But that one program. . . .”

  “That one program,” Sheila said, “has been the cause of more miserable old women than anything since the first hot flash.”

  “Oh! Oh! Mrs. Sar-gent!” Deliciously shocked, Mrs. Flood went off into a peal of giggles, the fuchsia georgette handkerchief flapping coyly at her lips, “Well, good night all.” At the door Mrs. Flood all but bumped into Allison, the mink jacket slung over her shoulders. “Why, Allison! You look simply radiant!” Almost prayerfully she added, “Have a lovely time, dear.”

  Billy Kennedy, who was cagey rather than intelligent, sensed that this assemblage was not his ideal audience. He turned on the eyes, the grin, but decided not to waste the manly handshake. “Well, good night. It’s been. . . it’s been a great honor, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Good night, Mr. Kilarney,” Peter said.

  “Good night, Billy,” Sheila said. “Not too late, please. Good night Allison. Oh, and Allison. . . .” From across the room Sheila went through some private pantomime indicating that Allison was to stand straight and to smile.

  “Well,” Sheila said, “if it hasn’t frozen solid by now, would anyone like some coffee?”

  “I would . . . please,” Peter said.

  “Anything in it?”

  “Black. Just as it comes, please.”

  “A man after my own heart Dicky?”

  “No thanks, Mother. If I may be excused, I think I’ll. . . .”

  “Oh, Dicky, no. No more writing today. Promise me.”

  “That’s the easiest promise I’ll ever make. No. No more writing.”

  “Well then? I mean it’s only nine-thirty and. . .”

  “Just something I want to do. Good night, Mr. Johnson. Mother.”

  Now they were alone together. Sheila poured out the coffee and gazed pertly at Johnson. “All right, Mr. Johnson. Let the interview proceed. Have you paper, pencils, plenty of light—all that sort of thing?”

  “I’m just dandy, thanks,” he said.

  Sheila began to feel a little self-conscious, as though the College of Physicians and Surgeons had found her, navel of unparalleled interest. Gaiety seemed the easiest way out. “Very well then, commence. I’ve never been interviewed before—in depth that is—so you’ll forgive me if I seem a bit . . .” The sentence limped away and died.

  “I don’t know quite where to commence.”

  “Why, at the beginning, naturally. You’ll want to know where and when I was born.”

  “We don’t always ask women when they were born, unless they’re very old or so young it doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, I’m not that young and hardly that old. But I’ll tell you. Notebook ready? I was born in St. Luke’s Hospital in Chicago on Armistice Day. That’s the first World War, naturally.”

  “Let’s see, that’s November eleventh, nineteen. . . .”

  “Exactly. Cheering in the streets. Whistles. Sirens. Not for me, you understand, although I was said to be a beautiful baby. My mother, in a haze of twilight sleep, thought it might be nice to name me Pacifica. Wiser heads, fortunately, prevailed and I was eventually christened Sheila—for my mother’s mother—Patten—for a very rich man on the Chicago Board of Trade, who gave me a mother-of-pearl teething ring and a fat check—Forester—my father’s last name.”

  “Tell me about your father.”

  “Well, there isn’t really very much to tell. He was quite old when I was born. I mean he wasn’t one of those palsy-walsy boy-daddies you see illustrated in women’s magazines. He was a broker on the Board of Trade. That was in the days when you could make tons of money on the Board.”

  “And I suppose he did?” Peter was beginning to feel bitter again.

  “I never thought very much about it. We were what they call Comfortable. We lived in a big old Victorian house on Hinman Avenue in Evanston. Early Victorian—not the gingerbread kind. It had an iron fence around it and a carriage house. I have pictures of it somewhere. It was torn down years ago. There’s a sort of Tel Aviv modern apartment building there now—all glass and little balconies.”

  “I see.
Riches to riches. Born in a mansion. Still in a mansion.”

  “Oh, it was hardly that—any more than this is. About eighteen rooms. There were much bigger houses in Evanston. Still are.”

  “Lots of jolly sisters and brothers?”

  “Nary a one, I’m sorry to say. Both my parents were quite well along when I was born. I suppose I must have come as quite a shock.”

  “Ah yes, the change of life babies are always the smartest.”

  “Are they? I wouldn’t know. Can I give you a brandy?”

  “If you please.”

  “Good. I’d like one too. I’m new at this sort of thing.”

  “Go right ahead. You’re doing fine. Then you were the lonely only child?”

  “Not a bit of it Hinman Avenue was full of kids. All the streets in Evanston are. It’s worth your life to drive there.”

  “No terrible childhood fears, no traumatic experiences, neuroses?”

  “None that I can think of. Oh, once I was nearly knocked down by a Woods Electric and another time I got lost from my nurse in the toy department at Lord’s. But it was always my own fault and I knew it. You see, Mr. Johnson, I don’t believe very much in all this psychiatric mumbo-jumbo. Oh, I’m sure there’s some validity to it for people who have had really terrible things happen to them. But I also find that quite a lot of women—and men, too—with just a smattering of the jargon will go probing and prodding around inside themselves and finally decide that the reason they’re nymphomaniacs or alcoholics is that they once saw their governess taking a sitz bath and that’s to blame for the awful messes they’ve made of their lives.”

  “What about the people who didn’t have governesses?”

  “Hardly anyone does nowadays. It was just a random example. But I’ve based my work on. . . .”

  “Your work?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to dignify a column for people in trouble by calling it My Work. No, I take that back. Yes, Mr. Johnson, my work—a syndicated column in a few hundred newspapers. I offer help to millions of readers every day. And I . . .”