Barbara Greer (15 page)

Perhaps that, or the moments following that conversation, had given her the first thought, or at least had been what had brought the first thought to consciousness, given it words. Because after that the words, the idea, began to hover all around her, flutter around her, wherever she went.

She had not had two men in love with her at once for a long time, and when she stopped to think about it, except for reasons that were so clearly obvious that she dismissed them, was there any reason why she should not now? That was the third, and final, question of that summer.

Then, in September, Carson had come back from South America. She had gone back to Locustville to meet him and, a few days later, they had had a quarrel. And perhaps the quarrel had had something to do with pushing those thoughts further forward in her mind; it was hard to say. No motive is ever simple, but an intricate arrangement of smaller motives. Only when mixed to an essential consistency do little motives become a compelling one. Perhaps one of those little motives had been revenge.

They had given a party. It was their turn. They had been entertained by the Hodgsons, the Sages, the Williamsons, the Brysons and the Bishops—the neighbours and company friends—and, Carson reminded her, the time had come to repay the party debts. So Barbara had telephoned Muriel Hodgson, Betty Lou Sage, Prudie Williamson, Kate Bryson and Sue Bishop and invited them for cocktails on Saturday night.

She had worked on the party all day. She had made hot hors d'œuvres and a lobster casserole which she planned to serve, buffet-style, at eight o'clock. In addition to Flora, she had hired another girl to help in the kitchen. She filled vases with tall gladioli from the garden and placed fresh pink tapers in the dining room candelabrum, thinking that she would serve the supper by candle-light.

The party began all right and it was difficult to tell, exactly at just what point it had begun to go wrong. Looking back on it later, she could see it had begun when Muriel Hodgson had mentioned a restaurant in Locustville called Pete's.

Barbara had been sitting beside her on the sofa. ‘Pete's?' she asked. ‘I don't believe I've heard of that one. Is it good?'

‘Oh, it's divine!' Muriel said, shaking her bright yellow curls enthusiastically. ‘You should
try
it. Pete's Pizzeria. It's simply divine.'

‘Pete's what?'

‘Pizzeria. Pete's Pizzeria. Isn't that a cute name?'

Barbara said, ‘Oh, I see—they make pizzas there?'

Muriel looked at Barbara suspiciously. ‘What's the matter?' she asked. ‘Don't you like pizzas?'

‘Oh, I do!' Barbara said.

‘Well, try Pete's. They're terrific.'

‘They sure are,' Bert Hodgson said. ‘They have about, oh, maybe a dozen different flavours, but the kind to order is their special de luxe combination. They make it with anchovies, ripe olives, mozzarella cheese, Italian sausage—the works.' He turned to Carson. ‘Do you like pizzas?' he asked.

‘Sure,' Carson said.

‘Anybody who doesn't like pizzas should have his head examined,' Bert said.

‘And Bert's right about their special de luxe combination. It's simply divine,' Muriel said.

‘I must try it,' Barbara said.

More cocktails were poured and voices rose to a new pitch and intensity. Barbara thought: At least they're enjoying themselves. Then Flora beckoned her into the kitchen. Was the casserole ready? Barbara looked at it; it was cooking more slowly than she had expected. The strips of lobster meat were still translucent. ‘Give it another few minutes, Flora,' she said.

In the living room Bert Hodgson was doing his imitation of Pocahontas; Muriel was playing Captain John Smith. The room swayed with laughter, and from the phonograph, Marlene Dietrich spoke bittersweet German songs. Carson moved dutifully among the guests with his silver cocktail pitcher. Barbara listened as Kate Bryson confessed that she had always wanted to be a comedy actress. Then, suddenly, Muriel Hodgson was standing in front of her, saying something. ‘What?' Barbara asked.

‘Pete's!'
Muriel shouted. ‘That's the name of it.' Voices in the room swiftly fell and Muriel said, more quietly, ‘Pete's.'

‘Yes, what about it?' Barbara asked.

‘I could have been, too,' Kate Bryson said. ‘I had this teacher in this drama course they gave. She said so. She said I had born acting talent.'

‘Pete's Pizzeria,' Muriel said to Barbara. ‘The place I was telling you about.'

Muriel turned to the others. ‘So what do we all say?' she-cried. ‘All in favour?'

‘Favour?' Barbara asked. ‘In favour of what?'

‘I think we could eat three large ones, don't you? Or no. No, we'd better make it four,' Muriel said. ‘Large, four large. Bert can eat a whole one by himself!'

‘Sure can!' Bert said.

‘Would anyone like another cocktail?' Carson asked

‘No. We're going to send out for pizzas,' Muriel said. She turned to the others in the room. ‘Oh, that's a wonderful idea, isn't it, gals? Then none of us will have to bother fixing dinner! Get on the phone, Bert.'

‘Well—' Carson began.

‘What's the number?' Bert asked.

‘Lambert 9-0790,' Muriel said.

Barbara said, ‘I don't think we'll need pizzas. I've got—'

‘Of course we do. What's the matter with you? Don't you like pizzas?' Muriel turned suddenly to Sue Bishop and said, ‘By the way. You can eat pizzas, can't you?' Her voice was full of solicitude for Sue, who, before she had married Ed Bishop, had been Sue Goldman, and was Jewish. ‘I mean—it's all
right
for you, isn't it?'

‘Oh, yes,' Sue replied.

‘Good. I didn't know.'

‘I love pizzas,' Prudie Williamson, who had not said much, said. ‘Do you know what I do, Muriel?'

‘What do you do?'

‘I buy them by the dozen and keep them in the deepfreeze. They're wonderful that way. Just run them under the broiler for a few minutes to thaw them out. You can keep them that way for months. They don't get soggy at
all
.'

‘I'll have to try that,' Muriel said. ‘Bert—make that call!'

‘I save a lot of money shopping in quantity,' Prudie Williamson said.

‘Oh, so do I,' Muriel said. ‘Bert, what's the matter with you? Why don't you call Pete's? I'm getting hungry just sitting here
thinking
about pizzas!' She rubbed her stomach.

‘I'm waiting for a little quiet,' Bert said. ‘Hey! Everybody! Keep it down, will ya? Keep it down to a dull roar. I'm trying to make a phone call.'

‘Bert,' Barbara began, ‘I've actually got a—'

‘As long as Hank and I
both
eat them, I don't mind,' Prudie Wiliamson said. ‘If he eats them by himself. I can't stand to have him get close to me with his breath.' She laughed and then blushed violently, as she realised that she might have said something vulgar.

‘Oh, hurry, Bert!' Muriel said. ‘
Hurry!
All you have to say is four large special de luxe combination pizzas and tell them you'll be down in fifteen minutes to pick them up.' She turned to Barbara. ‘The nice thing about Pete's is they're very prompt. If Bert phones now, they'll be ready by the time he gets there.' She turned to Bert, looking at him levelly. ‘
If Bert phones now
,' she said.

‘Quiet!' Bert said. He had begun to dial.

‘Have them make one without onions,' Betty Lou Sage said.

‘No, Bert,' said Muriel. ‘Just tell them to leave the onions off
half
of one. That's all. The rest of us want onions for goodness' sake!' She looked at Betty Lou. ‘Don't worry,' she said ‘They'll leave the onions off half of one.'

Barbara stood in the centre of the room, holding her cocktail glass.

‘Hello?' Bert said. ‘Is this Pete's? Look. This is Bert Hodgson. Out on Bayberry Lane. That's right. Look—can we have four large special de luxe combinations? That's right …'

‘Bert—' Barbara said.

Carson turned to Muriel Hodgson. ‘Barbara's got something fixed already,' he said. ‘She's got a—'

‘Oh, we don't want you to go to any trouble!' Muriel said, turning to Barbara. ‘No kidding, honey. That's the wonderful thing about pizzas. They're so simple! No dirty dishes. We can eat them right out of the box.'

‘I've got a lobster dish in the kitchen,' Barbara said. ‘And I—'

Oh, don't bother with that,' Prudie Williamson said. ‘I'm allergic to seafood anyway.'

‘Four … large … special de luxe combinations,' Bert was saying. ‘And look. Leave off the—'

Barbara turned to Carson, who shrugged his shoulders, gave her a brief despairing look. She turned to Bert. ‘Bert!' she said.

‘What? Wait a minute.' He covered the telephone mouthpiece with his hand.

Suddenly everyone in the room was silent, looking at Barbara.

‘Bert, don't order pizzas,' she said quietly

‘Why not, for Christ's sake?'

‘Because I don't want them.'

‘What the—'

‘You heard me!' she said. And though she hadn't meant it to, her voice rose shrilly. ‘I don't want pizzas! If I'd wanted pizzas I'd have ordered them myself! It's my party, isn't it? Isn't it?' She sobbed, suddenly, turned and ran out of the room, her cocktail splashing from her glass as she ran.

Behind her, Muriel Hodgson said, ‘Well! What's eating her for God's sake?'

Later, Carson came into the bedroom.

‘Oh, I don't know! I don't know!' she sobbed. ‘I don't know what happened! Suddenly I couldn't stand them—any of them! I couldn't stand looking at their stupid faces and listening to their stupid voices! I couldn't stand them.'

‘Muriel was just trying to be helpful,' he said.

‘Helpful!' she said angrily. ‘Who is she! Just who is she! She's nothing but a stupid, stupid, mediocre little tramp. And he—he's even worse. All of them! I hate them all. I can't stand this town. I can't stand this street. I simply can't stand it any more.'

‘Where would you like to go?'

She buried her face in the pillow, sobbing. ‘That's the trouble! I don't know what I want. I don't know where I want to go. Oh, I'm so unhappy—so unhappy—'

He said nothing.

‘I've got to go somewhere! I've got to get away!'

After a while, he said, ‘Would you like me to fix you a little nightcap?'

She sat up, fumbled under the pillow for her wadded handkerchief, found it and blew her nose. ‘All right,' she said. ‘I'd love that.'

He went into the kitchen. She heard the sound of him mixing drinks. She sat on the bed, pushing the damp hair out of her eyes.

He returned with the two drinks, handed her one, and sat down on the bed beside her. He seemed singularly quiet. Then he said, ‘Of course Bert's one of my supervisors. But of course you knew that.'

‘I don't care!' she said. ‘I don't care who he is. He's still a stupid, boorish little man.'

‘Well, I hope you'll apologise anyway. For my sake, at least.'

‘I won't!' she said.

‘And apologise to Muriel, too, in the morning.'

‘I certainly won't!'

‘You've never tried,' he said. ‘You've never tried to get to know any of these people, that's the only trouble. They're all perfectly decent people. But you've never tried to get to know them, or understand them, at all.'

‘I have tried,' she said. ‘I've tried very hard. You certainly can't say that I haven't tried.'

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘I wish I could see how you've tried. This past summer, for example—as far as I can see you spent most of it up in Burketown at the farm.'

And then the quarrel began in earnest.

It ended, in sobbing hysteria, early in the morning.

But it was not ended, in the sense that anything had been settled, or even—as would have been best—forgotten, though she had done as he had asked, telephoned the Hodgsons the next day and apologised. It was still remembered two weeks later when, early on a Friday morning, they started off for Burketown in the car for Peggy's wedding, which was to be at three o'clock that Sunday afternoon.

An autumn wedding, in the afternoon, under bright blue late September skies was what Edith Woodcock wanted. But when Barbara and Carson arrived on Friday, it did not appear that Edith's wish would be granted; the day was cold and windy and the sky was grey and overcast, not blue. Leaves from the elms and maples blew against the windowpanes and the wind tossed and bent the heads of chrysanthemums and the remaining roses. But Edith, as she said, was being philosophical about the weather; plans had to proceed anyway; one could only pray that Sunday would dawn with sunshine. Four hundred guests were coming. Wisely, considering the weather's unpredictability, Edith had decided against erecting a marquee in the garden. Instead, the reception was to be held at Grandmother Woodcock's house on Prospect Avenue, which, because it was an old house built in the grand manner of the late nineteenth century, had a ballroom. It was here, then, and not at the farm, that the most feverish preparations were taking place. It was at the old house opposite the Wayside Furniture store—the house that passing motorists often mistook to be either a convent or nursing home or a school for girls—that precious services of Limoges were being washed, French crystal and heavy English silver were being polished, satin draperies, freshly cleaned, were being rehung, floors were being waxed and buffed. Here in the garden, which, before Maple Street had been cut through behind it, had extended for four hundred feet beyond two identical iron gazebos, the bronze and verdigrised fountain that had been carried around the Horn from China was being put in working order. Delivery trucks arrived with wedding presents; florists' trucks arrived with tubs of flowers; caterers' trucks arrived with food and champagne. And, in the middle of it all, praying silently for a fair dawn on Sunday—and also that Grandmother Woodcock would not die from the excitement of the activity in her house—was Edith Woodcock, her white hair in disarray, in an apron and comfortable shoes, working with the servants.