Barbara Greer (34 page)

16

Nancy spread the yellow dress out across the top of the bed. ‘Isn't it divine, Barb?' she said. ‘Doesn't it look exactly like lemon chiffon pie?'

‘It's very pretty,' Barbara said quietly.

Nancy looked at her. ‘Barbara?' she said.

‘What?'

‘Are you mad at me?'

‘Certainly not. Why should I be?'

‘For bursting in like that right in the middle of your—ah—little scene? Honestly, Barb, I thought the room was empty!'

‘I don't mind your bursting in,' Barbara said coldly. ‘I'm just annoyed at the meaning you've attached to it.'

Nancy opened her pale eyes wide. ‘Meaning? Oh, Barb! Now you and I have known each other a long, long time. Sweetie, I don't care what you do!'

Barbara sighed. ‘I know you don't,' she said. ‘But it wasn't what you thought it was, anyway.'

Nancy laughed. ‘Of course it wasn't!' she said. ‘He was frightened of the thunder and crawled up into your lap! What else would it be?'

‘Oh, please be quiet,' Barbara said.

‘Barbara, I wish you wouldn't keep worrying about shocking me. Really. Goodness, nothing shocks me! I think it's perfectly fine—wonderful! I think you're terribly lucky, actually, because he
is
attractive. I don't blame you a bit. You know my philosophy, Barb—eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow ye may die! I'm the real, original, couldn't-care-less girl, and I'm
not
a little girl from the country any more, either. I'm a graduate
cum laude
of the school of hard knocks Barb. I'm a hardened old Jezebel, so please don't feel you've got to kid me.'

‘He said something very sweet, that was all.'

‘Of course. Why shouldn't he? Oh, Barb, you're so lucky! You've always had all the luck and I've had none of it. Last night, old Sidney Klein called me and wanted—oh, never mind. Anyway, I told him to go to hell. Now look at me—jobless, career-less, manless. Why does everything happen to me? Oh, well,' she said, ‘in the meantime, try Woody again will you? It's nearly six o'clock. He must be back by now.'

Barbara lifted the telephone again and dialled. She waited with the receiver to her ear. ‘Still no answer,' she said.

‘Let it ring.'

Barbara continued to hold the ringing phone to her ear.

‘Still?'
Nancy asked.

‘No.'

‘Try dialling again.'

Barbara replaced the receiver, waited, lifted it, and dialled again. Nancy waited, watching her. ‘He must still be out …' Barbara said finally.

‘Oh, Barb!'

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

Nancy's face was petulant. ‘Now what will I do?' She turned to Barbara. ‘You might have called him earlier! You might have just
checked
to see—and told me. Before I got all the way up here.'

‘I'm sorry. Frankly, I forgot.'

‘How could you forget? Didn't he say anything to you about being away?'

Barbara sighed. ‘As I told you before, I saw him last night—he didn't mention anything.'

Nancy shrugged. ‘Well, I might as well make the best of it. I'll put on my dress anyway. You can keep trying him, can't you? From time to time, during the evening?'

‘Yes, I'll keep trying,' Barbara said.

‘Good. He's bound to come back sometime, isn't he?' She picked up the dress, and holding it up in front of her, she walked toward the mirror. ‘Isn't it the most dreamy dress, Barb? I had to have it. Ninety-five dollars—I could hardly afford it. But I thought after what I've been through, I deserve it.' She swirled the chiffon skirts about her. ‘I think it's going to be a good-luck dress,' she said. ‘I've got the funniest feeling something wonderful will happen when I put it on!'

Barbara stood up. ‘I'll let you get dressed,' she said. ‘See you downstairs.' She went out of Nancy's room and down the hall to her own.

Downstairs, the evening ritual of cocktails was beginning—indoors, tonight, because the terrace and the garden chairs were damp with rain. In the second of the strung-together living rooms, fresh flowers had been placed in bowls—white peonies and deep blue spears of bearded iris. The windows on both sides of the room had been opened, letting the warm breeze from the garden drift into the room and billow the heavy curtains, and the breeze carried with it summer smells, wild sweet-pea and Nicotiana, along with the clean after-rain smell, and the sounds were early evening sounds, peepers from the lake just beginning, lacewings in the trees, and cicadas. Though it was still light outside, John had lighted a few lamps in the room; each created a warm pool of light about it, and in one of these pools, the little table had been placed next to Preston Woodcock's armchair. Because Nancy was there, Edith Woodcock had put on a silver dinner dress and she moved in the room, arranging the iris and peonies in their vases. Then Preston came in, smelling of pine soap, wearing a wine-coloured velvet jacket, black trousers, and black patent leather slippers. He sat in his accustomed chair and John appeared with the cocktail things on a silver tray.

Preston mixed Edith's drink carefully, then handed it to John who placed it on a smaller tray, rested a napkin next to it, and carried it to Edith.

‘Thank you, John,' Edith murmured pleasantly.

Preston mixed his own drink from the little special pitcher. He raised his glass to Edith. ‘Well,' he said. ‘Here's to another pleasant evening for all of us.'

‘Thank you, dear,' Edith said. And then, after tasting her drink, she said, ‘I'm really beginning to be concerned about where Peggy is. She's been gone most of the afternoon.'

‘Oh, I'm sure she'll show up pretty soon,' he said.

Barney came into the room wearing a light suit.

‘Good evening, son,' Preston said cheerfully.

Barney bowed slightly. ‘Good evening, sir,' he said.

‘Can I fix the usual for you?' Preston asked.

‘Yes, please. The usual,' Barney said.

‘Still no sign of Peggy?' Edith asked.

‘Not yet,' he said.

‘Where in the world could she be?' Edith said.

Preston interrupted her, speaking to Barney. ‘We're having a very lovely girl join us tonight, Barney,' he said. ‘Did you know that? Barbara's friend, Nancy Rafferty, is here.'

‘Yes,' Barney said. ‘I met Miss Rafferty a little while ago.'

‘She's a wonderful girl,' Preston said. ‘Nancy's always been a great favourite of ours.' He looked up. ‘Well, speak of an angel!' he said, standing up. Nancy, in floating yellow chiffon, stood at the door.

‘Mr. Woodcock!' she cried. She ran, holding out her hands toward him, across the room. ‘You look wonderful, simply wonderful!' He took her outstretched hands and drew her to him, bending and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I can't tell you how wonderful it is to be here again!' she said. ‘It's just as though I'd never been away. Everything is so lovely! You're so sweet to let me come.'

‘What can I fix for you, Nancy?' he asked her.

‘Oh—gin and tonic, I guess, please!' she said gaily. She turned to everyone in the room. ‘So wonderful!' she repeated.

‘And it's wonderful to
have
you here,' Preston said.

She hovered over him as he mixed her drink. ‘Do you remember?' she said. ‘That you were the absolutely
first
person who ever got liquor to pass my lips? Well, you were! Remember—the night Barbara and I were going to Cynthia Burns's coming-out party, and I had the horrible hives and couldn't go? I was desolated! And you came into my room and said. ‘What you need is a nice, stiff drink,' and then—'

‘Oh, yes,' he nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, yes, of course I remember …'

She stepped away from him, turning to the others, and pointed dramatically at Preston. ‘So it was
he
who started me down the garden path to ruin!'

Edith smiled. ‘What a pretty dress, Nancy!' she said. ‘Is it silk?'

Barbara stood in the doorway, watching them.

Presently her father looked up and saw her. ‘Well, well,' he said. ‘Now we're all here except for Peggy.'

Barbara sat down in one of the small chairs. ‘A light Scotch for you?' her father asked.

‘Yes, please, Daddy,' she said.

‘Oh, this farm, this farm!' Nancy was saying. ‘To me, it's always seemed like one of the last, truly civilised places in the world. The last outpost of gracious living!'

‘Well, we
do
have fun here, don't we?' Edith said.

When all of them had been served their drinks, Preston lifted his own glass once more and repeated the little toast. ‘Here's to another pleasant evening for all of us,' he said. He smiled first at Nancy, then at Barbara.

It was the cocktail hour. Sitting in the little straight-backed chair and watching the familiar ritual, withdrawing herself, mentally, a little distance and observing it dispassionately, she thought that it possessed tonight a particular quality of artifice. All of them, she realised, had embarked together upon a little play; the lines came rapidly, unpunctuated by silences, as the actors one by one discarded reality and lifted pretty veils of illusion. For some reason, the pretensions seemed too elaborate. And as she watched, the performances seemed to grow more laboured and the lines that were uttered seemed to come breathlessly, as though they had all run a great distance to this stage and could only maintain their characterisations by taking great secret gulps of air. She herself felt choked. The consistency of the evening seemed fragile and at any moment, clearly, it might shatter.

She felt fourteen. She was swept with the thought that she was a child-woman and that some essential element, some fibre, had been left out of her, depriving her of the possibility of human maturity. She was a little girl, shapable and powerless, ruled by abstract emotions and passions, governed by desires that were undefined. Hopelessly she saw herself even older, thickened and heavy, her hands veined, the flesh of her throat sagging, covered with a façade of age while still inside lurked the mind and spirit of an adolescent, a little girl who had run with her cousin Woody to the doll island, who had stripped off her sticky clothes with him, pretending.

She looked at Barney, and as if it were a signal, he looked at her. She looked quickly away and said something to the others, words she forgot as soon as she spoke them, words that were merely an assurance to the others that she was participating in the little play.

Her father put his glass on the table and crossed his dark-trousered knees. He was smiling. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘a drink at twilight puts the chaos of the day in order. Sets things back in their place again.'

‘Well, I for one will have another!' Nancy said.

‘What chaos?' Edith asked. ‘What things have been out of place?' She looked to the others for reassurance. ‘It seems to me that it's been a perfectly calm and ordinary day.'

Nancy said, ‘Well, it hasn't been a calm and ordinary day for me. I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Woodcock.'

‘Poor Nancy,' Edith said. ‘Barbara told me about your job.'

‘Yes. Suddenly I'm faced with the horrible prospect of carving myself a new niche in the world.'

Preston Woodcock raised his glass and smiled at her. ‘And niche-carving is easier, isn't it, with one of these?'

‘I agree absolutely!' Nancy said.

Edith cleared her throat. ‘Where in the world is Peggy!' she said. Her tone was peevish.

‘Woody's disappeared, too, hasn't he?' Nancy said. She laughed lightly. ‘I wonder if they're together?'

Edith shook her head. ‘No. I talked to Woody after lunch. He said he was going—I've forgotten where he said he was going.'

‘Oh? You
talked
to Woody?' Nancy said eagerly.

‘Yes. He—oh, he said something about going up to see a friend. In Lime Rock, I think. For a sports car rally, or something.'

Nancy gave Barbara a brief, accusing look. ‘How far is Lime Rock?' she asked.

‘I really don't know. It's not Woody I'm worried about. It's
Peggy
.'

Silence fell now, awkward and heavy. The cool breeze stirred the curtains; the sound of lacewings and cicadas filled the room again and the mood of the little group changed to one of waiting. New characters were needed to carry on the performance; they waited for them. Preston gazed at his glass. It was an ordinary cocktail glass and the liquid within it was transparent. His Martinis, Barbara knew, were made with very little ice, but the gin and vermouth of which they were composed were chilled ahead of time in the refrigerator. Next to the glass stood the little silver pitcher, frosted with chill, and watching her father, she suddenly knew that he too was waiting, not for a person, but for a certain period of time to pass. The liquid in his glass would soon be gone, and he was measuring the time that it would take to finish it, and he was also considering the time that must be allowed between emptying the glass and filling it again. The prospect of reaching for the pitcher, of making that specific move, seemed to absorb him completely. He seemed to be holding his breath, counting, suspensefully, agonising seconds of time. Watching him she felt, as she had felt before, powerless. Now he lifted the glass to his lips and when he removed it the glass was empty. He uncrossed his knees. Then there was the sound of footsteps in the hall. Everyone turned. Peggy walked into the room.

‘Hello, everybody,' she said pleasantly. She was still wearing her white shorts and white cotton shirt with the tiny blue alligator embroidered on the pocket. She stood with her hands on her hips. Then she touched her shoulder. With one hand she pushed her short dark hair back. She smiled at them.

‘Oh, Peggy,' Edith said. ‘Thank goodness. I was beginning to worry, dear.'