Girl on the Best Seller List (14 page)

“I’m going to the office for a while this afternoon. Not long.”

“On Saturday?” “An emergency.” “I see.”

“What does that mean?” “It means I see.” “Your voice sounded peculiar.” “Freddy, is it a serious emergency?” “Serious enough for me to worry about, but not serious enough for you to worry about.” “Business?”

“Of course business! What would I be going to the office for if it wasn’t business?” “I don’t know.”

“Here, do you want some help with that garbage?”

• • •

While she was doing the dishes, Fern Fulton made a decision. She would sit Virginia down and have a long heart-to-heart talk with her. Whatever could all of it have meant? She tried to go over the whole conversation in her mind, but it was hard to remember everything in context, and even more difficult to make any sense of it. What did Gloria Wealdon have to do with any of it in the first place? She tried to think back on everything that had happened prior to lunch, after Gloria had cut back through the fields on her way home. Freddy had been puttering around in the yard until the call came from the packagers in Elbridge. He had taken the call in the kitchen. Routine conversation: yes, no, how many, when — that sort of thing; and then he had asked where Virginia was. He had gone out to the garage where she was putting away their gardening tools, and Fern had called out to both of them to clean up for lunch. There was nothing unusual about any of it. It could have happened even earlier, she decided — whatever it was that had happened; and because she had absolutely no idea what to fasten her thoughts on, she abruptly stopped what she was doing, left the unwashed dishes, and called Virginia.

There was no answer.

Freddy’s Buick was gone, and then it occurred to her that he might have taken Virginia with him. Again, she tried to think about what she had heard them say together. What?

“Gloria Wealdon ought to be warned.”

“Oh, we’d be cooked then all right.”

What sense did that make?

And:
“This is such a terrible thing to happen.”

She smoked a cigarette, standing up in the living room, completely in the dark about whatever it was that was taking place. Why she went to the den, she did not consciously know. It was an impulse. Freddy hated anyone disturbing the things in there, and it was not so much that she respected this idea, but simply that she disliked the disorder of the den. Books stacked on the floor; fishing reels falling over. Confusion. The maid had complained about it, too.

But Fern Fulton did go into the den. And she did find something there that made her heart race. She sat there smoking one cigarette after the other, reading it over and over — first with her own eyes, then with other people’s eyes — until it was a senseless message, and yet one that already had some meaning for her. She didn’t finish the dishes and she didn’t call Freddy at the office. She just waited, and at two o’clock he came home.

When he came upstairs, he found her sitting in his yellow leather chair, in his den.

“What the — ”

“Surprised?”

“I thought you were out or something.”

“Freddy, did Virginia go along with you?”

“No. Why?” “It’s a wonder.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean that it’s a wonder that you didn’t take her along to help you solve your business emergency.”

“What’s the matter? Something is.”

“I know it. Something is very much the matter.”

“Do you want to get it off your chest?”

“I don’t think it’s on
my
chest.”

He leaned against his desk. His face was very serious. He said,

“Say it out, whatever it is, Fern.”

“I’ve warned you before about involving Virginia in your business.”

“I don’t involve her in my business.”

“You talk every little thing over with her, Freddy, every little thing.”

“Do I?”

“You know you do. You drag her with you on your business calls, and you drag her with you out in the yard to do a man’s work, and you — ”

“What are you accusing me of?”

“Of giving that kid burdens she shouldn’t have. She’s just a kid, Freddy! A child.”

“I know.”

“You sound sorry. Has it all caught up with you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it has.”

“Well that’s news.”

“She’s very mature for her age, but I
have
overestimated her maturity, I suppose.” “That
is
news!”

“All right, I agree with you. What do you want to say now?”

“I want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Will you be honest, Freddy?”

“Yes. I think I’ll have to be.”

“You won’t lie?”

“No, Fern.” Now his face was ashen. Fern Fulton felt her stomach do a flip. Then it was true. God, she hadn’t really counted on its being true.

There was a tremor to her voice.

“Freddy, are we broke?”

“Are we
what?”

“Are we ruined? Wiped out?”

He looked at her for a moment, and then he began to laugh. He threw his head back and began to laugh and laugh. Fern sat there, waiting. Finally, when he could speak, he said, “Where did you
ever
get that idea?”

“Is it true?”

“No, no, it is not true. Whatever made you think it was?”

“You swear that to me. You’re not trying to hide that from me, to spare me?”

“We are solvent, Fern. We are better than solvent. We’re damn near rich.” He was laughing again.

“Because if you ever went to Gloria Wealdon and asked her for money, Freddy, I wouldn’t be able to hold up my head in Cayuta.”

“Nor would I,” he giggled.

“I know she’s rich, and we’re good friends, but Freddy, she hurt me with that book. She honest-to-God hurt me.”

He said more seriously, “I know that, Fern.” “Do you?”

“Yes, I do. And I’m sorry about that.”

“I believe you actually are.”

“About that, and about a lot of things, Fern.”

“You’re being sincere, aren’t you?’

“Yes. And I’m sorry, too, that you have to ask if I am. I’m going to make things a little different around here. I hadn’t planned to say it. I don’t like to say things. It spoils it.”

“Not for me.”

“I know not for you…. A long time ago, Min Stewart said you had spirit — said you had a way of speaking out that she admired.”

“Min said that?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember. Once.”

“You never told me Min said that.”

“Well, she did.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me, Freddy? I always knew Min was a loyal friend. Now there’s a friend for you!” “Well, anyway — ”

“Min said I had spirit, huh?” Fern Fulton beamed. “What made you think we were broke, Fern?” “Huh?”

“What you were saying earlier.”

“Oh! This!” She fished in the pocket of her apron and brought out the wrinkled piece of paper she’d been folding and unfolding since one o’clock. “What does this mean.”

She read the note aloud.

“Where was it?” said Freddy.

“On your desk — right there on your desk. You can see why — ”

“When did you get it? Find it. When did you find it?”

“Just a while ago, not long ago. Why? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t have time to explain.” “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find Gloria Wealdon,” Freddy said. “I’m going to find Virginia,” he said. He was already running down the stairs when he added the words, “To stop her.”

M
IDWAY
through her veal knuckle, Gloria Wealdon had felt far too ill to continue the luncheon with Min Stewart. She had excused herself and driven home. As she was coming out of the garage, she was startled by the sudden appearance of Freddy Fulton.

“Milo’s at school,” she said, “at the track meet.” In addition to the severe stomach ache, she felt a coldness toward Fern’s husband upon recalling her conversation with Fern that noon.

“I wasn’t looking for Milo.”

“I’m not feeling very well.”

“You haven’t seen Virginia?”

“Not since this noon at your place.”

“We’re anxious to find her, to tell her something. If she comes around, by any chance, would you tell her we’re anxious to reach her?”

“I don’t think she’ll come around,” said Gloria. “She never has.”

“But you will remember if she does?”

“Sounds like life and death.”

Freddy made a noise that was meant to sound like laughter, but which sounded grotesque and inhuman. He followed Gloria to the front screen door. “You were supposed to have lunch with Min today, weren’t you?”

“I just came from the hotel,” Gloria said.

“I feel lousy.”

“Oh, the hotel!”

“Yes,” said Gloria.

“Do you know what Min — ”

But Freddy was already on his way across the lawn, running.

She was just as glad. She was in no mood to have a conversation with anyone, much less him.

Once she was inside, she kicked off her heels and slipped her feet into the space shoes. Then she plopped on the chair beside the telephone and picked up her clipboard. She had remembered to buy the stamps and the tissue paper, but she would have to order the olives and the wine.

As she dialed, she studied her notes again:

She looked at number three a second time.

The grocer asked her to wait when he answered, and she took the pencil attached to the board and wrote:

As she gave the grocer her order, a headache began its slow warm-up, a small, painful pulsating somewhere near the thalamus.

She continued to write while she spoke to the grocer.

While the grocer went to check on whether or not there was fresh asparagus, Gloria Wealdon shut her eyes and tried to remember that thing F. Scott Fitzgerald had written about the rich; how had it gone?

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me…. Even when they enter into our world, or sink below us….

But that was all she could remember.

Even when they enter into our world, or sink below us….

She tried to remember Min Stewart sinking below her; tried to remember just one social incident in which Min had sunk, but instead she saw only her own hand-flailing, remembered only her own descents…. Like the one that very noon, at lunch.

She had been complaining to Min about her dinner party that evening for Pitts, by way of letting Min know that her literary agent was arriving from New York. She did not bother to tell her that there were to be only three at the most for dinner (though Milo claimed he was not going to attend, Gloria had no such high hopes for the evening); instead, she pretended to be worried about what to serve. She liked herself immensely for thinking to bring up the subject. In light of Min’s prior conversation, it was deliciously anti-climactic and its saccharine defiance delighted her, though Min Stewart never seemed to show the effect of any new tack — her face was always composed and enigmatic.

Min said, “I have with me a very good cookbook,
The Williamsburg Art of Cookery.
Do you know it?”

“I don’t know. Let me see it?”

“Now,
Mrs. Wealdon? You haven’t even — ”

“I eat very little for lunch ever,” said Gloria. She popped the anti-acid pill Milo had given her into her mouth and swallowed it with water. She reached for the book Min handed her.

Min said, “The binding is worn. I’m taking it to Stanley’s for mending. It was printed in the year 1742.”

Gloria accepted it from her and began leafing through it.

Min continued: “I shouldn’t call it
The Williamsburg Art of Cookery,
because actually that book is a pretense at being this one.”

Gloria read the title:
The Accomplifh’d Gentlewoman’s Companion.
In the book’s ancient typography, the ligature
s
looked like an f. Gloria said, “It sounds like the author lisped.”

Min ignored the remark. She said, “They’re very old recipes, and they sound quite complicated, but it shouldn’t deceive you. They’re all of them very sound.”

“They even broiled steaks in those days,” said Gloria. It seemed odd, somehow, for people to broil steaks back in the 1700’s.

“They’re particularly sound on steaks. They suggest that a few hot coals from the fire be placed into a chafing dish, and that when the steaks are done they be placed into the hot dish and served hot to table. They advise you not to turn the steak either, until one side is done. Today most people turn them back and forth.”

“Oh, Lord!”

“What?”

“Here,” Gloria said, “under ‘Confectionery.’ Well, really! And everyone talks about how wicked we’re supposed to be
now.”