House Party (11 page)

Joe Sullivan exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke through his nose and ground his cigarette out into the ashtray. He felt a sadistic satisfaction as he watched Claire's flat rump switch through the French doors.

"Serves the scrawny little snob right," he whispered. Then he poured another cup of coffee, burning his hand on the silver pot. "Silver!" Joe sneered. He hastily reflected that there was a silver service back home in Mooseheart which stood unused on the sideboard. "But they
use
it," he growled. He poured a lot of cream into his coffee and plunked in three sugar lumps because he felt that black coffee was an affectation of the upper classes. He tasted the pale confection. It was awful. He wished he'd told the Devine snob that Pop was a hopeless lush and beat Mom every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Then Joe felt guilty. Pop
was
a school principal and Mom
did
give music lessons when she felt like it. That was true. Nothing to be ashamed of—something to be
proud
of. They were educated people, even if they did come from a place nobody ever heard of.

Pop was co-author of a social science book which was used at Exeter. They had a big white house on Main Street with a big front porch with a swing that didn't squeak very much and rockers that did. It was painted every other year. And if you were to ask Joe, this old Pruitt Place could certainly do with a coat of Dutch Boy. Pop had a library of more than two thousand books and he'd read every one of them—not like the leather-bound sets with uncut pages in the Ames library.

And Mom had a big record collection—big and valuable. They were mostly old Victor red seals; things like Galli-Curci and Emma Calve and Caruso and Dame Clara Butt and Scotti and Mary Garden—collectors' items. And the big, heavy-legged Steinway grand in the front room was in tune—a man from Bloomington came out every three months to keep it on pitch.

"And I wish to Christ he'd come here and fix that fancy gold job in their crapped-up music room," Joe snarled. "Who the hell do these stuck-up New York snobs think they are, treating me like a hick?"

He reflected very briefly that no one had treated him like anything and dismissed any such charitable notions immediately. He took another sip of his coffee and nearly gagged. It tasted lousy. He lit another cigarette. It tasted worse. With an air of defiance, he dropped the whole cigarette into the coffee cup where it went out with a serpent's hiss. Mom would have given Joe fits for pulling such a cigarette trick—even with the kitchen china.

Belligerently, Joe got up, and strolled off either toward the east or west—he didn't know which, but in a direction where he thought he was least likely to run into that fancy-talking crowd on the beach.

Now had Joe Sullivan turned to the left, rather than the right, he might have come upon a rather telling scene. Not only might he have passed by Claire Devine and Paul Ames in a moment of emotion which, considering the two personalities, would have set him back on his heels, but, had he continued to stalk the balding gravel path, he might have seen the dilapidated stables—shut, silent and ghostly, the stomping, munching and whinnying still at last, the paint peeling scabrously. Adjoining the stables, he would have seen the paddock, overgrown and weedy, the criss-cross fences sagging
in disrepair. Beyond all this stood the greenhouses, where once six gardeners grew camellias and carnations in July, strawberries and asparagus in January, and orchids all year 'round. Now the building sat deserted, staring blankly through dusty glass, the I nit wind whispering hollowly through its shattered panes. This little stroll might have told Joe a lot.

Instead, he turned to the right.

Joe carried on a peppery conversation with himself as he scuffed along the gravel path. Some of the things he said were, he thought, very good—publishable, in fact—and in a moment of rationality lie wished that he had a pencil and paper along with him so that he might annotate these thoughts and make use of them in some future piece of writing. A bird screeched—a gull—and he cursed it. All right, he thought, if these Ameses want to make an arty nature walk, at least I'll
enjoy it. I might keep right on walking until I get off this God-damned place. Then I'll hitch a ride to the station and when I get to town I'll send some sort of telegram—something just us sophisticated and witty as these people would . . . He heard the plunk of a tennis ball against a racket.

"Oh, Jesus," he said aloud. "I've come the wrong way—right into a real big-league tennis game." He was just about to turn back when he heard Bryan Ames call: "Hey! Good morning! Come and join us."

There were just two things to do: turn and bolt or do as he was bade. Joe chose the more normal course.

Squinting into the sun, he saw Bryan Ames squinting back at him. Bryan was impeccable,
naturally,
in white duck shorts, a white shirt and tennis shoes. Across the court was Elly. She was considerably less impeccable. She was wearing a T-shirt much too large and what looked, for all the world, like a pair of checkered man's underpants. "Good morning," she said curtly.

"Hi," he said aloud.

"Come join us, old man!" Bryan shouted.

"Splendid, old man!" Joe shouted back bitterly.

"Too bad, Elly," Bryan called. "My game again."

"Oh, Bryan! Won't you ever let me win anything?"

Elly had no vanity. She was famous for having no vanity. Even so, she would rather have been found dead than to have Joe Sullivan—that big, superior intellectual—see her bouncing around the court in Bryan's underwear and losing every game. Couldn't he have gone swimming with Felicia or somebody and talked about literature?

Joe tramped up to the pair of tennis courts and slouched onto a bench covered with lichen and bird droppings.

"Like to play, old man?" Bryan called.

Joe could think of nothing on earth he'd less rather do than play tennis at the moment.

"It's too bad
Fe-lee-sha,
or someone, isn't here," Elly said acidly, "then we could play doubles."

God damn her, Joe thought, really getting high-hat now, aren't we? "Never mind about that," he shouted, "I'll take you both on and play double count, too." He was stunned at what he had said. The sight of Bryan Ames, long legged and limber, leaping around the court should have warned him.

"Fair enough," Elly called through clenched teeth.

"But you're not dressed for it. Didn't you bring any shoes?" Bryan asked.

Joe hadn't. How the hell was
he
to know the place was lousy with tennis courts? "Gee, I couldn't be more embarrassed. Guess my valet forgot to pack 'em. But I tell you what. I'll play without any shoes. You know, barefoot boy with cheek of tan, et cetera."
That
went over like a lead balloon. "I
certainly
wouldn't want to ruin your court," Joe said, staring pointedly at the sprigs growing up through the faded red crushed brick.

Bryan winced. "Well, old man," he said cautiously, "if you want to. The courts are in pretty lousy shape. Mother doesn't play herself, and we're out here so seldom . . ." His voice trailed off, but he made a mental note to speak about the courts to his mother.

"Okay, then," Joe said. "I'll stand you both in my
bare
feet."

Elly flashed what she felt certain was a hateful smile and said: "Suits me." She leaped defiantly over the net, rather than walk around it, and thought, Why do I have to be seen in this old union suit? Why don't I have some of those pretty little pleated sharkskin tennis dresses like Kathy's? Or even some clean shorts?

Joe Sullivan did not ordinarily play a particularly brilliant game of tennis; not nearly as good as Bryan Ames. Joe was weak on his backhand, he was given to smashing drives, and he was at his worst close to the net because his overhead game was highly unpredictable. He started out brilliantly by taking a pratfall which made Bryan call "Hard luck, old man," and which made Elly giggle maliciously. It was rage, more than skill that made Joe win today. The ball flew back and forth through the air. Joe aimed mostly for Elly's face and Bryan's groin and he was amazed at his own success.

Bryan was amazed, too. He had a critical eye and he could spot bad form a mile away. Well, he'd never seen such bad form before. The form was so amazingly bad that on six different occasions he was too stunned to return the ball. He'd been shocked into letting a number of comparatively easy ones glide right past him and he was getting a little annoyed, not only at Elly, who was bounding pointlessly all over the court, but at Joe and at himself. Bryan was not accustomed to losing.

Elly was even more annoyed. She was annoyed at Joe's big grandstand play. Not only is he the great intellect, she fumed as it he trotted hotly out behind the backstop to retrieve a ball which no paraplegic could have missed, but now he's the great sportsman coming out to show me up in another field. In the next round Joe delivered a ball which she was sure was meant for her—just as Bryan was sure that it was meant for him. Their rackets crashed in midair and Elly said a word that made Bryan gasp. "And what's more, I'll be perfectly happy to say it again," Elly snapped.

"Elly!" Bryan said reproachfully. "That's hardly what I call good sportsmanship."

"Oh for God's sake!" Elly growled. Throwing down her racket, she stomped off the court.

"Elly . . ." Bryan had never been so stunned. Grasping feebly at the frail reed of sportsmanship, he smiled half-heartedly at Joe. "W-well, I guess that just about winds up the game," he called. "Congratulations, old man!" He leaped for the net, his hand outstretched. But unfortunately, Bryan misjudged his leap in the general confusion. His toe caught the edge of the net. He hurtled forward, striking Joe full in the chest and the two of them rolled over and over in the red dust.

They got up silently, eyeing each other furiously. Keeping a good distance apart, the two walked wordlessly to the tennis house, from which Elly was just emerging. She was once again wearing the little plaid cotton dress, which she swore she was going to burn the minute she got back to the house. Her face was beet red and innocent of make-up. "Here's your B.V.D.'s," she said, holding out Bryan's shorts and T-shirt. "Thanks."

Joe sat down on the bench and began putting on his shoes and socks. He was just beginning to realize how much his feet hurt.

Bryan walked silently to the tennis house and went in. He was about to slam the door, but then thought better of it. "Shower, Sullivan?" he called. After all, it was only a game.

"No thanks," Joe said. "I don't usually bathe until Saturday night." Bryan laughed nervously and then disappeared. Joe and Elly sat in complete silence. Elly knew perfectly well that the showers in the tennis house hadn't been turned on since last summer, but she decided that Bryan could just find that out for himself. All his smug talk about sportsmanship and playing the game! She was terribly ashamed of herself and she knew she ought to apologize to both Bryan and Joe. But she'd rather die than do it Suddenly she decided that she hated all men.

Padding naked across the floor of the tennis house, Bryan couldn't understand what had happened to the place. It was airless and dusty and smelled of mice. The Italian chintz curtains in the windows—once a gay riot of reds and blues, patterned with rackets and tennis balls—hung limp and dispirited. "They don't look as though they'd been washed all summer," Bryan reflected. The dead showers were the last straw. "Poor Mother," Bryan said, as he sat down gingerly on the gritty bench. "She just doesn't have any sense of organization. I'll have to come out here more often and get things going again."

Now he was beginning to feel a little better. "It's only a game,” he told himself again, as he struggled back into his damp clothes. "He won and he won fair, although if Elly had just returned that easy serve and . . ."

Bryan came out of the tennis house and smiled benignly on the two of them. "Well," he said, "who's for a swim? Everybody's down it the beach, I guess."

"A swim would be great," Joe said. "Just great." He'd cooled down. After all, Bryan was a good egg. He was trying to be decent to make up for his sister. No reason to snap at
him.

"Oh, I can't
wait
to see your Australian crawl," Elly said with heavy sarcasm. "I'll bet you were on the Olympic team and everything."

"I'm certain I won't swim
nearly
as well as you do, Miss Ames," Joe said sweetly. "After all, you have all of Long Island Sound as your swimming pool, while back in the middle west we only have . . ."

"Say," Bryan interrupted brightly, "you certainly play an unusual game of tennis. Where did you ever learn?"

"In the park back home," Joe said. "They've got a couple of beat-up old concrete courts where
anybody
can play. Nothing like these, of course."

Bryan was once again conscious of the shabby condition of the tennis courts. "Well," he said with a laugh. "Let's head down for the beach. Bring a suit, Sullivan?"

"Yes. I'll go up to the house and get it." Joe limped off, feeling like something of a heel.

"Listen, Elly," Bryan said. "I think you ought to watch your manners
and
your language. After all, he's a nice guy, he's your guest, you invited him here and just because he beats you at tennis . . ."

"Oh, shut up!” Elly said.

Mrs. Ames felt that she might be suffering from a touch of the heat. Even under the umbrella, the sun was becoming unbearably hot. She thought she'd go out of her mind if Violet and Uncle Ned didn't stop chattering. The children, at least, had been taken well down the beach by Fraulein, but now Felicia and that dapper Mr. Stone were exchanging continental recollections right along with Uncle Ned and Violet.

Paul was another mystery. He'd arrived at the beach this morning as black as a thundercloud. Not a civil word out of him and then, all of a sudden that strange, stylish Claire girl had screamed to him from the top of the cliff—shrieked as though the end of the world were coming, and Paul, bathing suit and all, had rushed away. Then half an hour later the two of them had reappeared. Paul looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary—kind and courtly and making little jokes—and Miss Devine as cool as you please in a silver brocade bathing suit. Terribly thin, though, Mrs. Ames thought, much too thin.