House Party (18 page)

"Y?"

"Y.M.C.A. Young Men's Christian Association."

"Oh yes. Athletics and cigarettes for the doughboys."

"And cheap rooms. I've written a book that might just earn a thousand bucks and probably a lot less."

"Yes?"

God, she's dense, Joe thought. "Well, so here I am just scraping along. I meet a girl I like a lot. I think about pooling our resources; getting married; settling down; finding a little apartment someplace."

"And very right that you should. The idea, living with a lot of athletic men!"

"So I come out here with Elly, all set to ask Mama for her hand—I believe that's the term."

"I believe it is."

"Only I find that the little secretary has been pulling my leg all along and that Mama lives in the Taj Mahal complete with family heirlooms and hot and cold running servants. And all of a sudden I discover that the Hoosier hotshot—I come from Indiana, I guess I told you."

"Yes. It must be very picturesque."

"So I discover that Mooseheart's gift to Pruitt's Landing has wound up not only hopelessly outclassed, but mooning over a little secretary who happens to be the daughter of a great lady, the sister of a banker, the most popular debutante of God knows what year, and the heiress to more millions of dollars than I'll ever be able to . . . Hey!" Mrs. Ames's evening bag clattered to the floor, its modest array of cosmetics, coins and keys rolling every which way.

"Ex-excuse me," Mrs. Ames breathed. As Joe scrambled in the dark to retrieve her belongings, she clutched the bench with both hands. She felt as though she were going to faint. A wild desire to burst into hysterical laughter nearly got the better of her. Heiress to millions, she thought, heiress to millions of dollars in debts. Can anybody in the whole wide
world
actually believe we're still rich? It's, it's . . .

"Here," Joe said, sitting down next to her and handing her her bag.

"Thank you." Mrs. Ames grasped both his hands and held them tightly. "You know, you're an appalling snob."

"Snob?" Joe roared.

"Yes. You won't give poor Elly a chance because you fancy she's too far above your station. What's that if it isn't snobbery? Now in opera if a heroine had someone like you to deal with, she'd have to go to a convent in the last act. In operetta, we'd all have to wait around until an old nurse came in and confessed that you were actually the heir to a mythical throne, who had been sent away in infancy by a wicked regent. In real life . . ."

"Cut the comedy, please. I don't happen to think this is very
funny."

"Neither do I. I think it's tragic. Just what do you think of all
those young men who are dancing with Elly right now?"

"I think they're a bunch of meatballs."

"Oh, dear. Back to the menu again. And how do you think the
pork chop stacks up? Do you think you re less attractive?"

"No. Not really."

"Do you think you're less intelligent?"

"Certainly not!"

"In fact you think you're a little
more
intelligent, don't you? Well, I daresay that with one or two exceptions you're about ten times as smart. You're certainly as bright as my boys and they really
shine
in this crowd."

"Yes, but they all went to Eastern colleges and . . .”

"They're Eastern
boys,
Joe—Mr. Sullivan. And a lot of them flunked out."

"Well, I mean they all went to dancing school and . . .”

"You dance very nicely. I've told you that."

"Yes, but they've all got dough and good jobs and rich parents . . ."

"You've got a job. It probably pays as much as any of theirs—more in some cases, And their parents, I can tell you, aren't as rich as you think. You mustn't believe everything you hear—or everything you see, either. You're being just as insular and rigid and, yes,
snobbish
as you accuse us of being."

"What you don't understand is . . ."

"If you really love Elly, and you really have a job that pays seventy-five dollars a week, go right ahead and ask her to marry you.
She'll
do the deciding."

"But . . .”

"You can consider that my official permission." Mrs. Ames rose and swept down to the ladies' dressing room.

"Awfully nice of you to decide to dance with me—
finally,"
Elly said to Joe.

"Shut up."

"Now see here . . "she began.

"Look, can we get out of here? I want to talk to you."

"What's the matter," Elly said, "something gone wrong with your plot construction?"

"Has any man ever pasted you right in the teeth?"

"No, and I'd like to see the man who wants to try."

"Well, here he is. Can we go now?"

"Why not?" Elly said airily. "I assume you've got your manuscript down in the check room and . . ." She was jerked off the dance floor with a frightening velocity.

"Where can we go and be alone and get a drink?" Joe asked, pulling her after him down the stairs.

"I don't happen to want a drink," she said haughtily, "but I'll be glad to sign for one in the bar down here. In fact you can have all you . . ."

"I don't want you to sign for
anything.
I want to buy
you
a drink. Isn't there someplace we can go where the Ames signature doesn't make people drop dead with . . ."

"Now, listen," Elly began, "if you got me out here to . . ."

"Elly, I
mean
it," Joe said turning his eyes on her, "I want to be alone with you someplace away from all these people so I can tell you I love you and I want to marry you and it's okay with your mother and I'm sorry I was such a heel and . . ."

Elly's mouth dropped open. "Well, gee, Joe! Why didn't you
say
so? Sure there's a place. It's just a little juke-box joint about fifty yards down the road. Nobody ever goes there. We can walk it in a couple of minutes. Come on!”

"Hey, wait a minute. Don't you want your coat or something?"

"To hell with my coat! I've got
you.
Let's go!" Elly raced on ahead, pulling him down the darkened driveway behind her.

Claire rather wished that Paul would stop kissing her. Other men had kissed her before and Paul did it very nicely and very gently. It wasn't that she minded being kissed by Paul. She just minded being kissed, period. Nothing could ruin a really good dress, your make-up, a careful coiffure, like passion. She didn't know why men thought women
liked
it. Well, they were all alike; those pimply boys back in Chicago; those salesmen from Seventh Avenue,
before
she became a buyer; and even Paul, who was a gentleman and well born, all of them had these same base instincts. It was revolting!

"Oh, Paul, darling," she sighed, pushing him gently away, "we've got to
stop!
Your mother will wonder where we've gone. Just look at my dress—a mass of wrinkles!" Through her tinselly laughter she remembered bitterly that this particular dress cost seven-fifty every time it was cleaned.

"Claire," Paul moaned,
"Claire!
I've never been so happy before in my life. You've made me the happiest man in the . . . Gosh," he laughed, "talk about corn. I guess every man in the world says that."

I guess so, too, Claire thought. Well, if there's one thing I didn't come out here for, it's to sit and smooch in this dirty old station wagon. Why don't they get a new one—something smart, like Bryan's car. Really, if Paul only had Bryan's
style;
his get-up-and-go.
"Darling!"
she sighed again. "There now," she said sitting up straight and edging slightly away from Paul.

Paul said, "We ought to be making some plans, I suppose."

"We certainly should," Claire said, "and some fairly definite ones. It there's anything I hate it's these couples who go off half-cocked." Claire wondered just how Mom and Granny would go over with the Ames family. "As for the actual
getting
married, I don't want anything
big
—frankly, I can't afford it—and I'm sure you don't want it elaborate either. I thought just your family and Mom—my mother and grandmother—and a few people from the shop who've done quite a lot to help me. It really doesn't pay to offend people who can . . .”

"Claire . . .”

"Oh, and of course
you
must ask anyone you like, too. Certainly Mr. Rabadab and Mr. Zuleikian and Mr. Nahigian. You're obviously partner material and they'll probably give it to you as a wedding present. Well, anyway, just twenty or thirty people in simple afternoon things. I can undoubtedly find something perfectly heavenly in the fall collections—beige, I think . . . "

"Hey,
Claire
. . ."

"Now, Paul, darling, don't be disappointed about not having a big church wedding. We can use the money for so many other things—things that last. Besides, a lot of terribly smart people are playing down this year. It makes a wedding a more personal, intimate thing, don't you think? As for
where
well be married, I think it would be chic to have the whole thing in our apartment."

"Our
apartment?"

"Well, yes, darling. We certainly can't live in my little one-room, and yours is far too small and 'way downtown. I was thinking that the new building your boss is putting up on Fifth would be just perfect. I could walk to work. And I know that if you talked to Mr. Rabadab he'd give you your choice of apartments—and at a price. Or, I tell you what, maybe we could all have cocktails some day soon and
I
could talk to him."

"You mean you want to
live
in one of those Rabadab buildings?"

"Certainly. They're very smart. Everyone's doing it. Besides, what a slap in the face to live in some other building! Paul, it just doesn't pay to . . ."

"Do we have to live in any
building
at all, Claire?"

"Darling, don't be so silly. Did you expect us to nest under a bush in Central Park?"

"No. Of course not, but . . ."

"Well, then! Now, as to the actual
time
of the wedding—give me a cigarette, would you darling? I left my case on the table. As to the actual time of the wedding,
now
is too soon. We've got to plan this thing out so that it will run smoothly, I'll be rushed off my feet with the fall things from Labor Day right through the end of October, and then the Christmas business starts hot and heavy from Thanksgiving on till January, when we start with cruise clothes. But there's usually kind of a slump at the beginning of November, so I could take a week then and we . . ."

"Claire! Do you mean you plan to go right on selling dresses after we get . . ."

If there was any kind of talk that made Claire see red, it was talk like this. How like a man to deprecate a woman's work—her career! "If you mean," she said coolly, "do I intend to pursue the career which I have made for myself after working like a
nigger
for seven years, the answer is . . .”

"Don't use that word!"

"Very well, then,
Neee-gro!"
Claire stopped short. She'd never seen Paul angry before. How his black eyes blazed! No, she thought, get hold of yourself, girl, calm down. Give in, or at least pretend to give in. It's what women
have
to do with men. But just remember that you're the strong one. It's like the row you had with M. Chapon up in the design room. Give in and they'll come around—every time. "Paul," she said, laying a hand on his wrist, "we must
stop
this. Darling, do you realize we're almost quarreling?" She laughed prettily. "It's too early now to know
what
we'll do. It's all going to work out, darling, really it is. Believe me . . ."

"Claire, don't you understand about . . ."

"Hush, darling," she crooned, laying a finger on his lips. She was pleased to see how her iridescent nails flashed in the darkness, "Just remember one thing. That while you create beautiful buildings, I create beautiful women and my work means a lot to me. I'm sorry I lost my . . ."

"I don't create beautiful buildings!"

"Paul! Everyone says the Rabadab buildings are the smart-est . . ."

“I help to create fashionable
tenements;
overpriced beehives made of shoddy materials that won't hold up for ten years for a lot of suckers and snobs to swank around in. And what's more I'm going to quit and . . ."

"Darling," Claire breathed, "kiss me!" She had to work fast.

"I'm going to quit right away and move out to the country and . . ."

"Kiss me, Paul,
now."
She threw her arms around his neck and stilled his lips with her own.

"Claire!" he gasped.

She tensed as she felt his fingers working clumsily at the snaps of her dress. This is one weapon, she thought grimly. This will do until I can pound some sense into his head. I'll have a talk with Bryan, hell make Paul stop this nonsense. I know he will. But until then . . . She felt her cigarette burning her fingers.

"Paul, angel," she whispered, "we've got to be getting back to the others."

Reluctantly Paul released her and opened the door of the station wagon and helped her to the ground. Then they headed back toward the club.

The bar of the North Shore Bath and Tennis Club was the center of all abandon. A few old codgers still drank sullenly in the dark corners of this pseudo-English taproom, but it was really G.H.Q. for the young marrieds. These were the gay young couples who were sent—prepaid—to the club dances by parents who preferred to dine well and baby-sit in their cavernous houses along the shore. These were the well-tailored young men, just beginning to go to fat, who were rising (slower than they had intended) in brokerage firms on Wall Street, advertising agencies on Madison and banks on Fifth. These were the Peters and Davids and Sandys who could sign Dad's name to bar chits until it seemed as though they were almost spending their
own
money, while their Glorias, Barbaras and Patricias forgot, temporarily, about the backlog of bills from Saks and Brooks and Sloane's and upstaged one another in new evening dresses which they did not quite own. They had all been educated to expect more from life than they were receiving for far less than they were giving, But if they were disappointed it didn't show tonight.

As always, they would start out discussing jobs, children and the high cost of living. A little later they would begin to reminisce about parties and dances before the war, when they were younger and slimmer and filled with hope. Later there would be ribald stories, lusty jests and indiscriminate kissing. Still later there would be quarrels between husbands and wives and the Glorias and Barbaras and Patricias would drive silently back to their Christophers and Abigails and Deborahs and Michaels quartered with grandparents, while the Peters and Davids and Sandys dozed noisily in the back seat of Dad's car.

Tomorrow there would be hangovers and grudging reconciliations and Peter and Gloria would ask one another how it was that David and Barbara and Sandy and Patricia managed to live so much better than they did on an even
smaller
income. Then, on the beach, they would discuss the best way to get Dad to increase their subsidy so that little Christopher or little Deborah could be enrolled in the same school for rich men's children where they had gone and thus keep their world safe from democracy for another generation.

It was here, to the bar, that Kathy allowed herself to be led. She was relieved to see that Manning had followed. "Oh, Sandy, Peter!” she cried with a ridiculous twitch of the shoulders, "bringing me down to this hotbed of ma-ri-tal blisses and domesticity! I feel just like Jezebel dropping in on the Altar Guild!" They laughed appreciatively. Then she stuck her bottom out and they roared. If only I could stop
doing
this for a while, Kathy thought desperately. I'm running out of tricks. I'm not really a very funny girl in spite of what that ugly John Burgess says. Can't Manning
see
what I really want?

Kathy was watching her drinks. Not only did she feel like
not
drinking, but she wanted to keep a clear head. Tonight was the night when Manning
must
make things quite clear; when things would have to be put on a proper footing. The boys picked her up and carried her in. "Hoop-la!" she screamed.

The smoke looked blue and unreal in the orange light of the wagon wheel chandelier. What an
un
-imaginative room this was—plywood pine paneling, trite hunting prints in red frames, and the wagon-wheel fixture. It wasn't the sort of place where Manning Stone should be. Kathy felt it immediately. She also felt a marked hostility on the part of the young wives who sat disconsolately at the bar.
Why?
Kathy asked herself. What have I done? These girls are my
friends.
They're girls I grew up with. I was a bridesmaid at most of their weddings. I've gone out and bought crib sheets and silver cups for every one of their children. They've always asked me to their parties and given little dinners for me to meet their unattached men friends. Some of them have even asked me to take their
husbands
in hand during the summer. And now . . . "Put me down, you
faaaascinating
devils!" she screamed. She landed with a soft plop on one of the red leather bar stools.

"What'll it be, Kathy?"

"Absinthe," she said in her parody voice.

"You know we don't have none of that stuff, Miss Kathy," the barman said, shocked.

"Oh, very well, then, a little rye over ice." She wriggled exaggeratedly, with some pain, and considerable comic effect. The boys loved it.

The room grew noisy again and she was relieved. The voices rose and fell around her.

". . . twelve hundred dollars a
year
it is now in the
lower
school at Miss Chapin's. Can you i-magine such a thing? And a waiting list, at that. When I took Abigail around I was absolutely . . ."

". . . three of us crammed into two rooms on Beekman Place. We've simply
got
to move, but the only places we could possibly afford are on the West
Side
or else in some dreary suburb like . . ."

"More, more, more," Pinky Lawrence kept saying to the bartender. "I'll say when." Kathy noticed to her horror that her glass was being filled to the brim. Good Lord, Kathy thought, now I'm even a sensation with Elly's little friends. She could remember Pinky when he was still being diapered. But now he laid a moist hand on her bare back. "Drink up, old dear,” he whispered.