House Party (19 page)

"You
drink it!" she cried. Snatching off her shoe, she filled it with the rye and two of the ice cubes and proffered it to him.

Well, that was apparently so funny that the men at the bar were laid out cold. In the mirror she caught the stunned expression on Manning's face and watched him move a little closer to her.

". . . acting like a damned fool," she heard someone say. She winced when she realized that it was a girl whom she had once considered her best friend before marriage had separated them. Barbara, Kathy shouted silently, can't you see that this isn't
really
me? I'm not like this. You
know
I'm not. I'm not after your David—nice as he is. I only want a husband of my
own,
so I can be like you with children and problems and not enough money and . . .

"Excuse
me,"
she heard another voice say, "I think I'm going to be
sick!"
It was Felicia, who got up from the table where she was sitting with John Burgess and swept out of the room. As she passed Kathy, she gave her such a look of fury and contempt that Kathy felt rather sick herself. How like Felicia to try to hurt her just a little more when she was hurting so terribly much already!

Almost automatically Kathy stuck her tongue out at Felicia's retreating back. That really
did
lay 'em in the aisles. Even the women joined in the general uproar. Well, nobody at the club had
ever
liked Felicia. Kathy shook hands with herself above her head and spun around on her bar stool. General applause! The only person who didn't seem to be amused was John Burgess. As Kathy's eyes reached his she saw the hurt look on his face. It made her feel terrible. They looked at each other for a second and then he glanced away. I wish I were dead, Kathy told herself. I wish I were dead . . . and buried . . . and rotted away. Manning, what's the matter with you? Don't you see
now
that I'm really your kind of girl?

Manning felt acutely uncomfortable. To begin with, he didn't understand this Kathy. All day she'd really had him swinging. In the past he had been the one to call the turns and she had willingly acquiesced. Tonight, however, he was seeing Kathy in a different light. She didn't seem quite the cinch she had before; not this capering
femme fatale.
He didn't like this club or this room. Manning hated crowds and he hated crowds like this one—all these hearty, proper young men. They were out of the top drawer, no doubt about that, and square as window panes, every one of them. Not very bright, either.

But among them Manning felt out of things—and he felt somehow suspect. They were on different wave lengths. He knew it and he knew that they knew it.

Kathy's satin slipper, still half-filled with cold whiskey came his way. It was supposed to be a colossal joke. All the men at the bar were drinking from her slipper. Now he was expected to. Somehow he felt that the joke was on him. He saw Kathy looking at him and laughing with artistic abandon.

Gazing steadily at her, he lifted the slipper and emptied it. He
hated
rye. It recalled those poor early days in the chorus when the Equity minimum was forty dollars and you could get a fair brand of blend for two bucks, but he downed it bravely. Then he went to Kathy and worked the wet slipper onto her foot. "Shall we get out of here, darling?" he asked suavely. Again he felt little and obscure and detestable among these men.

"Yes," she whimpered hoarsely. "Yes.
Now!"

"Hey, Kathy! Come back!" one of the men shouted. "Kathy!” Then the chorus began. "We want Kathy! We want Kathy! We want Kathy!"

At the door she turned and waved gaily. She didn't want to at all, but now that her big act was going to pay off, it was the least she could do for her invaluable audience. As she blew a burlesque kiss to the men at the bar, she saw John Burgess rise. Then he sat down again. Kathy felt Manning pulling her from the room and she followed him. This has
got
to be it, she kept saying to herself. I
can’t
keep this up much longer!

"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine," Mrs. Ames counted aloud. She put down her brush to survey her gray hair hanging thickly over her shoulders and, recalling its ebony wonder of some years past, wondered if she might not follow Violet's lead and have it dyed. "No! One
hundred."
She dropped the brush wearily to the dressing table and climbed into bed.

It was half past two if the little crystal clock on her night table could be believed and Mrs. Ames was exhausted. Too exhausted to hang up her dress and her cape. Exhausted and not very happy. She supposed the party had gone well enough. Everyone—that is when everyone had finally been
rounded up
—had thanked her profusely. Betty Cannon had been especially polite and the general . . .

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Ames said aloud. "

The general." She got out of bed and scurried across the room to where her cape lay. In her exhaustion she'd forgotten entirely about the note he had pressed into her hand as he kissed it. There. Now she had it. It was scrawled on the back of a receipt from the local liquor store. Taking it back to bed, she squinted at the ill-formed writing. It read:

Lovely lady,

I’ll be waiting in your rose garden (in mufti) at four o'clock (sharp) this morning. I'll whistle for you.

Yr. slave, Walter

"Drunk!" Mrs. Ames said aloud. "Drunk or crazy, or
both."
She got back into bed. Well, Hell-for-Leather—Walter, of course, that really was his name—could whistle his lungs out for all she'd hear at four o'clock. He could even blow a siren without its disturbing her. But then he was obviously too drunk to remember. Mrs. Ames put the note onto her night table and wearily picked up her book.

Mrs. Ames wanted passionately to turn off her lamp and go to sleep, but she had promised herself to read at least two pages of French every night and Mrs. Ames's promises—even those made to herself—were sacred things. Now she opened Gide's
Les Faux-Monnayeurs
and resumed the story which she did not altogether understand but felt certain that she disapproved of. At one time or another, Mrs, Ames had been able to keep the characters straight in her mind, but tonight Edouard and Laura and Vincent and Bernard and Olivier and Boris and Rachel and Alexandre and Sarah and Pauline and Georges were idiomatically allied against her.

Tonight the weight of this house—its rooms and ornaments and grounds and eternal decay—oppressed her more than ever. She allowed her eyes to close and dreamed once again of that snug little apartment in town, just a bedroom and living room and kitchenette and a place to keep Nanny. Mrs. Ames would paint the walls Wedgwood blue and there would be this bed and the Adam table and the Sheraton sofa and the Dresden clock and . . . The book fell from her hands and she was asleep.

It was almost three when she awoke with a start. "Yes?" she said.

"It's Kathy," her daughter whispered from the hall. "May I come in?"

"Yes, dear. What's the matter?"

“Well," Kathy began, "what did you think?" She curled up on the bed beside her mother.

"What did I
think,
dear?" Mrs. Ames said, patting Kathy's head. "Darling, don't put your shoes on the blanket cover. And those heels are much too high and . . . Heavens, darling, one of your slippers is sopping wet!"

"Mother don't
worry
about things like that! What did you think of Manning? Mother, he wants to
marry
me. He sort of hinted at it once or twice before, but tonight—at the club—he came right out and asked me. He said he wanted to have a talk with you."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Ames breathed.

"But, Mother, you
do
like him, don't you?"

"Like
him? I hardly know him. He's very good looking, Kathy—handsome really—and awfully, well, awfully worldly."

“Yes, he
is,
Mother. He's the most polished man I've ever met."

"And, and, Kathy, do you feel that
you
are polished enough to . . ."

"Mother!"

"Well, Kath, I must say that your behavior so far this weekend hasn't encouraged me to think that you're quite ready to tussle with life as it's lived in the fleshpots of the French Riviera. Although I've never troubled to keep up much with the International Set except through Uncle Ned."

"Now Mother, please don't start
that."

"Start what, darling?"

"Start treating me like a great big girl scout."

"Sometimes, Kathy, I wish you'd act a bit more like my great big girl scout—Daddy was so proud of all your merit badges—instead of carrying on like an outsized juvenile delinquent."

"There you go, the eternal parent! I suppose you'd like me to be some goody-goody little suburban frump. What you really want is a little slavey, always sweet and kind and thoughtful and at your beck and call. You'd like me to be . . . to be another Betty Cannon!"

"Well, Kath, you could do a
lot
worse. Betty Cannon is an
exceptionally
nice girl in spite of that horrid old father," Mrs. Ames carefully laid her book down over the general's note. "You've never been a little slavey and you've never been at my beck and call, but you
always
have been sweet and kind and thoughtful. In fact I suspect you still are—really."

"Oh, Mother, that sort of thing is all so
passé.
Manning says . . ."

"Kathy, at the risk of sounding like a book of maxims, I'd like to say that those more or less homely virtues aren't quite as old hat as, say, the performance you've been putting on lately. There are still a lot of Betty Cannons in this world and there's nothing so terribly wrong with being one. I was a Betty Cannon myself and I still am. Even Elly is a kind of disheveled Betty Cannon; a helter-skelter Betty Cannon. But the Manning Stones aren't always the best partners for the Betty Cannons . . ."

"But I . . .”

"After all, you've known one another for only a month or so. What do you really
know
about Manning Stone?"

"Here we go!" Kathy snapped. "Here it
comes.
All that snobbish drivel about Ameses and Pruitts and distinguished old families and young, slippery fortune-hunters!"

"Kathy!
Don't
put words in my mouth! I know some very nice Stones. Boston is full of them. And there was
Bishop
Manning. He's undoubtedly related—not that that would make the slightest difference to me. As for being a fortune-hunter—there's no longer any fortune to hunt
for.
I simply wonder if you know this man well enough to be certain that he's
right
for you."

"But, Mother, I
know
Manning is. I'm not like Paul."

"How odd, darling. I always thought you were."

"Oh, you know what I mean, poor Paul so blinded by that flashy Devine girl that he . . ."

"I don't know why you say that, Kathy. I thought she was very attractive and had lovely manners. I think your Mr. Stone is very attractive and has lovely manners, too."

"It's not the same thing at all. Really, I don't know how you can be so simple. You're a
woman!
Can't you see that Claire is just after Paul because he's—well because he's an Ames and a Pruitt and social and our name means . . ."

"Nothing snobbish about
you, is
there, Kath?"

"Well, that's how
you'd
put it!" Kathy snapped.

"How
I'd
put it? I haven't said
one word,
Kathy, and I do wish you'd stop this running free translation of what
you
think
I'm
thinking."

"I don't suppose you've noticed that she's wearing Paul's ring,"

"Yes, Kathy, your mother's eyes—except for needlework—are still fairly sharp. I noticed."

"Well . . ."

"It's an incredibly ugly ring. I remember when dear Papa had it. I suppose I'll have to go to the vault and get out something a little nicer for Paul. He certainly can't afford . . ."

"Mother! Are you so stupid that . . ."

"Lets try not to be
too
rude this evening, Kathy.”

"I'm sorry. But anyway, Claire
is
pretty obvious—at least to me. She's nothing but a greedy little opportunist with a slick paint job and a lot of stylish clothes, who sees a way to get ahead with Paul. And she's inveigled him into falling in love with her so that she can further her own ends and . . ."

"Whereas Manning Stone?"

"Whereas Manning Stone
loves
me and wants to
marry
me!" Kathy shouted.

"Not quite so loud please, dear. Then, as I see it, Kathy, you—of all my unexceptional children—are the one gifted with occult vision. Paul is wrong. Bryan and Elly don't even count. And you refuse to wait."

"But Mother, don't you see that I'm
tired
of waiting."

"I waited through a whole World War for your father."

"That's different. Daddy was worth waiting for."

"I thought so. Isn't Manning Stone?"

"Yes. Yes, he is. I've never met a man quite like Manning."

Tm sure of that."

"But, Mother, I'll be thirty my next birthday. I'm getting old . . "

"Old! At
thirty?'

"It's the beginning of being an old maid. Just like your Betty Cannon."

"Kathy! Betty Cannon is barely twenty-five, and if it weren't for that wretched father of hers, she'd be . . ."

"Mother, the point is this: I want my chance for happiness, too. I don't want to go through life as everybody's good old pal. I want to marry a man I love and one who loves me. I want to settle down and have babies—just as you did. But you won't
listen
to me! You make fun of me . . ."

"Make fun of you, Kathy?"

Kathy got off the bed, her eyes blazing. "You treat me like a baby. My happiness means nothing to you. You won't talk seriously to me and you'll refuse to talk to Manning. You're so unreasonable, so suspicious. As far as you're concerned I can just go on being . . ."

"Kath-er-ine Ames!
What
have I to thank for this frontal attack? I sit here in the small hours reading this un-nat-u-ral book, wishing I could go to sleep when you come in and carry on like Ophelia I've said none of these things.
You're
saying them, darling. I simply introduced the not-very-astonishing statement that three weeks do not constitute a lifetime acquaintance and . . ."

"And you said that I was just a little Elsie Dinsmore about to be seduced by a . . ."

"The word 'seduce' never crossed my lips. I should certainly hope that you could take better care of yourself than
that.
Now
stop
forcing me into the role of heavy parent. If your Mr. Stone wishes to speak to me, of course he may. I should like to know him better before I give my blessing to your marriage, but even if I should forbid it and flounce out of the room—as you seem to think I shall—what possible difference could it make? As you point out, Kathy, you're very nearly thirty. You can do exactly as you please. Only, darling, I do want you to be happy. I want you to be
sure,
I don't want you to make a mistake."

"I'm not making a mistake, Mother. Really I'm not."

"Good! Now go to bed, darling. It's late and you'll be up ‘til all hours tomorrow night. You have terrible circles under your eyes anyhow."

"All right, Mother," Kathy said, kissing Mrs. Ames. "And I'm sorry I was so nasty. It's just that I've been terribly worked up and I want you to like Manning—to know him as I do."

"I'm sure I will, darling. I like men, anyhow—
most
of them. And Kathy?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Please try not to drink so much tomorrow."

"Oh, Mother!" Kathy snapped and stomped out of the room.

With a sigh, Mrs. Ames returned to
Les Faux-Monnayeurs,
determined to read to the bottom of the page. The type swam before
her eyes. She felt old and miserable. Her head began to nod. There was a tap at the door.

"Lily, dear girl, are you awake? Do let me in, dear girl, I have something too delicious to ask of you."

"Very well, Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames sighed. "Wait 'til I put on my bed sacque."

"Ah, don't bother for me, Lily child. I recall only too well your dear pink
derrière
when you were being bathed as a baby,"

"Well I'm not being bathed right now, Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames called. "Come in."

The door opened and Uncle Ned burst in, carefully unkempt He wore rose silk pajamas, patent-leather mules, a black ciré satin dressing gown with rose-quilted lapels and cuffs. In one hand he carried a pad of foolscap and a gold pencil; in the other, a long ebony cigarette holder.

"Ah, Lily dear, I have come to ask a few salient facts about your late father for my memoirs. You know how an old man's memory sometimes plays tricks on him and my publishers want me to recreate all the fabulous people of the fabulous times in which I have lived."

"Who are your publishers, Uncle Ned?"

“Yes, dear girl. Ah! I see you're reading the immortal Gide's immortal
Les Faux-Monnatjeurs.
How I envy you being able to read it for the first time. This
is
your first time, isn't it?"

"Yes, Uncle Ned."

"Ah, dear André—he'd be
just
my age if he were still alive. I recall once saying to him: 'André,' I said, 'I don't like your lips. They are straight, like the lips of those who have never lied. I will teach you the art of lying to the end that your lips become beautiful and voluptuous like the lips of an antique mask.'"

"I thought Oscar Wilde said that to him, Uncle Ned "

"Ah, poor, unfortunate Oscar. Perhaps he did, but he got it first from me. I was never stingy with a
bon mot
for those writer-fellows. They needed every penny, poor devils—Oscar most of all. How well I remember one particularly brilliant season in Algiers. I was staying aboard
La Sirene
with Billy and Dolly Mantis—poor Dolly, a drunkard's grave for her—when who should be rowed out in the dinghy but dear Oscar and Bosie Douglas. What an imp that Bosie was, but a beauty, Lily, a beauty! Well, Paul Cambon—later ambassador to the Court of St James—happened to . . ."