House Party (21 page)

"But, Lily," her sister pouted, “I want to
talk
to you. I've been meaning to tell you how very fascinating I find Kathy's new beau. I can't think where she ever met such a man."

"Neither can I, but if you find out, I wish you'd . . ."

"And Paul's little friend, so chic and . . ."

"Violet Clendenning, it's almost four and . . ."

"But, Lily, I haven't told you the
other
romantic thing. Oh, it's just silly and not nearly as important as Felicia's news, but I think General Cannon
likes
me."

"I'm sure he does, Violet. Now you must be awfully tired and . . "

"He danced with me again and again and again!"

"I know he did, Violet. I was terribly relieved."

"And he told me about how lonely he'd been not having an understanding woman around the house and being both father and mother to that rude girl. You know, Lily, there's something
about
those big, masterful military men that I just adore. And I said . . . Lily, did you hear a noise?"

"Only you, Violet."

"No. Listen. There it goes again."

From the garden below came the first bar of the "Leavenworth Cavalry Gallop."

"Lily, that's a nightingale! How incredibly romantic!"

"Nonsense, Violet," Mrs. Ames said nervously, "we don't
have
nightingales out here."

"Well then what sort of bird
is
it?" Violet said truculently. The whistle came again, louder.

"I'm sorry, but I don't happen to have my bird log at hand." Again the whistle. Mrs. Ames glanced at her clock and saw that it was four. Then she saw the note from General Cannon. No, she thought, no, I couldn't do it. It would be too mean!

"Somehow, Lily," Violet said, moving toward the window, "I think it's a Spanish troubadour come to serenade his love. Isn't that silly of me? When it's undoubtedly just some old bird out there . . ."

"You're right, Violet," Mrs. Ames said. "You're right both times. I mean it
is
a troubadour, and he has asked me to be your confidante. Here," she said, thrusting the note at Violet, "General Cannon asked me to give you
this."

Violet squinted at the slip of paper. "But, Lily, I don't understand. It says: 'One case light rum, half case dark rum, two bottles apricot brandy, one case bourbon . . .'"

"The
other
side, Violet! Turn it over!"

"Good heavens. It says: 'Lovely Lady, I’ll be waiting for you in the rose garden (in mufti)' . . . in
where?"

"That means without his uniform on."

"Oh, Lily, he wouldn't
dare!"

"In
street
clothes, stupid! Violet, I didn't mean to give it to you at all, but now that I know how much
you
care for him . . . Go, Violet, I beg you.
Go!"

"Oh, Lily. Have you ever heard of anything so thrilling! But I
can't.
I'm not dressed."

"Here," Mrs. Ames was out of her bed and across the room. "Take my cape. It'll cover you."

"Your
chinchilla!”

"Yes, capes are much more romantic. As the French say: 'Chinchilla
pour l’amour’"

"Do they? Oh, but the rest of me. I'm in my curlers and chin-strap."

"Here," Lily said, flinging her black lace scarf over her sister's head. "This is terribly romantic too, and besides it's so dark out there he won't be able to see who . . ." The whistle sounded again.

"But what'll I
say
to him?"

"Don't say
anything,
Violet. Let him do the talking."

"But, Lily, what if anyone found out? I could get into trouble."

"At
your
age! Don't be such a fool. Now go to your lover, Violet. Go! Go!"

"Lily, this is the most romantic thing that ever . . ."

"Hurry, Violet—and be quiet. Oh, and if you should see anyone lurking out in the hall . . ."

"Yes, Lily?" Violet breathed. "What should I do then?"

"Would you please just say that the confessional is closed for the night."

"What,
Lily?"

"Nothing, dear. Go!"

Mrs. Ames fell onto her bed, too exhausted to feel the guilt, the remorse, the amusement, the hysteria she knew she should be feeling. The whistle sounded, plaintively, just once more, then she heard the click of a French door beneath her. She switched off her lamp and sought her pillow. As her eyes closed she could see the first faint gray light of day over the sound. "At last," she breathed.

There was a scratching at the door. It opened and there stood Nanny in her Navajo bathrobe and kid crimpers. "It's only me, Mrs. Ames. I wouldn't close an eye until I was sure everybody was tucked in."

"I'm not certain that everybody is, yet. I've been trying . . "

"It's almost what it was when they were children, like. Only the darlings is all grown bigger'n old Nanny. An I seen your light on, Mrs. Ames, an' I said to myself, 'There now is poor Mrs. Ames troubled with the
insomnia
and . . ."

"I've never been troubled with insomnia in my life, Nanny. Far from it."

"Oh, but Mrs. Ames, this is the worst! I put on my wrapper and went down to the kitchen and lo and behold, what do you think I found?"

"Perhaps you'd better not tell me."

"It was this note from them dirty black pair as has been workin’—workin'
they
called it—for you. I said to myself, I said: The insolence of it! Don't them people know their place? And then when I tried to tellyphone to the station to see if they was tryin' to catch the milk train, for I seen them—
saw
them—with my own eyes at a half-past twelve, the tellyphone was as dead as . . ."

"What are you talking about?" Mrs. Ames said, sitting up.

"This, Mrs. Ames. This note. Reg’lar French leave, that's what they've done and left this note behind 'em."

"Give me that note!" Mrs. Ames said, snatching the paper from Nanny's hand.

The note made everything quite clear. It read:

Madam—

It was not our understanding, when we consented to enter your employ at the beginning of the season, that you were running a hotel. We had not expected twelve at table nor had we planned to associate with reactionaries of the servant class.

For the above reasons, we tender our joint resignation as of now.

You may forward our check to the Interracial Progressive League in New York. As for references, you needn't waste your time writing a bad one because we are going into business for ourselves and will not need any.

Yours in advanced thought,

It was signed by Lutie and Jonas.

"And when I tried to call the station Mrs. Ames, to see if I could stop them, I couldn't get the operator. There wasn't no sound at all. Not even a click. I was most puzzled and . . ."

Cautiously Mrs. Ames picked up the extension next to her bed and listened. There was nothing. "That Violet!" she said. "That Violet!"

"But don't you worry none, ma'am," Nanny said. "You've still got me."

"Yes, Nanny," Mrs. Ames said wearily. "I've still got you."

"And Mrs. Ames, I've brought you up a nice glass of warm milk so you could get to sleep."

It was a grand and glorious Fourth, there was no question about it. Even at six o'clock, when Paul struggled out of his narrow bed, one could tell that it was going to be a scorcher. The trees were still and the Sound was as smooth as syrup. Paul's tattered pajamas clung to him and he could see the damp impression his body had made on the linen sheet.

He knew it was crazy to be getting up at six o'clock on a Sunday morning. Everyone had been up late, Paul latest of all, and even as he had been trying to get to sleep, some damned bird had been tweeting away out in the garden. But just lying there in the dark, his plans had begun to crystallize in the odd intuitive way that was Paul's. He saw now the perfect house for the average family. It was the house that would get them out of the dark city apartments and grim, crowded suburbs. It was the house for the factory worker and the assistant office manager and the vet who was hoping to make a go of his own TV and Electrical Appliance shop. It was a house that could be built on a full acre of land for five thousand dollars and be sold at six, a fair profit. And there wasn't anything on the market to touch it. A smashing house, too: clean, efficient, smart and no nonsense about it. It would be L-shaped with its utilities in a central core. It was a house that would grow: add a baby, add a room. It could be done so
easily.

Thrusting his lean brown legs into a faded pair of blue jeans, Paul looked once again at the framed drawing of his prize-winning house. At once he saw what was wrong with it and began to appreciate what was right with it. He stepped over to his drawing table and tore off the whole new plan free-handed. It was too good, too simple to be true. Why nobody had ever thought of it before was beyond Paul. But there it was, a piece of pure, clean design—none of that split-level, ranch-type, Cape Cod-type crap you saw standing cheek by jowl in the get-rich-quick subdivisions. No phony trimmings like shutters that didn't work, just an honest job of building to sell at an honest price.

Paul couldn't contain himself for a minute longer. He'd have to share this with Claire right away. If anyone could appreciate good design it was Claire. Paul pulled a clean but ancient T-shirt over his head. It was on backwards so that he couldn't see the dim legend "Hotchkiss School," which had resisted a thousand launderings in the last ten years. Unconscious of the fact that his navel was showing, he pattered barefoot down the hall to awaken Claire.

Miss Devine was accustomed to rising early. It took time for a girl to get herself Right, to make a cup of Nescafé, to wrestle with the Hide-a-Bed and convert last night's bedroom into this evening's smart salon. And even now that she could come and go as she pleased at the shop, she made it a practice to get there first, to see that her department was looking its best, to clock her staff, to make sure that their seams were straight, and that no flake of dandruff rested on their black jersey shoulders. It was all part of getting ahead.

But Claire considered Sunday as
her
day rather than the Lord's. It was a day to sleep until noon at least, to have two cups of Nescafé, to soak all twenty cuticles, to give her face a holiday from make-up, and to read the ads in
The New York Times.
Yes, Sunday was
hers.

She opened her eyes beneath her black sleep mask and closed them again. This was it. This was the H-bomb falling. She'd never paid much attention to topics so alien to
haute couture.
Now she was glad she hadn't. The noise was just horrible and she wished
she'd invested in some of those earplugs for the Armageddon.

"Claire!" Paul whispered hoarsely through the door, "Claire, wake up!"

Claire sat up in bed and snatched off her mask. Blinking like a stylish young owl, she focused on the shepherdess clock across the room. Six-fifteen! Six-fifteen, what a
nerve
Paul had! She felt the rage seething up her spinal column and into her face.
Six-fifteen!
She hadn't been so mad since—not since she discovered that the mink trimming on that little black suit was really
muskrat.
"Yesssss, Paul?" she said icily.

"Claire, get up! I've got to see you about something. We're going out,
right away.
It's
very
important."

What
could be important at this hour? No, hang on, she cautioned herself. Hold your temper.
Reason
with him. "Paul, darling," she said, in the voice she reserved for difficult customers. "It's
so
early. Couldn't we . . ."

"Claire, this is
really
urgent. It's about our future!"

Claire knew exactly what her future was going to be and it wouldn't be a whit different at this hour than it would be at, say, half-past one.

"P-paul, dear, I . . ."

"Claire, let me in, I've got to talk to you."

"No!" No male had ever seen Claire without her make-up and she was conscious of a slight sallowness. Then she said more temperately: "Darling, I'm not dressed!"

"Well, that doesn't matter. We're getting married aren't we?"

Claire could concede a minor defeat when it was absolutely essential. Now was one of those times. She forced her mouth into a smile as she staggered out of bed and called, rather too cheerily: "Wh-where had you planned to go, dearest? I’ll have to know what to wear."

"Just put on some old Levis, we're only going through the woods and then to the gatehouse."

"What?"
Claire had once owned a pair of blue jeans adapted from a design by Schiaparelli. They had been made of commercially faded denim with a rhinestone watch embroidered at the fob pocket, and a plum velvet patch on the seat. And they were so tight she almost had to powder her thighs to get them on. But she considered them a little too cute and the minute something like them had hit Klein's at two-ninety-five she'd sold them to her cleaning woman.

Now she dug blindly around in her wardrobe and produced a huge quilted skirt and a cashmere sweater appliquéd with signs of the zodiac. In a cold fury she began applying her make-up—no mean task—while Paul kept goading her through the door. Once he gave her such a fright that her mascara brush slipped and the stinging in her eye was awful. "All
right!"
she screamed. Then she gained control again and said, "I’ll be right out, darling."

Claire had no idea what sort of expedition Paul was about to take her on, but she felt that whatever it was, she wasn't Right for it. Her eyes looked a little puffy and she'd hurried so in applying her lipstick that it hadn't gone on evenly and her mouth looked as though she were sneering slightly. When she caught sight of Paul, she was certain she wasn't Right. He kissed her hastily, caught her wrist and raced down the stairs, with Claire following precariously, the towering heels of her Pakistan sandals clattering loudly.

"Hurry," Paul whispered.

"Paul," Claire said, "I can't do
anything
until I've had some coffee! I-I'm still half asleep."

"All right," Paul said, "but hurry." He dragged her out to the kitchen.

The kitchen was as quiet as the Valley of Death and about as welcome a sight to Claire.

"Doesn't look like anyone's up, yet," Paul said.

"Can you wonder?" she asked stonily.

"Well, here we are. You know how to make coffee."

Claire didn't. She knew how to put a spoonful of powder into hot water. That was her breakfast. She also knew how to pour Nil-Cal-O-Ree Dressing over a quarter of a head of lettuce. That was her dinner. As an alternative treat, she could add boiling water to a bouillon cube, which she drank along with her Ry-Krisp. Since there was always somebody in the garment industry to take Claire out to meals, she managed very nicely on one cup, one saucer, one pan, one spoon, one fork and one burner.

Now she looked aghast at the stove in the Ames kitchen—twelve burners, a cooking well, two griddles, three ovens, two broilers and plate warmer as big as her own kitchenette glowered angrily at her from beneath a vast copper hood. From the hood hung a jungle of spoons and spatulas, ladles and whisks. There were vicious-looking thermometers which Claire assumed were used to take the temperatures of various cuts of meat. And then there were utensils which Claire could only envisage as instruments of torture.

"Well?" Paul said impatiently.

"Wh-where's the . . . coffee . . . pot?" Claire asked hesitantly. At least she hadn't given away the secret of her own cuisine.

"Right there in front of you," Paul said.

Claire gazed spellbound at a towering granite vessel which she had felt was either an integral part of the stove or a burial urn. "Is-isn't that awfully . . .
large?"
she asked.

"You said you wanted
coffee,"
Paul said, tapping his bare heel on the tile floor.

Half an hour later, Claire sat down at the kitchen table. She was prepared either to burst into tears or fly into a rage and she ardently hoped that she could manage to do neither. She had caused a minor explosion with one of the burners. She had burned her wrist quite painfully. She had spilled dry coffee over the floor and it crunched eerily beneath her feet. The pot had boiled over once, extinguishing the flame and causing a nasty smell of gas. She had got entangled in one of the wire whisks hanging from the hood and now her hair was all Wrong. At least a cup of coffee would help. She tilted the huge pot over two Dresden cups. A thin trickle of pale-tan water came out. Paul took a taste and put his cup down with a grimace. So did Claire. "Well," she snapped, "how in the hell was I supposed to know what to do with that
jardiniere?
For God's sake, if you only had a . . .
"

"Honey!" Paul said, shocked.

Claire stopped short. "Darling, I'm sorry," she said quickly. "It's just that I'm not quite human before I've had coffee. Actually, this is the way
I
like it." She had known of a very successful model who had existed almost entirely on hot water and cotton capsules, which expanded in her stomach to make her feel full, until she died of pernicious anemia. Claire wished now for a wad of cotton.

"No more, honey?" Paul asked solicitously as Claire put down her cup.

"No more . . . thanks," Claire added coldly.

"Fine, then we're off.”

"Off where?"

"Just a walk, honey. It's only a couple of miles."

Claire was fond of walking. She walked to work every morning, six blocks from the one room she had on an airshaft in a secondary Park Avenue building to the shop. She did this largely because she liked to see what the competing shops had to offer and also because every penny saved on carfare could be put onto her back. But a two-mile hike through the sticks was something else again! Still, she contained the worst of her temper.

Another half hour passed before Claire trusted herself to speak one word aloud. "How much
farther?"
she panted. The idea of plain old blue jeans with no trimmings seemed far more appealing to her now. Tramping through the woods had been a gruesome experience. She had snagged her skirt on a bramble. A heel had come off one of her sandals. One of her Polynesian earrings had fallen to earth she knew not where. Beneath her cashmere sweater, her quilted skirt and her crinolines she was as hot as a marathon runner and she cringed as she felt perspiration trickle down her sharp spine.

Not only was she angry, she was frightened. Every so often she could hear a cry and a flapping of wings. They were only gulls, Paul had told her, foraging in the woods, but to Claire they sounded like giant condors. She wondered if one really
could
carry a human being away. A branch struck her in the face and she hoped that a condor
would
come and take her to any place but this. She was terrified, too, whenever soft, damp things brushed against her bare legs. She imagined that these were slimy reptiles, when, in truth, they were merely fronds of poison ivy.

"It's only a few hundred yards to the gatehouse, Claire. That's where we're going."

"The
gatehouse?"
Claire exploded. Then more carefully she said.
"Then why didn't we take the road?”

"Because the road twists and turns so much that it's nearly three miles. The bridle path is much shorter."

"Then why aren't we on the bridle path?" Claire asked between clenched teeth.

"We are! It's just that none of us rides any more. We haven't kept any horses for almost ten years. It's become a little overgrown."

"A
little
over . . ."

"Here we are," Paul called cheerily. "Shouldn't I carry you over the threshold or something like that?"

"The threshold of what?" Claire asked stonily.

"Why, of the gatehouse, naturally. This is it. This is home!"

"What on
earth
are you talking about, Paul Ames?" Claire asked testily. She felt more dead than alive and she was in no mood for fun and games just now. The gatehouse had looked rather impressive from the road, as viewed from a speeding car, but at close range it was a distressing sight. Made of weathered shingle, like the main house, it had fallen quickly into disrepair during its uninhabited years. The shrubbery around it was densely overgrown and the whole structure seemed to list to the north.

"This is where the caretaker used to live, when we had one," Paul said offhandedly. "And it's where
we're
going to live. As a matter of fact, it's a pretty good building, and a couple of weeks' work and some soap and water and paint will . . ."

"This is where we're going to
what?”
Claire gasped.

"Listen,
honey,
this whole thing came to me last night. I've even talked to Mother about it. I'm quitting Rabadab right away. We're going to live out here. I'm going to get hold of some land and do what I've always wanted to do. Look here," he said, pulling a crumpled tissue from his pocket. "This is the plan of the house I'm going to put up. It's . . ."

"Are you insane?" Claire asked quietly.