House Party (8 page)

"Little Soldier!" General Cannon called. "Front and center!”

"What
is
it now, Daddy?" Betty said, trudging wearily back to the dining room, where her father was polishing off four fingers of bourbon.

"Ain't I been asked to some sort of shindig at the beach club tonight?"

"Yes, Daddy, we
both
have," Betty said pointedly. "Mrs. Ames is
having a party of . . "

"Well, say now, that's mighty nice of her to give a party for
my
birthday. Damned handsome woman, Lily Ames. I kinda thought from the way she looked at me last year that maybe she didn't think I was such a bad fellah. Guess there's still some life in ole Hell-for-Leather Cannon yet. Dinner dance, eh? Well, I need a little relaxation—trip the light fantastic, eh? Nice of her to ask you, too, Little Soldier."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Oh. What I wanted to say was, be sure my tropical-worsted uniform is all pressed for this afternoon and then for tonight I'll wear my dress blue. Kinda give that little Ames woman a thrill. Something about a uniform."

"Yes, Daddy."

"And tell Timberline to have Truman ready for this afternoon. I'll make him do some tricks. That always tickles the guests."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Oh, and get out the liquor for the Hell-for-Leather cavalry punch. But don't you mix it. That takes a man's touch. And . . .”

The telephone rang in the hall and Betty raced to answer it, narrowly avoiding collision with the gaudy totem pole standing sentry duty at the door. "Hello . . . Oh, hello Mrs. Mountbank . . . Oh, I'm so glad you are. Daddy would be heartbroken if you missed his birthday party . . . Missionaries from Indo-China? How interesting. Do bring them along. The more the merrier!"

Life began to stir in the house on the old Pruitt Place. The second floor echoed faintly with the slap of Sturgis' palms on Uncle Ned's torso, an occasional moan of delight and a more frequent garrulous protest. "Dear God, Sturgis, stop that this instant! You're supposed to soothe me, not
pummel
me to death. Oh! You're
breaking
my back!"

Here and there along the hall could be heard the early-morning rumblings of those not quite awake.

John Burgess awoke early. He always did and rather wished he didn't. He stretched back and surveyed the room with satisfaction. It was the sort of room he had grown up in down south. The furniture was old but not antique; substantial but not stylish. It was one of those massive masculine rooms exuding an air of solidity and tradition.

Yes, Burgess was pleased. He liked the room, he liked the house, he liked the people—most of them. Felicia grew more wonderful,
more beautiful
every hour. He liked her mother, too. Mrs. Clendenning was one of those silly flighty old coquettes like Aunt Katie down home. John had dined well, played three successful rubbers of bridge with his prospective mother-in-law and come to—well—a sort of understanding with Felicia in the rose garden last night.

Hopping nimbly from the high bed, he shuffled his feet across the carpet until they found his sandals. He pulled his sleep coat clown in front, then in back. Through the window the Sound glittered blue and inviting. Now he opened the bathroom door and began the male's morning ritual. He was a neat, compact man, as tidy in his habits as in his construction. He enjoyed showering and soaping his coarse, lightish hair. He liked to shave and see the tough red stubble disappear in neat, straight furrows. He put real emotion into brushing his teeth and the daily assault of clean socks and fresh linen delighted him.

Padding back into the bedroom, he stood in front of the window and took a deep breath to see what the Long Island air smelled like. He was only faintly disappointed to discover that it didn't smell like anything at all. Below him Felicia's children were playing quietly, for once, on the lawn, while Fraulein smoked a clandestine cigarette beneath a willow tree. Mrs. Ames was involved with a cup of coffee and the New York
Herald Tribune
on the terrace. John whistled a bob white call down to the children. They looked up and waved ecstatically calling "Unca John, Unca John!” Mrs. Ames looked up and looked away immediately. Then realizing that he hadn't a stitch on, John jumped aside, dressed quickly, rolled his bathing trunks into a towel and tiptoed down to breakfast.

"Kathy! Kathy, wake
up!
Kathy, it's me—Elly." Kathy's eyes flew open and she saw her younger sister standing over her still in her pajamas.

“Wh . . . ?”

"Golly, Kathy," Elly said, I never heard such screaming. I thought you were being murdered in here."

"Did . . . did I
say
anything, Elly?"

"Nearly yelled the house down, that's all. Must have been something that didn't agree with you. I didn't much like the look of that fish last night."

"Yes, I guess that's what it must have been. But I didn't
say
anything, did I, Elly? I wasn't talking in my sleep or anything?"

"Search me," Elly said. She ran her hands through her tousled hair, plucked a crumpled cigarette out of the crumpled package in her pajama pocket and pranced over to the window. "Gosh it's a nice day. Oooof! These things taste nasty before you brush your teeth. What a swish room you have, Kath. It looks like the model house at Sloane's or something." Elly blew a great cloud of smoke into the room and scratched her bottom tentatively. "Well, now that I'm up guess I'll stay up. Maybe I'll take a dip or horse around with Bryan. Or maybe Joe'll feel like doing some work. And don't you go back to sleep again, either. I couldn't stand another of those air-raid warnings."

"No, I'll get up, Elly. By the way, who is this Joe?"

"Oh, nobody. Just a guy. He's written a book."

"I see."

"And who's this Manning Stone?"

"Just . . . just a man I know."

"I see. Well, so long Kathy. Be seeing you." Elly marched into the bathroom connecting their bedrooms and closed the door.

Kathy bounded out of her bed and smoothed down her sheer white nightgown. This night dress was white trimmed with blue ribbons. It looked very bridal. All of Kathy's lingerie was either white, to make her feel like a bride, or black, to make her feel like a floozy. She would never understand what perverse whim would allow her sister Elly to traipse around in a pair of patched old pajamas—and not even
women's
pajamas, but a pair which Paul had outgrown at prep school years ago.

Stepping into her slippers, Kathy went to her dressing table and sat down in front of it. She hated the sight of herself this way—her hair all tight to her head like that tough old gym teacher at school. But it was an ordeal she made herself undergo every morning. It was a good idea, she told herself, for any woman to see just what she was like without soft lights and make-up. Bending forward she looked for little lines around her eyes. There were none. Now she bent closer and scrutinized her pores. They were blameless. She felt under her chin for flabbiness. Thank God,
that
was all right.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Kathy began taking down her hair. She removed each pin carefully and laid it neatly in a tray on her dressing table. Her hair hung in two dozen wriggling snakes around her head. Kathy winced at her reflection and began rapidly combing out the curls. There now, her hair fell softly around her head and she was thankful, again, that she hadn't let Mr. Amadeo talk her into one of those short haircuts. She put on some lipstick and felt a lot better.

Now she tried to remember what that terrible dream had been, but she couldn't. Elly's chatter had driven it from her mind. All she could remember was running. Running someplace with Paul. Manning was in the dream. So were Felicia and Claire. "Funny things, dreams," she said aloud. "The one good thing about Freud is that he's got everybody scared to bore other people with their dreams."

She could hear the sound of water thundering into the tub in the bathroom. "Elly," she called. "Are you taking a bath?"

"What?"

"I said are you
taking
a
bath?”

"Yes. I feel mouldy."

"Well, don’t be all day."

"Why? Do you want to do something?"

"Just brush my teeth."

"Well, do it now—while the tub's filling. I'll leave."

"Never mind. I can wait. Just don't stay in there forever."

Kathy wriggled out of her nightgown and stood naked in front of the mirror. She pulled her stomach in a little and said "No more mayonnaise" aloud. But she was, on the whole, rather pleased. For such a tall girl she was well proportioned. She might have wished, perhaps, for a bit more bosom—like Cousin Felicia. But hadn't Mother said that Felicia's front would be a
sight
in another twenty years? Well, Kathy told herself, mine's a lot bigger than Elly's and it's all real, which is more than that Claire Devine can say.

Ashamed of her wantonness, she wrapped her robe around herself and studied the room. I really ought to change the slipcovers and spreads and curtains," she announced. It was just possible that Manning might find reason to see this room. "But on the other hand . . ." Kathy was least fond of this decorating experiment with orange. The color was hot. It crowded in on her. She really liked her room best when it was a soft pink or blue or yellow. Paul said it looked like a Lautrec bordello. But orange was smart. All of her most fashionable friends said
orange was smart. And Manning liked things to be smart.

Methodically, Kathy set about putting the room in order, plumping pillows, adjusting the folds of curtains, moving this object forward, this one back. In a moment the place looked—as Elly had said it looked—like a model room.

Really, this is too silly, she thought. Why do I act like such an ass? Manning loves me. I know he does. If he didn't, why would he take me out to the summer house last night and tell me frankly—so wonderfully honestly—that he had almost nothing? Why would he even bother? You only get frank with a person when you're serious, don't you? He could find a lot of girls who are really rich—like
Felicia
—if he wanted to. He wouldn't waste time telling me about the play he was writing or ask me how I felt about the future if he didn't have something definite in mind, would he?

"No," Kathy said aloud. "This is going to be all right." She opened the closet door again and snatched out her new bathing suit. It was a creation—that was the only word for it—which she had bought at a totally strange and fabulously expensive shop near her office. The bathing suit was made of saffron chiffon strewn with tiny rhinestones. With it came a matching skirt, a stole, and an immense coolie hat. Kathy had never seen anything like it in her whole life! Even Felicia would sit up and take notice.

And the shoes! No more flat heels with a man as tall as Manning! These were thick blocks of ebony, held to the foot by a single jet-black strap.

"I'll wear it!" Kathy said aloud. "I'll put it on right now." She dropped her robe and began wriggling into the suit. There was silence from the adjoining bathroom. That was odd. Elly was given to singing operatic arias in the tub, inserting the names of Italian dishes for whatever lyrics she didn't know. "Elly!" Kathy shouted. "Elly Ames, are you in there?"

A bellow came from the bathroom:

Che gellida manina
Antipasto, zabaglione,
Shrimp marinara,
Lasagna, spaghettini.

"You've been in there long enough! Get out of that tub right now. I'm coming in." Kathy wound the stole around her shoulders and clumped into the bathroom in her new shoes.

"My God " Elly screamed. "It's Theda Bara!”

The bathroom door slammed indignantly after Elly and she pattered across the rug of her bedroom leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. She gave her hair a final brisk toweling and tossed the damp towel into her unmade bed. She scratched her stomach luxuriously and burrowed into her wicker hamper for some clean underwear. She emerged with a pair of blue rayon Suspants with a hole in the seat and a white brassiere, which she anchored on precariously by its one remaining hook.

"Men!" She said aloud and crammed her feet into a pair of dirty tennis shoes.

Elly was glad she'd never taken the trouble to try to understand men before because it was certainly a hopeless and thankless job. Just take that insufferable Joe Sullivan, for example. There was a strange one—
really
odd. When I
think,
Elly fumed, that I was even going to look around for some minty little apartment uptown and start having my hair done every week, I could kick myself. If I've ever seen a real, genuine louse, Joe Sullivan is it.

Yes, he'd been perfectly impossible. He'd drunk much too much wine at dinner last night and said nastily what a presumptuous little Alsatian upstart the vintage was, when everybody knew it was only old Christian Brothers. He made up a table of bridge with Elly and Bryan and Felicia and insisted on playing with Felicia. Bridge bored Elly to distraction and Joe had been a vicious opponent.

The
idea!
Forcing me up to a little slam and then doubling. Eighteen hundred we went down and all he did was laugh!

Elly had been downright wounded. Only the example of Bryan's good manners kept her from tipping over the table. And then Cousin Felicia reaching her long, red-clawed hand across the table to shake with him. That wasn't really so bad, but did Joe have to kiss the palm of her hand and practically make a pass at her?

"And then when the whole lousy evening was over," Elly said aloud, "and I asked him if he'd like to take a little walk,
then
that big heel yawns and stretches and says ‘Oh, no thanks, I think I'll turn in.' Elly Ames, prize chump. Well, it serves me damned good and right, Elly thought, yanking the comb through her hair. Here he just wants to see that his book gets published and I go thinking it's a big romance. All authors are ego-whatever-it-is, anyway. 'Never mix business with pleasure.' Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I suppose he doesn't think I'm
intellectual
enough for him. Well, I'm not, and what's more I don't
intend
to be. He can just go and let old Felicia tell him about having tea with Somerset Maugham. He can take his old book and . . . Maybe I'll call up Pinky or somebody like that. As for that Joe Sullivan . . ."