Blue Heaven (17 page)

"Actually, it wasn't a check," I said, beginning to feel that, while it would certainly be nice to have some scotch in the house again, Ballantine's would really have done just as well as Pinch and, similarly, that two liters might have sufficed to see me through the season. "She sent cash?" "Yes."

"Oh, dear, Philip. I hope you won't get angry with me. but I think it might be a good idea if you gave it to me."

"Claire!"

"You know how money burns a hole in your pocket. And if you have all that cash on hand the week before Christmas you'll be tempted to spend it. And you
do
see how enormously foolish that would be, don't you?" "Of course!"

"And you know it will be safe with me. Please. For your own sake." "I'd really rather not." A telling silence ensued. "Okay," sighed Claire, "how much is left?"

"Uh, I'm not sure," I said pulling my wallet from my coat pocket. I checked the contents and gasped with surprise. I had spent like some mesmerist's dupe under a posthypnotic suggestion to squander. Now, the trance broken, I could scarcely believe the extent of the damages.

"I've got sixty-two bucks."

"Please
tell me you're joking."

"Look, I can still pay her the money back! I'll be making plenty and if I put so much aside every week I can-"

"But you
won't.
You have never put money aside in your life! When you make it, you spend it! You'll be going to the theater and restaurants and buying expensive liquor and when it's time to quit you won't be able to without making that cobra woman feel you've played her for a fool so you'll have to go on working at the damn place for at least half a year or till someone puts a bullet in your head, which at the moment I'd be all for!"

"Well, Merry Christmas to you, too!"

"I am trying to save your life, you dolt, and the job would be much simpler with even minimal assistance from you."

"I can take perfectly good care of myself!"

Her reply to this was lengthy and masterful but limitations of space prevent its inclusion in this account. Suffice it to say that after I hung up the phone and glanced once more at the sofa, the six pounds of coffee, the gourmet mustards, oils and vinegars, the selection of cheeses, the side of Scotch salmon, the baguettes, the chocolates, the four cast albums, the champagne flutes, the Christmas cards, the four hardcover novels, the six plays, the two film star biographies, the carton of Merits, the colored Christmas lights, the three bottles of Pinch, the four bottles of champagne and the
Men of Provincetown
calendar all seemed to have lost their lustre.

I glumly refrigerated the foodstuffs as it occurred to me that even
half
of what I'd spent could have purchased a decent electric typewriter. This thought plunged me into an abyss of self-loathing where I remained till Gilbert called. He sounded in an even worse mood than me.

"Well, still no word from Mummy!"

"Well, she'll call tomorrow for sure. What about Aggie's money? You get yours?"

"Yes. You?"

"I've already spent it."

"Lucky you.. Guess what happened when I got mine."

"What?"

"Well, of course, Moira had to be the one to get to the mail first and she positively glued herself to me till I'd opened it. And what did she say? 'Oh, Gilley, how
perfect!
Now you'll be able to afford to fly to England and spend Christmas with Mummy and the duke!' "

"Oh, Jeee-sus!"

"Yes! Won't
that
be fun! Spending Christmas in some big drafty house with a frenzied harpy who's just received
my
letter informing her Moira's ripping her off and I'm a sniveling pansy!"

"You've got to get out of it."

"Thanks a lot, Sherlock!
How?
She went on and on about how she's sucking up to my side and I've hardly done a thing to win over hers. I didn't know
what
to say."

We pondered it in silence a moment, then, as I gazed distractedly
at my booty, a thought hit me.

"Do what I did."

"What?"

"Spend it. Blow the whole five hundred so you can't afford the plane fare. If I know Moira she'd sooner die than pay for you."

"What if she offers to? If I make too big a deal about not wanting to go then when the duchess lowers the boom she'll know I sent the
letter."

"Just spend the money. We'll deal with any offers as they come."

Fortunately the contingency did not arise. That night was a Freddy night for Moira and when she returned home, Gilbert sheepishly informed her that he'd gone out for a spot of Christmas shopping, got carried away and blew his plane fare. Moira immediately let it be known that she had no intention of subsidizing his extravagance with her hard-earned dollars. Rather than search for an alternate means of financing Gilbert's fare she devoted her mental energy to devising a suitable excuse as to why he had to stay home. She decided Job Responsibilities would do, and retired to pack. Her schedule called for her to depart Friday and return the following Saturday, the twenty-seventh.

The next day, Thursday, was fraught with tension. We knew the duchess
had
to have received our note and yet she had made no
response.

Why?

"Tell me," asked Claire that day, "does the duchess
know
Moira's going there tomorrow? I mean, it's not a surprise visit is it?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Well, that's it then. The duchess wants to confront her in person and she's afraid if she warns her what's coming Moira will keep her distance."

The day passed still without word from England, and the next morning Gilbert saw Moira off at the airport. He let Moira feel this was a conciliatory gesture after a month of tense relations, but he mainly went out of a desire to make sure she was truly leaving the country.

We knew that it was only a matter of hours now till all hell broke loose and we decided to take our minds off it by finishing up our Christmas shopping. Gilbert bought Tony a box of his favorite cigars and for Maddie he picked out a set of ceramic coconut cups for her beloved tropical-style drinks. Gilbert didn't buy for Moira. They'd agreed some weeks ago to exchange gifts after Christmas when they'd both, they'd hoped, have fat checks from their folks. Though, of course, the likelihood was now remote that Moira would find anything at all in her stocking, excepting, perhaps, a subpoena.

These chores completed, we went back to God's Country around six to sit amongst the stuffed kitties, sip scotch, watch movies, and wait for the Inevitable.

By midnight we'd seen
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Dinner at Eight
and something dreadful called
Xanadu.
Moira still hadn't called and we sat there amidst a rubble of takeout cartons, wondering what had happened. Gilbert begged me to stay the night so I'd be there if the call came early the next morning. I agreed to.

But the call didn't come that day.

Nor did it come the next.

By Sunday night we were half frenzied but managed to calm ourselves. Moira was being watched perhaps, or feared she was, and was waiting till she could get away and make the call from outside the house. Surely we'd hear from her Monday.

I went over in the morning to keep the vigil but by one o'clock (six duchess time) nothing had come and I had to leave for Milt Miller's to answer fan letters and mail out autographed photos of Deirdre Sauvage (who is, in fact, Milt's blowsy sister Dolores posing for the Vaseline-coated lens in the same gown she wore as Desiree in the Teaneck Mummer's production of
A Little Night Music).

I finished up around seven and rushed back to Gilbert's to find him sitting in the kitchen glumly finishing a pint of butter pecan. No call had come.

We passed the evening in a frenzy of speculation. We had anticipated every conceivable reaction both from Moira and her mother- every reaction, that is, except this baffling silence. Had the duchess even received the letter? Had she received it but not told Moira till inquiries could be made and the trust fraud confirmed? Had they simply killed each other? Should Gilbert call or would that tip her off?

We'd each planned to spend Christmas Eve with family and the day itself together with Claire since Maddie and Tony would be flying off to the Bahamas bright and early Christmas morning. However, agonizing suspense and holiday cheer are not compatible and as the morning of the twenty-fourth crept by with no word from Moira we were both so demoralized we'd have preferred to give the whole thing a miss. But that afternoon we trudged dutifully off to our respective loved ones. Glasses were raised, trees complimented, and presents exchanged. Gilbert was given a five-hundred-dollar gift certificate for Brooks Brothers so he could buy clothing for his new job. Maddie and Tony opened Gilbert's gifts and others from the duchess and Moira. The duchess had sent them a Waterford jam jar and half a dozen crocks of gooseberry preserves made by her cook from berries picked on the verdant grounds of Trebleclef. Moira gave them a framed picture of herself with a touching inscription. Meanwhile in New Rochelle Joyce and Dwight waxed rhapsodic about their gift, a tiny electric mincer, and I did likewise about my mezzanine seats for
Cats
which I had seen in previews and loathed.

The evening was not without its news value, however. The minute I got home Gilbert called.

"Hi, how'd you make out?"

"Don't ask! They gave me a fucking Brooks Brothers gift certificate!"

"Sounds generous to me."

"Sure, if you want to run around looking like some little yupster climbing the ladder at Citicorp! That's not why I called, though. Guess who gave us a ring about six?"

"Who?"

"The duchess!"

"My God! Did she spill the beans to Tony?"

"No! I don't think she ever got the letter! She was just chipper as anything, wishing us all Merry Christmas and thanking Mom and Tony for her gift and saying how she can't wait to meet us all."

"You talk to Moira?"

"No. I asked to but Mummy
(God
she sounds like Hermione Gin-gold!) said she'd gone out caroling with 'some nice young people.' I swear, Philly, she never got it. She couldn't have."

The next day the three of us gathered together at God's Country and did our best to put aside our tensions and enjoy the day. We partook heavily of spirits, even Claire who is usually the soul of moderation. I suppose we all felt that, under the circumstances, a mood of festivity would not be achieved without copious assistance. We began the celebration by helping Gilbert stuff a small turkey and then retired to the tree to exchange gifts. Claire, as threatened, gave me an answering machine and Gilbert gave me a first edition of a Wodehouse novel. I gave Gilbert two film-star biographies and Claire a tape I'd secretly compiled of various gifted friends singing her songs. Claire and Gilbert exchanged recent albums. Maddie and Tony had given Gilbert a bottle of Chivas for me and we wasted not a second in toasting my benefactors. We then watched
It's a Wonderful Life,
at the conclusion of which, awash in sentiment and Chivas, we staggered out to the kitchen to tackle the rest of the meal.

The food diminished our tipsiness somewhat and a good thing it was, too, because just as we were finishing dessert Moira called.

The minute the phone rang the three of us looked up from our plates and stiffened like those nervous gazelles on "Wild Kingdom."

"Put the speaker on!"

"Already is," said Gilbert, and picked up. "Hello!"

"Hi, honey! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you! Isn't it late over there?"

"Yes, it's one in the morning! How was your day?"

"Terrific! How was yours?"

"Fab! Ever so traditional."

"Great!" said Gilbert, shrugging his shoulders and raising his eyebrows. What was going on? Had nothing happened at all?

"Chestnuts roasting and all that?"

"Oh, the works! Do you have company?"

Claire pointed to herself and shook her head frantically.

"Just Philip!"

"Tell him Merry Christmas for me! You two make a nice dinner?"

"Yes! We stuffed a turkey and had lots of vegetables and some absolutely delish-"

"Did you do it, you son of bitch?"

"What!"

"Did you do it?"

"Did I do what?"

"Fess up you asshole! I know you did it! I have proof!"

Claire stood and, catching Gilbert's attention, began frantically miming confusion, shrugging her shoulders wildly while adopting a facial expression of daft, almost deranged, incomprehension. She looked like a charades player who'd been assigned
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
and was going for "whole idea."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" said Gilbert, getting the message. "What am I supposed to have done?"

Silence fell on the other end.

"Moira? What's the matter? What happened?" And then, in a concerned tone: "Are you all right?"