Chocolates for Breakfast (19 page)

Courtney didn't answer, not wanting to provoke him. Charles broke the silence as the waiter came over.

“Count, what can I buy you?” he asked quietly.

“Double gin on the rocks. I'll pay you back some day, C. Cunningham. You're a good man after all, God damn.” Solemnly, Count shook Charles's hand. He took a chair from the other table and sat down next to Janet.

“Hey, Jan darling,” he grinned. “Let's make it, hmm? Really, baby, I know you're great in the hay—”

Pete shoved out his chair and stood up.

“Count, for Chrissake, shut up. We've had about enough of you.”

“What's the matter?” Count said, still grinning coolly. “You're getting real possessive. You're not the only guy who's slept with her.”

As Pete lunged for the Count, who was still composed, waiting for Pete, expecting his anger and enjoying it, Charles got up and held Pete's arms to his sides. A headwaiter looked up, from across the room, watching them anxiously.

“For Chrissake, Charlie,” Pete said, “will you let go of me? Let me shut this bastard up. Count, I'm not sleeping with her and you know it. You're just sore as hell because you're always so bombed you never make it, that's all. You sonuvabitch, Charles, let go of me.”

Count's expression still had not changed. With his slim, graceful hand, still smiling, he slapped Pete twice.

“I don't take that crap from anybody,” he smiled.

“Look, Count,” Charles said, looking steadily at the head-waiter who was coming toward them, “will you get the hell out of here before they throw you out? You want to get thrown out of here, too, you want to get thrown out of every bar in town?”

“Yes,” he said. “That's it, that's just it. I want to get thrown out of every bar in town, I want to get thrown out of every lousy corner of the goddam world. That's just what I want.”

As he felt Pete's body relax, Charles let go of him. Janet stood up. The headwaiter, reassured, turned to a group that was coming in the door.

“How many abortions are you going to have,” Count said to her, “before you finally get married, darling?”

Pete put his arm around Janet's shoulder.

“Good night, Charlie. Court,” he said steadily.

Janet smiled at Courtney. “I'll be in later, sweetie. Just leave the door open.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” Pete added as they turned to leave.

Charles sat down. There was a silence. The waiter came over.

“Here's your drink, Count,” Charles said. “Courtney?” He held out her chair for her. Charles paid the check and they left the Count staring moodily at his double gin on the rocks.

“I wish we had gone out with Janet,” Courtney said as they went out. “She was really upset; usually a drunken incident like that doesn't bother her.”

Charles looked up the street into the night, and turned back to Courtney.

“Maybe you don't know her so well, sweetie,” he said. “Where they're going, we would hardly be welcome.”

Courtney looked sharply at him.

“We were at a party once,” he said. “The second time I'd seen her. I don't know whose date she was,” he said musingly, not looking at her, “but if she had a date he had either passed out or faked out. Somehow we were maneuvred into one of the bedrooms. She sat on the end of the bed and put her hand on the bed, and looked up at me.”

“Don't say things like that, Charles,” Courtney said angrily.

“It's very true, darling. I didn't, though,” he continued. “I took here out of there, and took her to dinner. I talked to her for a long time, trying to shape her up, straighten her out.” He looked at Courtney. “It didn't do any good, of course. I suppose you've tried.” She nodded. “Ever since then she has disliked me,” he said. “Straight-arrow.” He smiled. “It's like the Count, who used to be a hell of a good guy. I've known him for many years. He started drinking at thirteen, just like Janet. The liquor was in the house, and like a kid wearing her mother's high heels, they emulated the parents. Count's father was a good man, though, a fine lawyer. Died when Count was ten, and Count was man of the house to his mother. I don't know how it begins.”

He turned to her and smiled, folding her arm in his.

“But it's not up to us to solve the problems of the Lost Generation. We've lost so many of them,” he smiled. “What's one more here and there. Let's go someplace decent and conservative for a drink. Like Twenty One. Speakeasy to the last generation, symbol of convention to us.”

“You're getting awfully philosophical,” Courtney smiled.

“I know. That's why it's time for a drink.”

“No,” said Courtney wearily, “I really don't want a drink. You know what I want? I want to go home. I know that's odd, and I know it's only ten o'clock. But all I want to do is go home, for some unfathomable reason.”

“Not so unfathomable,” he smiled. “All right, little girl, I'll take you home—on one condition.”

“What's that—that I give you a drink at home?”

“No, I understand the way you feel—even if you don't. My condition is that you let me take you to dinner and the theatre tomorrow night.”

“All right,” Courtney said without enthusiasm.

“I think I
had
better get you home,” Charles said, and hailed a taxi. “And tomorrow night I promise,” he said as he opened the door for her, “we will steer clear of the Lost Generation.”

Chapter 21

T
he steady August rain was incessant and depressing, even though it brought relief from the heat. Courtney lay in bed, smoking a cigarette and looking around her at the disarray of her room. In the two weeks that Janet had been staying with her, Courtney's life, like her room, had been thrown into confusion. As she smoked the first cigarette of the day, the before-breakfast cigarette which always tasted awful and which, therefore, Courtney enjoyed more than any other, Courtney looked at the still-empty bed beside her and at the clothing and perfume bottles which littered her room, and wondered when she would be able to put her life back into the careful order which Janet had destroyed.

Janet had certainly raised hell with her love life. She had been seeing more of Charles than she had ever planned to. Janet knew that she saw Anthony occasionally, and almost deliberately, it seemed, she was always proposing that Courtney and Charles accompany her and whatever date she had. Courtney enjoyed being with Charles, but—she mused as the smoke of her cigarette rose to meet the gray, damp air of the morning—when she did allow herself to see Anthony, something seemed to be missing. It was as she had feared, the fragile structure which they had created could not be exposed to the threatening reality outside. Inadvertently, Courtney had allowed herself to venture a little into another life, and was startled to find that it was not as stark and terrifying as she had made herself believe. Despite herself, she enjoyed the calm, almost protective maturity of Charles, and when she did see Anthony she felt almost ashamed at having enjoyed herself away from him; she felt almost as though she were betraying Anthony. But that, she thought as she ground out her cigarette and lit another, would all be changed when Janet finally left, and she and Anthony could return to their secret garden.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Courtney said listlessly. Perhaps it was Janet, finally getting back from that party. It was nine o'clock.

“Courtney, this
room
,” her mother exclaimed as she opened the door.

“I know, Mummy, I'll clean it up after breakfast.”

“You're always cleaning up after Janet,” her mother said angrily. “She isn't in yet, is she?”

“No,” Courtney said.

“Look, I just can't have that girl disrupting the household like this. She comes in at all hours of the morning and sleeps through most of the afternoon, so Marie can't clean the room. She leaves her clothes all over this room, it looks like a pig's pen.”

“It's my room,” Courtney said.

“Yes, but it's my house,” her mother replied. “And I am sick of seeing it filthy all the time. It's all well and good for you to say it is your room that is filthy, and your life that is complicated, and that Janet is your guest. But as long as you're living under my roof I am going to have some say. I won't have you living like this.”

“I said I'd clean the room after breakfast,” Courtney said wearily.

“That's not your responsibility, Courtney. I refuse to have my daughter act as a personal maid to Janet Parker. Tell her to clean her own mess. Don't let her walk all over you.”

“But, Mummy,” Courtney said patiently, “I do tell Janet to clean it up. But you know how she is, she feels everything should be done for her. She can't help that, really—she doesn't mean to be a nuisance.”

“I don't see how you can even find your own clothes in this mess,” her mother continued. “Did you ever find those two bras and the slip you asked Marie about?”

“Yes,” Courtney said. She didn't want to tell her mother that she had found them in Janet's open suitcase beside the dresser. The clothes weren't that important; Courtney didn't want Janet to know that she had discovered the theft. Courtney knew that Janet had a far larger clothes allowance than she, but Courtney had determined not to meddle and blunder in Janet's psychological problem. She let the clothes go.

“I still don't see how,” her mother said wearily. “Look, Courtney, I really can't stand this any longer. I'm not a very easy person to live with—two husbands can attest to that—and I have hesitated to say anything about this because I am aware that I am too demanding. But I must draw the line; I refuse to live like this and I refuse to have it inflicted on you. Janet may do what she likes, but there is no necessity for you to live with her sleeping around and never getting in and making your room unfit for human habitation. Janet simply must leave.”

“Oh, Mummy.” Courtney sat up. “I can't—”

“I won't have any argument. This is not the way I want my daughter to live, and that's all there is to it. I'm fond of her, too, but I happen to care a little more about you. If Janet at least were appreciative, I might hesitate. But there is no reason to put up with this. And unless you ask her to leave, you know, she'll stay forever. I know I can't ask her to be considerate, because she isn't capable of it. There's no alternative. She can't conform to our way of living, and you must ask her to leave.”

“But she can't go back to her father and all that—”

“You'll have to demand that she show a little courage, that's all. It's not up to you to assume the burden of her home life.”

“All right,” Courtney said finally. “When she comes in, I'll ask her to leave. But I hate to have her feel that I've let her down, too, the way everyone else does.”

“Put the blame on me,” her mother said. “Tell her that I am unbearably temperamental or whatever you want. As long as she goes.”

With finality, Sondra turned and shut the door behind her, ending the discussion. Courtney felt almost relieved that the decision had been made for her. Now her life could be the way it was. The only reservation was Courtney's fear that Janet would go back to Marshall. She had spent the night there, Courtney knew. But perhaps the many discussions Courtney had had with her since that first evening would help. Courtney had to wait and see; the outcome depended on Janet. For once, there was nothing Courtney could do; for once, her mother had made the decision for her.

Janet was strangely depressed when she came in half an hour later. She took off her red cocktail dress and put on her bathrobe and sat on the unmade bed in silence. She lit a cigarette.

“Do you want some breakfast?” asked Courtney. “I've eaten, but I'll have some coffee with you.”

“No,” Janet said, staring out the window at the murky city. “I've had breakfast.”

There was another silence.

“What's wrong, Jan? Didn't you enjoy seeing Marshall again, and the deb party and all?”

“The deb party was deadly,” Janet said. “And Marsh was in a lousy mood. So we left early and went to his house.”

“Did you stay there last night?”

“Yes,” Janet said. She turned in confusion to Courtney. “He refused to make love with me,” she blurted out. “It was awful. It was so late I didn't want to come back here and wake up your mother, and I kept thinking if I stayed he would shape up. Finally he told me about this girl in Newport that he's known for years, a real drip, who cooks him dinner and all that crap. He asked her to marry him, and they're going to announce their engagement next month. Next month.” She smiled to herself. “Everything happens next month. Marshall gets engaged and I make my lousy debut. I don't know what the hell I'm coming out to. I don't even want the debut now.”

Courtney was silent. She didn't want to tell Janet what her mother had said. What a lousy break this was.

“He slept on the couch,” Janet said suddenly. “On the couch, for Chrissake!” She started to laugh, and laughed hysterically, burying her head in the pillow as the laughter gave way to tears. “Why is it always this way?” Her words were muffled and Courtney couldn't understand the rest of what she said. Nervously, Courtney lit a cigarette.

Finally, Janet sat up, a little composed. “Now what do I do,” she said hopelessly.

“Do you want a drink?” Courtney suggested.

“Ten in the morning. What the hell.”

Courtney brought Janet a glass of brandy and had a cup of coffee for herself.

“That's better,” Janet said after a little while. “I guess I was an idiot to let this guy mean so much to me. What the hell, there are lots of other men. But now I'm hung; everything seems so confused. I can't stay here forever.”

I might as well tell her now, Courtney thought.

“Mummy threw a fit this morning,” Courtney said. “She's been in a lousy mood, and she just blew up. She said—”

“She wants me to leave?” Janet asked.

“Yes,” Courtney said, relieved. She watched Janet's face closely, but could see no emotion.

“I wondered when she would,” Janet said dully. “I never am very popular with parents. Not even my own,” she smiled.

“I'm glad you aren't upset, sweetie,” Courtney said. “You know I don't want you to go.”

There still was no reaction on Janet's face.

“I really think your father will be all right,” Courtney continued. “He should have shaped up by now.”

“Is it all right if I stay here until tonight?” Janet said aggressively, as though waiting for rejection.

“Of course, Jan. I haven't any date tonight. You stay for dinner, and go home later. Maybe your father will be asleep, so it'll be easier.”

“Maybe,” Janet said.

Janet was strangely silent all that day, as she packed her clothes. Courtney noticed that she did not return the bras and the slip, but still said nothing. Janet had had enough for one day. Thank God, Courtney thought, Marshall had broken off with her. Now she didn't have that to worry about. Janet would go home, peace would be made—or at least armed truce—and Courtney's life could return to normal. It almost seemed that what her mother maintained, in her Irish philosophy, was right—all things
did
work out for the best. But wasn't that Voltaire? Anyway, it was all right, and Courtney breathed easily as the problem of Janet was taken off her hands.

She was bothered, though, by Janet's silence. Janet never gave in to depression, unlike Courtney in her Irish fluctuation of mood, yet this silence was very like depression. Depression, as Courtney knew it from her mother and herself, was violent and stormy, but Janet's listless, passive acceptance of the sudden reversal of her plans and the fact that she was again forced to return to her father was new to Courtney. This was the sullen acceptance of misfortune of a tired, middle-aged woman, a mood Courtney had never seen in Janet. Janet's resentment was harshly vociferous, screaming at her father, getting drunk. Her new silence perplexed and worried Courtney, presenting the only cloud in Courtney's bright, newly washed sky.

Janet carried her silence even to the dinner table, and her mother was as affected by it as Courtney was. Sondra felt that it was an expression of resentment toward her, because Courtney had put the responsibility for asking Janet to leave on her.

Sondra was greatly relieved when, late that evening, Courtney accompanied Janet downstairs and put her in the cab which would take her home.

“Well,” Sondra said as Courtney came back, “thank God that's over with. Shall we have a drink and celebrate the liberation of our home?”

Courtney made the drinks and handed her mother her Scotch. She sat on the couch and lit a cigarette.

“Don't tell me you're angry with me, too,” her mother said, “because I made you kick out Janet. I don't have to put up with your mood, too, do I?”

“No,” Courtney smiled. “I'm actually just as glad Janet finally left. It will make my life a lot easier, too, and I never would have had the initiative to do it by myself. I'm worried about Janet, though. She was in such a strange mood, not angry, not really depressed. She just sort of accepted the whole thing as though she expected to be rejected by me, too.”

“Darling,” her mother said as she put her hand on the back of her daughter's neck, “Janet is not your problem. Neither is your father, neither am I. You're only seventeen and you have enough to worry about just thinking of yourself.”

Courtney looked up, surprised.

“What prompted all this?” she smiled.

“I had dinner with your father last night,” Sondra said, “and we had a long talk about you. Don't think that we aren't aware of what's happening to you.” She sat down. “You have a lot in your own life to resolve, things that you can only resolve by yourself. We haven't said anything to you, because we have no right to interfere. That's the hell of being a parent,” she mused. “Someday you'll find that out for yourself. You don't want to see your child hurt, you want to take the pain and make the decisions for them. But you can't do that. You have to let them work out in their own stumbling way what you learned a long time ago—what you could tell them in fifteen minutes but what takes years for them to find out for themselves.”

Courtney studied her mother's face, the sleek hair, the skin that still looked young from careful care, the knowledgeable, self-assured expression that people who didn't know her called arrogance. How much she knew that Courtney took for granted, the years of living and fighting her own way in a harshly competitive world. Because Sondra had never made a success of her own personal life, Courtney assumed that she could do it so much better, and fought her own way through the tangled web she spun about herself. She had underestimated her mother; she had assumed that her parents were deceived by her careful explanations of her actions. So they knew, so they had known for a long time, but had never said anything because they, wiser than most parents, had known there was nothing they could have done. Courtney studied her mother's face with a new respect.

“Don't think your father and I haven't been aware of the wall you have put up around yourself. This estrangement, your fumbling attempts toward becoming an adult. Children are so foolish, insisting on doing all this themselves, refusing their parents' help.”