Chocolates for Breakfast (20 page)

“I have to do it myself,” Courtney said finally. “You wouldn't want me to let you live my life for me. I'm sure you have more respect for me as a person because I make decisions by myself.”

“I suppose so,” her mother said. “But this discussion gets us nowhere; it's the eternal discussion between parents and children. There is one thing your father and I can do, though, and that's what we talked about last night. I haven't told you before, but there is a very good chance that I can get a part in a Broadway play this fall.”

“Oh, Mummy, how marvelous!”

“This is no pipe dream, like the Nick thing. The producer and the director are both people I have worked with before, before I went to Hollywood. They know me very well, and they know my work. I think this is the break we've been waiting for. If I get this part,” Sondra continued, “—it isn't a big part, but a decent featured role—your father has just gotten that raise, and I think when we have to move out of here in September we can move into a place on Fifth Avenue, with your father's help. I really owe you a lovely home again, and I think we'll be able to manage it.”

“Everything happens in September,” Courtney mused.

“What?” her mother asked.

“Nothing,” Courtney said. “I was just thinking.”

Everything happens in September, Courtney repeated to herself. Janet finally makes her debut, and she's living at home after all. And our life finally gets back to what it used to be. Funny how everything really does work out for the best.

And several blocks north of the apartment where Courtney and her mother sat talking, Janet Parker and her father were standing at opposite ends of the living room. Janet's suitcase, still unopened, sat in the hall with her raincoat thrown hastily across it.

“Yes,” Janet was saying, “I did come back. But it wasn't because of you. I didn't want to come back any more than you wanted me back. But you might at least pretend that you're glad to see me.”

Mr. Parker said nothing, but stared down at the drink in his hand.

“Your mother left,” he said. “When you went to that girl's house, she was hysterical. I called her psychiatrist and he said it would be best to send her back to the sanitarium.” He stared at the girl, dressed in the simple black dress which fitted close to her body, her mouth full and petulant, anger and contempt in her eyes. “How can I be glad to see you? You've destroyed your mother, you've destroyed me.”

He set down his drink and walked across the living room to her. His eyes were cold and totally without emotion. For the first time in her life, Janet was afraid of her father. She held her ground, refusing to move as he came up to her. Coldly, with the full force of his body, he slapped her. She fell back a step and suddenly, she didn't know why or how, something deeper and more basic than emotion took command of her and she found her hands around his neck in anger, and she knew that she wanted to destroy him, this man whom she loved and so hated, her father. He fell upon her and forced her onto the couch and lay above her as a lover might, and she was terrified. This was too strange and too strong for her, her father lying on her body in control of her. Emotion left her in a sudden exhaustion and she turned her head away and wept. As her body went limp in his arms he rose and walked over to the window. Thank God, she thought. Thank God he got up. He leaned against the window sill in shame and hatred of himself and buried his face in his hands. The intermittent and lonely sounds of the taxi horns and a train leaving Grand Central deep beneath the street rose to the window from Park Avenue. Dazed, Janet got up and ran into her room, locking both doors. To fill the awful silence of the apartment she turned on her victrola to its full volume. The one record on the victrola, Stan Kenton's “Capitol Punishment,” filled the room in unreal cacophany, as the girl lay on her bed, beyond tears, beyond emotion, in the starkness of what had happened.

The record played over and over and finally Janet rose and walked to the window. She looked down at Park Avenue in the early evening. She watched the cabs travel down Park, the cabs that had carried her to mid-town bars and restaurants, each a world in which she had found, for an evening, the illusion of companionship and warmth. This was the hour when the city stood up, brushed the soot from its shoulders and waited, tense and expectant, for the night. This was the loneliest hour in the day. She knelt on the window sill, beyond fear, beyond emotion. For a moment she hesitated, but there could be no hesitation, no emotion. With a single, simple thrust, she flung herself toward the street below.

Chapter 22

T
he rain had stopped during the night, and as Courtney turned in bed and looked out her window at the fresh, clean-washed morning sky, and then at the empty bed beside her and the room in some semblance of order, she lay back on her pillow with a great feeling of relief. Janet had finally gone home, and Courtney could pick up her life where she had left it two weeks ago. She got up, eager to start the day, and put on her bathrobe. Before she went into the dining room, she stopped and picked up the
Times
. Her mother, sitting at the breakfast table in her white robe, looked up as she came in.

“Good morning, darling.”

“Good morning, Mummy,” Courtney said brightly.

“You're in a good mood this morning.”

“I'm in a wonderful mood. Marie,” she called into the kitchen, “could I have some scrambled eggs and toast and some orange juice? I picked up the
Times
from the door,” she said to her mother.

“Isn't it wonderful,” her mother said, sipping her second cup of coffee, “to have the house to ourselves and life back to normal? What does the world have to say for itself this morning?”

“ ‘Fair and warm today,' ” Courtney read. “Somebody attacked the administration—the Mau Mau are raising hell—some Park Avenue girl—”

Courtney stopped and read it again, a story in an obscure corner of the front page:

Janet Parker, Park Avenue socialite, jumped or fell to her death last night . . . her parents could not
be reached
for comment . . . to make her debut in a month . . .

“What is it, Courtney? What's wrong?”

Courtney put down the paper and stared, shocked and bewildered, at the window across from her. Suddenly she got up and ran into her room, slamming the door behind her, as her mother picked up the paper.

She lay on her bed for several minutes until she finally could believe what had happened and then she began to cry against her pillow, cry hysterically. The door opened behind her and her mother came in silently and sat beside her. She put her hand on Courtney's head.

“Get out of here!” Courtney shouted into the pillow. “Get out of here!”

“Courtney, you don't blame me—”

“No! No, I don't blame you!”

“I know what Janet meant to you, but no one could have helped—”

“Don't talk to me about her! You have no right to! You're a parent, Goddammit, and it was parents—oh, let me alone and don't you dare to mention her name! You're none of you worth one of her! You destroyed her, all of you, and you'll never admit it! Get out of my room!”

Her mother left, shutting the door quietly behind her. She went into the kitchen.

“Marie, don't bother about Courtney's breakfast. She's very upset this morning, and I don't want her disturbed.”

Then Sondra went to the phone and called Courtney's father.

Early that afternoon, when Courtney finally came into the living room, she found her mother and father sitting there, waiting for her.

“Do you want a drink, Courtney?” her father asked quietly.

“Yes, I think so,” Courtney said. She turned to her mother. “Mummy, I'm sorry about what I said to you this morning. It didn't have anything to do with you, you understand that.”

“Yes,” her mother said softly. “I understand that. Not completely, I don't suppose I can. But I understand a little.”

Her father handed her a drink, and made one for Sondra and himself. Robbie was always there in a crisis.

In the week that followed, Courtney saw no one but her parents. Somehow she felt that she shared the guilt for Janet's death; there must have been something she could have done. She had no desire to see anyone of Janet's generation. She did not want to be reminded. Both Anthony and Charles called, but Marie said that Courtney was not in.

Her parents understood, and determined to give her a new life, in the only way they knew—by making more money. Sondra began to make rounds, which she loathed, but she could no longer afford to wait for producers and directors of the fall plays to call her. Courtney needed more security than Sondra could give her with TV work, and Sondra could not let her pride stand in the way of Courtney's welfare.

Courtney did not expect her mother to get a part. She no longer allowed herself to believe that her world could be made better. As the weeks passed without success, Courtney sat in her room and was not surprised.

The weather grew crisp as fall came upon New York. Courtney's windows were closed against the September air, and her room was filled with cigarette smoke as her mother swept in.

“Courtney darling!” Sondra announced. “I got a part!”

Courtney looked up. “No reservations? Are you really certain of it?”

“Yes,” her mother said, excited as a child. “We're starting rehearsal in a week! Isn't it marvelous?” Her mother sat on the bed and took Courtney's hand.

“Everything is really working out for us, darling. I called the real-estate woman and told her to start looking for our apartment, and I called your father. He's coming over this evening to celebrate with us.” She looked at Courtney. “You must wear that lovely new cocktail dress, and you must come out of hiding. Really, darling, this moping around the house is no good for you. I know what a blow this has been for you, but you really must see someone. One of those attractive young men. Your father is taking us to dinner at Sardi's and you must ask someone to go with you.”

“Mummy, I really don't want to. I'll just go with you and Daddy.”

“No,” her mother said with finality. “You simply must get yourself an amusing date. That's all there is to it.”

“All right,” Courtney said wearily.

“I'm so glad, darling. That makes everything just right. Now, you get on the phone and call one of those boys you've been avoiding.”

As her mother left the room, Courtney looked out at the early September afternoon and lit a cigarette. Her mother was right as usual. She had been in hiding. She had been in hiding from a world that was suddenly too brutal and harsh for her. A world that had destroyed Janet, and yet didn't even care. She rose and went to the window. There were many things that Janet's death had asked her to face, which she had not faced. For so long her life had run a parallel to Janet's. Janet's death left her a legacy, a promise which she must fulfill. It was strange, the way she felt about it. Somehow she had to go on where Janet had failed and had given up, almost as though Janet had pointed the way for her. She had no right to withdraw from life now. She had almost an obligation to go on, to make something of the life Janet had fled and which, for so long, Courtney had fled.

“Miss Courtney—”

Courtney turned, startled. “Yes, Marie. What is it?” she said crossly.

“Mr. Neville again. Shall I tell him you're not in?”

“No,” Courtney said suddenly. “No, I'll answer it this time.”

“Hello, angel,” said the low, familiar voice. “You've been avoiding me so.”

“Hello, Anthony.”

“Are you coming out of retirement, darling? I so want to see you. I knew how upset you must be—”

“Let's not talk about it.”

“Could you see me this evening, angel?”

Suddenly Courtney was a little afraid. She was afraid that if she saw Anthony again, they would make love again, the old power that they held over one another would take over again. She didn't know if she would be strong enough. Then she knew what she would do. She would see Anthony but make a date with someone else, someone convenient like Charles, to have dinner with her parents. She would guard against herself. She would not make love again like that, she would wait until it was decent and sanctioned.

“I have a dinner date, darling,” she said. “But I'll be able to see you for cocktails.”

“Perhaps I can persuade you to break your date. It's been three weeks, you know, a wretchedly long time.”

“I know,” she said.

“I'll meet you at the Plaza, then, in the bar.”

“All right, Anthony. At five.”

“Goodbye, angel.”

“Goodbye, Anthony.”

Charles would be at work now, Courtney thought as she hung up. Well, even if he weren't free, she could go to dinner with her parents. She looked up the number. She would be safe from herself with Charles; there was a strength and decency to him.

“Charles Cunningham, please.”

“Thank you. Who is calling?”

“Courtney Farrell.”

“Hello, Courtney?” That familiar, self-assured voice.

“Hello, Charles.”

“I suppose you know I've been trying to get you ever since I heard about Janet's death.”

“Yes,” she said. She ran her tongue between her lips. Why did everyone have to talk about it? “I wondered, Charles, if you could have dinner with the parents and me this evening. Mummy just got this part, and we must celebrate—”

“Well, I have a date, Courtney, but I can cancel it. It's just with a couple of Harvard Law friends, and they won't mind. I'd really love to see you; I've been worrying about you.”

How strange, Courtney thought.

“Shall I meet you at your apartment?” he asked.

“No,” Courtney said. “I have an appointment before, so why don't you meet us at the restaurant? At Sardi's, at seven.”

“Wonderful, darling.”

“Goodbye, Charles.”

Well, that was done. Now, Courtney thought, it was all up to her. She would meet the test now, and if she came through it, she knew she would be able to trust herself.

As Courtney came into the bar, she saw Anthony sitting at a table against the wall. He was staring into space, deep in thoughts of his own, and did not see her. How striking he was, she thought, what a really beautiful young man, standing apart from the other people in the room, making them look somehow prosaic as he stared into his own world. She could not feel harsh toward him, seeing him again, watching him as he did not realize he was being watched. The decision that she had made, the resolves, the clarity of view that she had had away from him blurred as she saw him again.

“Hello, Anthony,” she smiled.

“Darling.” He stood up and pushed the table out. She sat beside him. “What will you have to drink?”

“A martini.”

He looked at her.

“Won't you have some wine with me?”

“All right,” she smiled. “I'll have some wine with you.”

He gave the order to the waiter. When the waiter had gone, he turned to her. “I've missed you, angel,” he said. “You know that.”

She studied his face.

“Yes,” she said.

He put his hand over hers on the table.

“And now, everything can be as it was before,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

He watched her a moment in silence.

“What a waste that was,” he said finally, voicing what was in both their minds. “Not a tragedy, poor Janet—she never could know tragedy, only a sad and futile waste. I watched it coming, we all did. But there was nothing we could do.”

“No,” she said. “There never is anything anyone else can do. Everyone must save themselves, no one can help them.”

“You have a dinner date,” he said in his low, quiet voice. “But after dinner, you'll come back to Tony?”

She looked at him, startled.

“No,” she said, almost without thinking. “No, never again. I have to have a different life now, as though to make Janet's senseless sacrifice have some meaning. Do you understand? Do you believe me?”

He stared into space.

“Yes,” he said. “I knew that. I knew when I talked to you on the phone. I knew before that, after Janet's death, when you didn't call me. You didn't turn to me, but I knew you wanted to turn to someone. You knew I wasn't capable of helping you. You turned to yourself. I began to realize it then. When you sat down beside me, I was certain of it.”

There was a silence. The quiet days before reality, the days of the enchanted garden, of the castle of sand, were gone, and they both knew it. The days before reality, on the threshold of reality.

“Anthony—”

He turned to her, his glass of wine poised above the table.

“I wonder where it went,” she said.

He set down his glass.

“I don't know.”

“Our castle of sand. Battered by the waves of reality. It finally dissolved, didn't it?”

“I know,” he said, rubbing the glass with his finger. “It happened while we weren't looking.”

“There wouldn't have been anything we could have done to save it, even if we had known what was happening.”

“That's the hell of sand castles,” he smiled. “They are always doomed. That's part of their beauty—their impermanence.”

“Anthony darling. Darling.” She took his hand.

“Don't ever try to recreate it just as it was. You'll never be able to and neither will I. Realize that.”

“I do,” she said.

He ran his hand along her cheek.

“It isn't a tragedy, angel. People like you, and me, and Janet—we're not capable of tragedy. This was no epic play, with heroic characters and vast emotions. This was not a tragedy. It was a child's game that came to an end.”

“But I feel a little sad,” she said. “Now that it's here, I realize that I didn't want it to end.”

“In a sense it doesn't have to. You and I will end, of course. But the beauty of it never lay in the characters. It was the enchantment that made it precious.”

He ran his thumb musingly across the back of her hand.

“You never have to lose the enchantment,” he said. “You needn't bother to remember
me
, I was unimportant. But do this for me, never let the enchantment go out of your life.”

“I'll try not to,” she said. “But it is so hard to keep the enchantment, the belief, after what's happened.”