Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (16 page)

“Oh, yes, I went back, but I was a little scared this time. Of course I was hoping, you know, my partner wouldn't be there.”

“And was she?”

“Yes, I'm afraid she was. She acted as if nothing had happened, just as polite as the first time I had met her, you know. ‘My name's so-and-so and I'm an alcoholic.' Just the same.”

“Did she apologize?”

“No, she never mentioned the call. The meeting went well, everybody cheerful and positive, telling their stories and thanking god and promising to be there for their partners if tempted to take a drink.”

Barbara and Bobbie and Marge were losing interest in Valerie's self-absorption and just wanted to have a few laughs before it was time to go home. Valerie had succeeded as she often had in the past in thrusting herself and her problems to the forefront of an evening that was intended for fun, gossip and laughs. In truth, this would probably be the last time she was invited to join them for their special women's night at one of their homes. They just wouldn't tell her the next time they decided to get together.

“You can't believe what happened when I got home that night,” she started up again.

“Oh, yes we can,” said Bobbie, rather rudely.

“You can?”

“Sure. Fatty called again, drunk as a pig, and insulted the hell out of you. Right?”

“Yeah, that's right. But don't you think that's incredible? I mean, I went there for help and what did I get but a drunk, obscene phone caller. That isn't fair, is it? What do you think I should have done? Shouldn't I have reported her to somebody, the police or somebody?”

“She's your partner,” Marge offered, “I thought you were supposed to help her.”

“But how can I help someone like that, I mean, she's disgusting. That woman has real problems . . .”

“Exactly,” Barbara said. “That's exactly the point.”

“I don't get it, I don't get it at all,” Valerie said, looking depressed and deeply puzzled. “It looked like it was going to be such fun. I thought we were all going to be such good friends.”

“Maybe you should try some EST training. Those people go to bed early and never call one another.”

“Are you guys making fun of me? If you are, I think that's pretty cruel, I really do.”

“Valerie, honey, why don't you get an unlisted number. Or better yet, have a glass of wine and try to forget your partner ever existed. I don't think you are going to help each other very much.”

Valerie was staring at her wound again. She had been so proud of herself for admitting that she was an alcoholic, and now nobody seemed to be taking her seriously. She really hated the fat woman in Turner's Falls for taking all the fun out of it. She hoped the miserable sow would drink herself to death soon. Then she could go back to the meeting and surely this time she would get assigned a really attractive partner and they could talk about their problems without getting so rude about it.

F
ranklin Quigly Denton III arrived at his personal sense of superiority early in life. His father, Franklin Quigly Denton II, was an unhappy lawyer in a small milltown and told his son right away that most people were horses' asses and that was that. Franklin III liked his name immensely, and in that small milltown it immediately set him off from the rabble. He liked that and always walked the few respectable streets of the town with his chin up and a spring in his gait. It was quite a laughable sight to the old folks rocking on their porches in the summer. Such a little button-nosed arrogance in one so small. And he would never condescend to play with the children of the millworkers. And there were no other lawyers in town. Which left Franklin III all to himself to parade the neighborhoods as if he were destined for a great mission in this life.

Of course his mother had no equals either, and occupied a class all her own, which meant that she couldn't really join any clubs without
slippage
. She would lunch alone or with her son at the hotel restaurant and smile distantly across the room at anyone she suspected of staring or stealing looks. Mr. Denton would not have allowed her to associate with riff-raff, if she was so inclined, but of course she wasn't.

Franklin III was given piano lessons from the age of four, and his mother soon spoke of his becoming a concert pianist. She
groomed him for the great stages of Europe: Franklin Quigly Denton III. She even imagined herself accompanying him on some of the grander tours, audiences with the great Kings and Queens . . . If she read the newspapers, of course, she would have known that most of them had long since lost their heads or were, at least, chased into anonymous exile, but nonetheless this was how she imagined the future for little Franklin and herself. The other flaw in this thinking was that little Franklin was not very good at playing the piano; he detested his teacher and rarely practiced. His teacher, a Miss Murphy, had dirt under her fingernails and sometimes smelled like a fish. Franklin, against his mother's orders, sometimes held his nose when he sat beside Miss Murphy on the piano bench. After nine months of tolerating this insult, she finally was forced to quit even though it meant taking in more laundry and ironing.

Another teacher was found, and Mrs. Denton went right on dreaming about Milan and Paris and Berlin. She had actually gone so far as to survey her closets and plan her wardrobe. She did not share her thoughts with Mr. Denton because she knew he did not approve of his only son becoming a concert pianist. Slippage for the family name. A lawyer was a manly and powerful thing to be, though he despised Law itself. The notion of equality before the law was odious to him. A bunch of horses' asses.

The piano lessons continued for twelve years. More than twenty teachers came and went. Franklin III mocked the way they dressed and the way they spoke. And, of course, his progress was painfully slow; and in the end even Mrs. Denton had difficulty sustaining her hopes that his name would ever
grace any marquee grander than the local V.F.W.'s. However, it should be stated that this failure in no way distracted from the other, quite general conviction that Franklin III was cut of the finest timber, that his destiny was still to rule, to lead, to star in life's pageant.

Franklin did not play sports as a student in high school because he did not like to sweat, but also because he could not imagine showering with the coarse ruffians who tended to be on the teams. Instead, he preferred to practice putting by himself in his backyard. His father had always told him that putting was terribly important for a man to do well.

Franklin had always taken it for granted that he would be accepted at any college he should choose. His father had as much as told him so. His father's alma mater, Caldicott, for instance, would have to accept him because of the donations Mr. Denton made each year. And beyond that, the President of the college, Bernard Smythe, was a classmate of Mr. Denton. “There's loyalty there, son. That's something you can count on in this world, loyalty of the old school tie. Barney can be counted on. I've done him a favor or two in my time.”

“But, Father, I've been thinking of applying to Chestnut Hill.”

“Dentons have gone to Caldicott for three generations. It's a fine school. But if you prefer to break with tradition, I'll see what I can do.”

Franklin said no more and secretly sent in his application to Chestnut Hill. Four weeks later he was stunned when the letter arrived informing him that his grades and test scores were not high enough for admission. He was only happy that he had not
told anyone of his application to Chestnut Hill. He knew he would have the burden of carrying this rejection within him the rest of his life—that, in a way, he would always be lying now. Chin up!

It came as something of a shock when it was announced that he had been chosen class valedictorian, because he didn't really know most of his classmates. It was his name they had chosen, not him. But still it pleased him, and Mr. and Mrs. Denton, while proud, presumed it as a matter of course. Of course, Franklin III was the only obvious choice to say farewell and sum up, to look into the future.

At the graduation ceremony, Mr. and Mrs. Denton had front row seats reserved for themselves, and in their minds it was Franklin III's graduation and no one else's. What could those scruffy children possibly do but work in the mill? When it was Franklin's time to deliver his speech, Mr. and Mrs. Denton sat erect and gazed up at the podium as if final proof of their superiority were about to be delivered with undeniable finality. He was greeted with faint but polite applause. He began his speech with a kind of humorless pomp, in much the same tone his father employed when he was asked to speak on certain occasions.

He said: “A man must stand on his principles, or else he risks joining the common masses, the pagan elements at the bottom of the social ladder who wallow in drink and lechery, and who are a burden to the state.” Mr. Denton swelled with pride at his son's high-mindedness. But Mrs. Denton shivered and realized that this young man, her son, already sounded like an old man. He made no references to his classmates or to his experiences at
school. In many ways it was an odd speech, and parents in the audience shifted in their chairs and coughed a lot, and his classmates were throwing airplanes at one another, completely oblivious to Franklin's lofty oratory except for a certain amount of uncontrollable tittering. “I've always said you have to decide between action and contemplation.” It was clear to those who were still listening that Franklin Quigly Denton III had chosen contemplation. And that made Mrs. Denton reflect on the innumerable hours of solitary putting she had observed Franklin practicing, and now she realized that in fact he was contemplating something. What, she thought to herself, what do you suppose he was contemplating? It was a rich thought for her to contemplate now. There was next to no applause as Franklin rather too grandly completed his valedictory address and took his place in the row of chairs at the front of the stage. “Way to go, Three!” someone shouted. Mr. Denton looked around, displeased at the disrespect.

Mrs. Denton was vaguely troubled after Franklin's speech and graduation. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it had something to do with young Franklin's insistence on the primary importance of a man's principles. Mr. Denton, she knew, was nothing if not a man of principles, but she also knew that deep down he didn't really believe in anything. And she feared that her son . . . oh well, he was still such a young man, just starting out on his adventure.

Franklin wrote home every week from Caldicott, detailing his every activity. He had joined his father's old fraternity, which made Mr. Denton happier than his wife had ever seen him.
“That's my boy,” he said, pacing the living room. “He's going to turn out all right, you'll see, you'll see. He had me worried there for a while. Those damned piano lessons were a waste of time, you wouldn't listen to me. I know what's best for my son. He's going to be all right. Law, that's the ticket. Or a broker, yes, that would be all right. Wall Street. You'll see, he's going to be just fine.”

And when in his second semester he wrote saying that he had declared himself to be a Philosophy major, Mr. Denton took it right in stride. “Not to worry,” he told Mrs. Denton, “State Department. Diplomacy. Quite common. Philosophy. Yes, I believe old Digges, Richard Digges, studied Philosophy at Caldicott, and look where he is. New Zealand. Ambassador. Yes, Philosophy is not a bad place to start.” Mrs. Denton contemplated that awhile and decided that it probably was a very sensible place to start, though she wasn't exactly sure she knew what it was, Philosophy.

Of course, Mr. Denton thought privately that it didn't much matter what a good man studied
per se
. It was your fraternity brothers, those early contacts, that provided the ladder to success and the safety net should a good man ever stumble along the way. Franklin had already latched onto that ladder and there was no rocking him off now. So he didn't worry one jot when Franklin wrote home in his fourth semester to inform them that he had changed his major to English. “English,” Mr. Denton said to his wife, “is a fine major. Good start for either a lawyer or a diplomat.”

And when he wrote again six months later to tell them of his
change to Art History, all Mr. Denton had to say on the subject was that his son was a regular Renaissance man. Yes, a Renaissance man, he like those words. Ambassador to France.

When they visited him on Parents' Day, Franklin ordered one very dry Martini at dinner, “Straight up, Boodles Gin. You do have Boodles, don't you?” And luckily they did. He's already taking a stand, Mr. Denton thought to himself. Several students passed their table and slapped young Franklin on the back. “What say, Quigly?” Mrs. Denton did not like that at all. Were they mocking her son? She supposed they were. Or just youthful affection. Franklin didn't seem to mind or notice. He seemed very pleased with himself, as he always had, but more so now. Caldicott had finally provided him with some worthy peers and, while there never was any question that things would “turn out” for Franklin, both Mr. and Mrs. Denton now felt he was in the home stretch, that he was a certain winner.

“I have some rather good news for you now,” Franklin announced. “I have a woman with whom I am thinking of hooking-up. She's a Trowbridge.”

“John Trowbridge?” inquired Mr. Denton. “A fine man. Old money. I know John, class of '48. A fine man.”