Father of the Bride (5 page)

The stout young man looked nonplused.

“Oh no, sir. This is plenty.”

The doorway was now filled with young men who observed him gravely. “Sir, four old-fashioneds, no garbage in two, if you know what I mean. One on the rocks and one with a dash of sugar and no bitters.”

“Good God,” said Mr. Banks, “do they think I’m filling out prescriptions in here?”

A tall young man with a long neck peered around the frame of the door. “Good evening, sir,” he said cordially. “Looks as if it was going to be a nice party.”

“I haven’t seen it,” said Mr. Banks testily. “What would you like? Half a dozen frozen daiquiris?”

“Oh no, sir. Just a couple of martinis.”

Mr. Banks stared at him delightedly. “You mean martinis?”

“Yes, sir. Can I help you, sir? It’ll speed things up a bit.”

“No thank you,” said Mr. Banks grimly. “I enjoy doing this. It’s my hobby.”

For half an hour he sloshed around frantically, trying to keep up with the demand. Then there was a sudden lull in business. “To hell with it,” he muttered. Mopping his suit off as best he could, he took a martini and made for the living room, from which there now came a steady roar, like the beating of surf on rocks.

He shouldered his way into the room. Except for a few absentminded smiles, no one paid the least attention to him. He found himself a bit of standing room in the corner by the bookcases. An intellectual type with black bangs and lovely eyes appeared before him.

“You look like a nice sort of person,” she said. “Do you mind if I talk to you? I’m visiting and I don’t know anyone.”

“Neither do I,” said Mr. Banks.

“These things can be pretty grim rat races if you don’t know anybody,” she said sympathetically. “I like to study types, though. Don’t you?”

“It’s a passion with me,” said Mr. Banks. “Have you located any?”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “At a party like this it’s a cinch. Now, for instance, there are just two female types here—those who are married and the still unasked. You can spot them a mile off.”

“How?” asked Mr. Banks.

“Oh, it’s the way they’re enthusiastic about the news,” she said. “You see, with the married ones it’s more relief than enthusiasm. You know. Like the way you feel when somebody you’re fond of, that’s sort of backward, passes an exam.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Banks.

“And those who are still among the unasked are full of beans in that fine old Playing-Fields-of-Eaton sort of way. You know. You’re a better man than I am Gunga Din and pip pip.”

“I think you’ve got something there,” said Mr. Banks.

At this moment they were caught in an eddy that swept the black-banged girl out of sight. Mr. Banks found himself in a group which was being addressed with gestures by the stout young man with bone glasses.

“Oh, Mr. Banks. Joe’s telling us a story. It’s a scream. Start it again for Mr. Banks, Joe.”

“Well, it’s a very old story, sir. I’m sure you’ve heard it. It’s about a caliph’s daughter.” This struck the girl beside Mr. Banks as excruciating. She began to giggle hysterically. “It seems that many years ago in Persia there was a caliph who had a beautiful daughter. Have you heard this, sir? Well, one day a traveling salesman—”

“Stanley, where have you been? Doris and Herbert are here.” It was Mrs. Banks.

“Doris and Herbert who?” he asked.

“Well, well, well. Glad to see you, Stanley,” boomed Mr. Dunstan. “Sorry to be so late. We got lost. Doris always insists—”

“Now go and get Doris and Herb something to drink,” said Mrs. Banks.

“Would you like a martini?” asked Mr. Banks hopefully.

“If it’s all the same to you, Stan, we’ll take old-fashioneds. Can’t I help you?”

“No, no,” said Mr. Banks. “It won’t take a second.”

No one paid the least attention to him.

He didn’t get back to the pantry a minute too soon. A group of thirst-crazed young men were just about to take the matter of service into their own hands. He sent the drinks out to the Dunstans and for the next hour he worked like a dike mender. The only compensation was that the guests now seemed less fussy about what they got. The roar from the living room sounded like a mob scene in a Cecil B. de Mille superspectacle.

Then the crowd began to thin. The roar subsided. He could hear the die-hards gathering in the front hall for a final stand. Mr. Banks closed down his dispensary and rejoined the remnants, outwardly a genial host, but at heart a professional bouncer.

“You’re
a help,” said Mrs. Banks. “Good-by, dear. You were sweet to come.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Playing pool?”

“I know. But why must you always leave the whole thing on
my
shoulders? Good-by, Helen dear. You look sweet in that hat.”

He considered the first part of her remark as unjust as the last was untrue. “Where are the Dunstans?”

“They’re all right. They’re talking to Uncle Charlie or vice versa. Good-by, Sam. Glad you could come.”

He found himself facing a blond young woman with big deer-like eyes. To his dismay she suddenly burst into tears. She was sorry, she sniffled, but this sort of thing did something to her. The thought occurred to Mr. Banks that it usually did if you took enough of it. He turned to help a highly pregnant young woman into her coat.

She was joined immediately by the young man with horn-rimmed glasses who appeared to be her husband. “Hi, hi,” he said. “What’s going on here? What’s the idea? Who’s leaving? Party’s just warming up.” He raised his glass to Mr. Banks, who noted with dismay that it was a fresh one. “Sir, the best party ever. And that reminds me, you never heard the end of that story. It was about the caliph’s daughter. Remember? Well it seems a traveling salesman came to the palace. O.K., June, we’ll be on our way in a minute. I just want to tell Mr. Banks something. Well, as I say, this salesman came to the palace and he fell in love with the caliph’s daughter. Have you heard this one, sir?”

A carefully manicured hand plucked his sleeve. “Mr. Banks. Please. I’ve lost an earring and Grace can’t find her gold compact and we’re absolutely
sick
about it. We’ve looked
everywhere
. It’s very peculiar.”

Something in her voice gave Mr. Banks the feeling that he was under suspicion. Then he saw Mrs. Banks cornered underneath the curve of the stairs by a blond giant. She had her distress signals flying.

“Don’t give it a thought,” he said, patting the manicured hand. “We’ll find everything later—after you’ve gone,” he added hastily. The blond giant was explaining to Mrs. Banks how lucky any man would be to have her for a mother-in-law. Mrs. Banks was obviously lapping it up like a kitten. Yet she had called for help. Queer things, women, mused Mr. Banks, as he moved in.

Like an old cattleman cutting calves from the herd, he disentangled his guests one by one and propelled them through the front door with such light-handed skill that they were unaware of his treachery until they found themselves in the open air.

The young man with the bone glasses was still working on the story about the caliph’s daughter. His audience had shrunk to his pregnant wife and Mrs. Banks, both of whom seemed to have an allergy for Oriental folklore. Placing a fatherly arm about his shoulder, Mr. Banks removed the glass from his cramped fingers.

“Good night,” he purred. “Good night, my boy. You were both swell to come.” As the door closed after them he instinctively placed his back against it. With a sick heart he surveyed the wreckage of what had once been his home. It occurred to him that he had forgotten to announce the engagement.

Somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

   5   

THE FAT IS IN THE FIRE

The only step remaining to make the whole thing irretrievable was the announcement of the engagement in the papers.

Mrs. Banks considered the wording of the notice of vital importance. Her brother, Uncle Charlie, had worked on a Chicago newspaper for several weeks when he was a boy. Since then he had been regarded as an authority on all matters concerning the press. He was now called in as a consultant.

Uncle Charlie said it didn’t make a damn bit of difference how you wrote the notice. The Society Editor would hand your copy to the office boy, who would bitch the whole thing up anyhow.

Mrs. Banks pooh-poohed this. She declared that, in spite of such journalistic cynicism, this notice was going to be letter-perfect. It was written, read, rewritten, reread, submitted to the Dunstan family, revised and resubmitted. There were eventually so many drafts lying around that Mr. Banks couldn’t remember which was the one that had been finally approved.

Kay was the only person who showed no interest. As long as they spelled her name with a “K” and not with a “C” she was satisfied.

Mr. Banks finally took what he hoped was the right draft down to the office to have Miss Bellamy make six copies.

Miss Bellamy was more excited about the wedding than any of the principals. She had been his secretary for fifteen years, during which she had devoted so much time to his personal as well as his business affairs that she had found no opportunity to get married herself. As a compensation she had gradually assumed remote, but nonetheless complete, control of the Banks family.

In a crisis such as this, therefore, Miss Bellamy naturally felt the weight of her responsibility. She had a real affection for Mr. Banks, but it was that of a mother for a backward son. Mrs. Banks she secretly regarded as a cultured incompetent. She had no illusions, therefore, that anything about this whole affair would be handled properly or efficiently, but she was out to do her best to pick up the pieces.

Miss Bellamy made several editorial changes in the copy without even referring the matter to Mr. Banks. Then she typed it with unerring speed. “We must read this back,” she said. “There mustn’t be any mistakes at this point.” She read while Mr. Banks stared unseeingly at the original with fierce concentration.

“There,” he said. “That’s one job done as it should be.” Miss Bellamy nodded understandingly. She was a great comfort to Mr. Banks. Although much too tactful to make any direct comment, she always made it quite clear to him that she knew what he was up against.

The following morning he was out of bed before the alarm went off. The morning paper lay on the door mat. He glanced up and down the shaded length of Maple Drive. Not a soul was in sight. His neighbors slumbered, unconscious of the bombshell about to explode among them.

Sitting on the bottom steps of the front stairs, he turned to the Society Section. There was Kay’s face, smiling at him, and in the news column next to the picture the headline “Catherine Banks to Wed ex-Marine Officer.”

He looked again. Unfortunately he had not been mistaken. It was spelled with a “C” instead of a “K.” That damn fool editor. He’d go around and give him (or was it her?) a piece of his mind. In the meanwhile he had the home team to cope with.

Unfortunately, he had not been mistaken.

He padded in his bare feet to the little room behind the stairs known as “The Office.” Two of Miss Bellamy’s copies of the release were lying on the desk. He had to force himself to look. “Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Banks of Fairview Manor announce the engagement of their daughter Catherine.” How
could
Miss Bellamy! Then he remembered that he had read it back with her.

“Is it in?” Mrs. Bank was standing in the doorway.

“Yes, but they’ve garbled it up just as Uncle Charlie said they would. They’ve spelled Kay’s name wrong.”

“Oh, Stanley! The one thing the child—”

“I know. I know. But what can you do? That’s labor for you. They don’t care any more. It’s the reason the country’s in such a mess.”

He climbed the stairs noiselessly, hoping that Kay might sleep until he was safely on the train to town.

•  •  •

A modern wedding is somewhat like a new theatrical production. Once the cast has been decided upon, the next thing is to determine whether it is to be Big Theater or Little Theater and then fill the house.

Kay opened the argument at dinner. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “This is going to be a
small
wedding and a small
reception.
”