Hare in March (13 page)

She said, “Does that mean Charles isn’t coming home for Easter, Clint?”

“I don’t know, Natalie.”

“I bet that’s what it means. I told Billy he was coming, too.”

“Billy will forgive him, Natalie.”

“You don’t believe that; you don’t even believe Billy hears what I tell him.”

“Do you want some Cherry Heering?”

“I haven’t had anything new for my collection for months, not since Ken Wendt was here for dinner.” “I was only thinking of you.” “I can drink whiskey.”

“All right, Natalie. Now don’t mention the silverware thing.”

“Do you think I
would?
You don’t think I have any feelings, do you, Clint?”

“I know you have very strong feelings.”

“The nuns say they don’t know how I hold up the way I do.”

“We’ll see you soon, dear.”

• • •

It was ten o’clock now; the dishes were rinsed off and put into the dishwasher, and Charles and his father were still sitting at the dinner table over coffee.

Natalie Shepley went into the dining room, carrying a mason jar. She took the powder horn from the center of the table, and began pouring the whiskey into the jar.

“Natalie,
what
are you doing?”

“I’m going to rinse out my powder horn and put it with my collection.”

“Can’t you wait until we’re finished?”

“You have a lot to talk about, and I can’t even start the dishwasher because you complain about the noise. That’s what I hate about having an apartment where the dining room is right on top of the kitchen … I’m not bothering you, am I?”

Clinton Shepley sighed. He said, “It isn’t very gracious pouring a drink from a mason jar, but go ahead; you’ve done it now.”

“This has been such a gracious evening, too.”

Charles said, “What’s the matter, Mom?” and those four little words opened the floodgates.

“Oh
no!”
Clinton Shepley groaned. “Not tonight, Natalie.”

But tonight was no different from any other night when Natalie Shepley drank whiskey, for a bottle of whiskey, whether it was in the shape of a winter flounder or a surrey, was really a Pandora’s box, out of which flew their balance at Bankers Trust, Billy, the nightmare of her teeth falling out at Le Provençal, all the Carter Burden parties they would never attend, a neighborhood housing dope addicts who tied girls together and committed obscene acts upon them, and no one but nuns to appreciate her.

Natalie Shepley ran down the hall and into the bathroom, where she grabbed a wad of Kleenex and wailed.

Then she opened the door a crack, and she heard Clint saying, “… wrong with her but one too many.”

Charles said, “I guess it’s rough on her, though.”

Which set her off again, for ten seconds more, during which she also blew her nose and ran a comb through her hair. Then she went into the bedroom and sat down in the noises-less swivel rocker, and put her hands across her face in a gesture of despair, and waited for Charles to come.

Charles took his time about it, but that was Clint’s doing, because she could hear Clint saying, “She’ll get over it,” and “She’s all right.”

She was not all right, and she was tired of putting on a good face and pretending that she was all right, and it was high time someone besides the sisters at Holy Child realized it, so she told Charles about it when he finally appeared, pulling up a footstool and trying to jolly her.

“I know it’s rough, Mom. I know,” he said.

“I tried to make everything nice, and you didn’t even notice. You didn’t even notice the hollandaise. It wasn’t out of a jar, if you think it was.”

“It was very good. It was very selfish of me not to mention it.”

“You don’t mean to be selfish, but you’re like your father.”

“Mom, we both loved the dinner. Did we leave anything on our plates? Didn’t we have second helpings?”

“It isn’t just the dinner. It’s everything. I’m running myself ragged, Charles.”

“Well, take it
easy,
Mom.”

“How can I? We can’t afford a full-time maid, and if I didn’t go to see Billy every day, he’d just waste away there like a vegetable.”

“Mom, maybe you should go every other day, instead of every day. Really, Mom.”

“He’s my responsibility. You don’t understand responsibility. Neither does your father. Your father could have been the director of Richmond Institute; he had the seniority and everything, but he didn’t want the responsibility and he doesn’t understand what it is, and you don’t run for office either, do you?”

“Mom, I’m a pledge. Pledges don’t run for office.”

“Will
you run for office, when you’re an active? You won’t.”

“Mom, that’s not something I have to worry about right now.”

“I bet Mr. Blouter worried about it when he was a pledge.” “Maybe he did.”

“It isn’t much, but it’s something; it’s better than nothing to be the president of a fraternity. Your father wasn’t anything in his chapter either, but your father had money, and that makes a difference.”

“Mother? How did you know Mike Blouter is our president?”

“Your letters. Your letters, Charles.” “I never mentioned Mike. I didn’t.” “Then your father must have told me.” “How would Dad know?”

“Oh, Charles, does the subject of the conversation always have to go back to you? There’s Billy over in Holy Child so
very
ill and you — “

But Charles did not let her finish.

He said, “Mother, did you write that letter? Did you? Did you promise the fraternity silverware if they’d pledge me?”

“Your father does not want me to discuss this subject, Charles.”

“He knew about it, too? Dad knew about it, too?”

At a loss for words, Natalie Shepley decided to whimper and shiver until Charles left, which was not a long time to have to whimper and shiver, only a few seconds.

He said flatlv. “Good night. Mom.”

Nothing about Easter; nothing about the Pi Pi mother’s pin.

There was a maze of lights flashing different colors; huge sheets of chrome were suspended behind the bandstand, and the booths were upholstered in fake fur.

The man with Lois Faye owned the Hi-Spray Car Wash — Coin Operated chain; he was a bachelor in his forties, and he wore a four-in-hand polka dot necktie five inches wide, with a matching pocket handkerchief, and a dark blue pin-striped suit. His name was Freddy, and he was not at all what Lois had expected, nor was Sam, Swanny’s date, who wore contact lenses, worked on Wall Street, and drove an Impala, which was in a parking lot a block away from the Cheetah.

Sam kept saying they should have gone to Arthur, where they could get a drink; Cheetah served only soft drinks, wine, or beer.

“I want to see this Baby Jane what’s-her-name,” said Freddy. “Did you ever see her?”

Sam said, “She’s old hat.” He looked at Swanny and said, “Isn’t she old hat?”

“Very old hat,” said Swanny, who was feeling the martinis they had downed at the Mayfair.

Sam said, “He embarrasses me. He still thinks Bogey and Betty are married.”

He laughed very hard at that; to be sure everyone heard it and got it, he said, “Freddy still thinks Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall are married.” Swanny said, “Play it again, Sam.”

Sam guffawed and then pretended to be playing a piano.

Swanny said, “I was at Arthur last week with this Englishman, and when I asked him if he thought Prince Charlie was an alcoholic, he said the question was a little previous.
Previous;
how do you like that for openers?”

Freddy said, “I was previous for a whole week, but I’m regular again now.”

Sam and Freddy howled, and Swanny looked across at Lois and made her thumb and first finger into a gun and pointed it at her forehead. But she was laughing at the same time, and she grabbed Sam’s hand and said she wanted to dance, and they got up and left Lois and Freddy alone together.

Freddy said, “Last week I saw Orson Bean. At Shepheard’s.”

Lois said, “You like celebrities, don’t you? You like them
a lot.”

“Well, sure, because in my line of business you don’t meet many … you don’t meet
any.”

Then he said, “I think it’s swell that you’re going to college.”

“It is swell. It’s swell.”

“Well, it
is
swell … Do you want to be something?” “What do you mean, Freddy?”

“You know, a nurse or a teacher or something?” “I want to be a spy.” “No kidding?” “No kidding.”

“I couldn’t see being a spy. I don’t like to travel. My stomach acts up. Even if I take the train.”

“Are you successful and have an ulcer as a result of fighting your way to the top?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“I don’t have an ulcer. I have colitis … You were just kidding me about studying to be a spy, weren’t you?” “Uh-huh.”

“I thought you were … Do you want to trip the light fantastic?”

“All right, we might as well.”

He said, “I wasn’t saying that seriously; that’s just a camp way of asking someone to dance. Do you know about camp?” “Not a great deal.”

“Well, it’s Big Little Books and everything. It’s hard to explain.”

“Explain it when we sit down, okay?”

“If I can. This whole place is camp, for example,” he said, as he led her onto the dance floor.

There were girls in bell-bottom lamé pants suits, giraffe-patterned culottes, mid-thigh dresses, and vinyl suits; there were young men in flannel suits with long jackets and wide lapels, in leather suits, in checkered knickers with madras vests and ice-cream-color silk shirts and floppy ties, in caps, chaps, spats, and high-heeled boots.

The music was live and loud, the lights were eerie, and everyone was gyrating and smiling, and across the room Lois saw Sam’s behind wagging frantically, and in front of her Lois watched Freddy do strange little steps he had made up himself, while the perspiration rolled down his face, and he snapped his fingers and told himself “Go, boy!” at ten-second intervals.

For some reason, she thought of that night in front of the Unmuzzled Ox, when she had stood in the crowd and watched the Kappas flushing like toilets on the sidewalk, and for the first time she realized that what she had felt was envy, and that right now she felt envious of all the girls who weren’t there with dates like Sam and Freddy. The racehorse owner and the shipping magnate hadn’t showed.

She read very little, Lois Faye; she read the books assigned in ?-Lit, and a few years ago she had read a book called
The Ski Bum,
which she had liked a lot, and she had started to read one called
The Adventurers
last summer, but there was one book she had read before any of those, a book by Carson McCullers,
The Member of the Wedding,
and there was a part she had never forgotten. It was the part when the young girl, Frankie, was jealous of some girls who had a club and would not ask her to join, and when Frankie’s maid suggested she make herself president of her own club, Frankie had answered, “I don’t want to be president of a lot of left-over people.”

She thought of that, thought that she wasn’t even president of them, just perpetually a part of them, whether at the dorm at F.P.C., or out for an evening in New York City, with Swanny who was suddenly not The One, but just another loser, no better than Freddy who cherished the memory of seeing Orson Bean at Shepheard’s. It was a dismal revelation.

When she went back to the booth with Freddy and sat down, she was in a near-catatonic state. “Do you want a hot dog?” he said. She shrugged.

“That’s the only food they sell here. That’s camp, too.” “We just ate.”

“I know it, but I’m very oral, I guess. Were you ever analyzed?”

She shook her head.

“I was in for five years. It cost me eight thousand dollars! … I don’t know, maybe it was worth it … Five years ago I was a real jerk. I used to go to these dansants, you know? For discriminating young singles between twenty-two and thirty-eight. Places like Ondine, and Inner Circle and the Mirror Room at Longchamps. They have them on Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, and the fellows pay two dollars. It’s a good deal if you’re not making much money, and in those days I didn’t have Hi-Spray going for me, and a buck was a buck.
Believe
me! … So I went to these dansants, and I just stood around, like Marty or something. Did you see
Marty,
the movie?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that’s what I did. I stood around like Marty…. So I got analyzed, and it helped my social life.” “Good.”

“I keep up with things now. Like camp … Are you sure you don’t want a hot dog?”

“You
do, so why don’t you get one?”

“Do you mind sitting here alone? I could wait until Sam and Terry get back to the table.” “I don’t mind.” “Are you
sure?”
“Yes.”

He got up and pawed his way through the crowd, and Lois Faye felt close to tears.

Then suddenly, then miraculously, Lois Faye saw Charles walking toward the table. She realized she was seeing the only person with whom she wanted to be.

• • •

A half hour ago, when he had left the apartment, he had told his father, “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I
do
worry about it, Charles. I should have told you this afternoon when you came to the institute.”

“It wasn’t
your
fault.”

“I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“Let’s just forget it.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“What
can
I do about it?”

“I’m sorry, Charles. I know it’s humiliating.”

“It’s no skin off mine,” Charles had answered.

It wasn’t either. It was skin off Hagerman. It was good for a lot more than $150. He didn’t need a tape now to make Blouter believe what Hagerman had said: Hagerman had been telling the truth, divulging top-secret information, not playing a mean little prank. Blouter might have forgiven a prank, but he would not forgive this. No wonder Hagerman had paid off so easily. No wonder a lot of things: no wonder Charles had been pocket-pledged the second night of Rush; no wonder Hagerman had hated him on sight; no wonder Mike had roared at Charles’s imitation and called Hagerman over to hear…. A rich man’s joke is
always
funny.

• • •

Charles sat down across from Lois.

He said, “I was just passing by. I heard the music and I saw the pictures of the girls out front, and I thought what-the-hell, you’re not in the big city every day and ten cents isn’t going to
break
you. Want to dance?”

“Charles, can we go?”

“What? Leave all this action? I’m rich as Croesus, and very big in the world of little gifties from Tiffany’s.” “I want to go; can we go?”

“Where? El Morocco? Twenty-one? The Stork Club?” “The
Stork
Club? The Stork Club isn’t open anymore! You’re such a hick!”

“Let me tell you about the ant farms I manufacture.” “Oh, Charles. I missed you.
A lot!”

Charles smiled. There was some change on the table near his elbow. He eased his arm back until his palm made contact with it. “You didn’t even know I was gone.”

“I did! It was just awful, this whole evening.”

“You know what time it is, don’t you? The dorm closed an hour ago.”

“I’ve already signed out.”

“You
what!”

“I was going to stay all night with Swanny.” “Was I supposed to hitchhike back?”

“Charles, I’m being honest with you, at least. I didn’t
have
to tell you.”

“I’m awfully glad you did. I feel great.”

“It isn’t easy to be honest. Give me
some
credit.”

“You
were going to stay with Swanny. We were coming in to buy you a Pucci, and have dinner, and
you
were going to stay with Swanny. I could turn into a cynic; old Docile Charlie could turn into a cynic, do you know that?”

“Charles, my date is going to come back any minute. Let’s go.”

“Where? Are you planning to sleep at the house?”

“You don’t have to be in until three this morning! You
told
me that!”

“Where are
you
going to be at three this morning?”

“You always make me beg you to take me to the Bluebird,” she said. “You like to
lord
it over me!”

Charles Shepley roared; so did Lois.

Then he slipped the change from the table into his overcoat. While she was in the ladies’, Charles went to the lounge and called the Bluebird for a reservation; after that, he very gracefully pocketed a gold cigarette case he saw resting on a couch.

There was a boutique in the Cheetah. Before they left, Charles bought her a pair of backless suede boots.

“You’re in a better mood than I’ve ever seen you in in my whole life!” she said later, as they were crossing the George Washington Bridge.

“I have some game in me,” he smiled.

“At last!”
she answered.

He was thinking that by the time he got back to the house, most of the Pi Pis would be asleep; he was thinking of Blouter’s suite on the third floor, unoccupied, vulnerable, with the petty cash in a portable lockbox in Blouter’s closet.