House Party (13 page)

“Elly!" Bryan whispered. "He's our
uncle!
”

"No fault of mine. Do you suppose I'd better put on my shoes, or could I just show up barefoot?"

"You put on your shoes, damn it!” Bryan growled.

"All
right!
Don't yell the place down." Elly flounced out of the
car and slammed the door. She felt terrible. She'd felt terrible all
afternoon and now she felt worse. She'd been on the point of tell
ing Bryan how sorry she was for being such a shrew this morning,
and then he'd gone all stuffy about her shoes.
Naturally
Elly was going to wear shoes. Couldn't Bryan take a joke? She'd counted
rather heavily on him to be by her side this afternoon after what
she'd just gone through with Joe Sullivan.

Joe Sullivan! The very name made her blood boil. Not only had
he been a perfect monster last night, not only had he beaten her at
tennis and swum out to the raft first—those things she could for
give. But right after lunch today, when she was feeling a little
mellower, she'd said to him "Don't you think we ought to do a little
work on your book?" Not that she
wanted
to. And he'd said, "Sure,
That's what we came out here for, isn't it?" Well, Elly had let that
pass. But what
really
burned her up was that all he
did
was work.
He didn't talk about one other thing but his book. When she bent her head right next to his he didn't even try to kiss her. He just
rambled on about developing this character and reworking that scene and . . .

"Damn 'em all," Elly snarled.

So of course she got herself all gussied up in this green outfit and sneaked a pair of Kathy's pearl earrings which were
killing
her and hopped ostentatiously into Bryan's car instead of going
along with Joe in the station wagon and . . . Well, now she'd
alienated Bryan, and the one man in the world she'd ever thought she might care about turned out not to care about her and her ear lobes throbbed with pain and . . . "Hello, Betty," she said, "swell
party." Elly liked Betty Cannon and she would have lingered
longer to say a little more, but Bryan, who had just introduced
Felicia and that homely Burgess man to General Cannon was
heading this way. "I'll see you later, Betty," Elly said brusquely.
"I've got to wish your old man a happy birthday."

Betty Cannon stared in wonder. How typical of Elly to call the
general her old man. Betty always knew she'd like Elly if she
weren't so in awe of her. But Betty was always in awe of girls who
got everything they wanted as easily as Elly Ames did. There isn't a man in the world Elly can't have eating out of her fingers if she
wants, Betty thought. Now just watch, she'll go up and lead Daddy
around by the nose like a trained bear when he's been so cross all . . . "Hello, Bryan, so glad you came." Bryan was a heavenly man.

"Happy birthday, General," Elly said. Privately and semi-publicly,
Elly thought that boiling in oil was too good for General Cannon,
but she'd been so rude all day—not without provocation—that she
felt she'd better try to be polite to
someone.

"Well, if it ain't the little Ames girl. Just the one I wanted to see
most!” General Cannon threw his arms around Elly and kissed her noisily. He reeked of Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch. "Now, sup-
posin' you just grab hold of my arm here and you an' me'll take a
little prommynayde inta my study. You know all about this pub-lishin' business and there's somethin' I wantcher advice on. Tim-
berline," he roared, "bring a pitcher of good strong Hell-for-Leather inta the study for Elly and I."

Joe watched Elly and General Cannon with sardonic despair
from some fifty yards. "That's right, kid, always head for the generals in this world. You and your bunch wouldn't look at a private
like me if . . ."

“I beg your pardon?" Claire said, smoothing the long suede gloves up over her arms.

"I said, Jeest, imagine being at a real live general's shin-dig when just a year ago I was cleaning out the enlisted men's latrine in Korea."

"Excuse me," Claire said faintly, "I have to find Paul." She hurried away, not entirely unconscious of the admiring eyes focused on her. She hadn't been altogether sure about this dress. It was from one of the new Spanish designers, and they were apt to be risky. But now that this chance to land Paul had come her way, she could relax a little. Risky or not, she wore the untested Spanish design and she wore it
proudly.
And as much as she feared being seen twice in the same thing by the same people, she put on Hildegarde's hat again—just to show the Ameses she didn't give a damn. After all, she thought, I'm practically an Ames myself, and I haven't seen a hat around here that cost anything
like
this one, except Mrs. Clenden . . . Auntie Violet's.

"Here I am, sweetheart," Paul squeezed her arm.

"Oh, Paul. Please. My gloves. They're brand new."

The first sip of Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch made Kathy's knees give and her throat contracted violently. She should have remembered last year and the year before about the general's secret formula. But the next sip went down a little easier and the third made her feel a lot better.

"Why, Katherine Ames, as I live and breathe. How
stylish
you look!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Colby. I'd like to present Mr. Stone."

If one more woman came up to her in front of Manning and told her she was looking smart in a tone which implied she usually looked like a ragpicker, Kathy swore she'd throw the whole punch bowl at her. Couldn't a girl get a new dress without everyone acting as though she'd spent her whole life in sackcloth and ashes? First Elly, then Mother, then Aunt Violet, then Betty Cannon, then four women at the party. It was a beautiful dress, too—severe and cut very low. It was one of her Manning dresses.

"Darling," Kathy said, laying a proprietary hand on Manning's impeccable sleeve, "would you be a love and get me another glass of punch?"

"Righto, darling," Manning said and strode elegantly to the bar.

What a funny, funny day this has been, Kathy thought. Yes, it had all been ever so odd. First this morning that nice lawyer-man of Felicia's had been entertained—almost enthralled—by every word Kathy had said. Then Felicia was the
first
female in twenty-nine years who had let Kathy know that she was a, well, a
menace.
Felicia could just go chase herself. It's strange to find out you're a wit and a menace all in one hour after never knowing
what
you are. Kathy had been so upset that she'd had three old fashioneds before lunch and washed down her meal with a full bottle of
vin rosé.
I ought to watch my drinking, Kathy thought. But it had helped so much this afternoon with Manning.

That had been a scene—pure French farce; really one for the books. She'd asked Manning to come to her bedroom—just to talk, nothing else. Kathy had sat on her orange chaise longue in a very proper robe, with Manning at her feet. He held her hand, but that was all. And
talk
was exactly what they did. Feeling a little mellow, Kathy had wanted to try out her newly discovered sense of comedy. She'd said things that seemed awfully witty, like "Oh, but darling, we might be terribly, terribly bohemian and live on love in a garret down in the Village. Rudolph and Mimi. Or perhaps we could be that cunning little Lord & Taylor couple who live in one expensive room and both have fascinating careers and know scads of well-dressed people with long eyelashes. Or we might just pig it in a suite at the Plaza after your play has been produced and . . ." Well, she had been absolutely killing herself with her brilliant repartee when the door opened and Paul lurched in, a pencil over one ear, his working glasses down on the tip of his nose, his dirty old robe and all the hair on his chest hanging out,

"Oh," Paul had said and lurched right out again.

Well, it hadn't been as though they were
doing
anything they couldn't be seen doing in the drawing room. But Paul was so
moody
with other people. Goodness, Kathy giggled, I wonder what he
did
think was going on?

Paul's arrival and departure had given Kathy the cue to play the scene as though it were one of those sophisticated, light-hearted English comedies of bad manners. "This is really
seductio in absurdio,
isn't it, Manning, dear?" she had said, biting the tip of his ear. Kathy assumed that one did bite the tip of an ear in the
haute monde
of sexual debauchery.

"Ouch!" Manning had said. Then he got the idea and said, "Darling," and had thrown his arms around her waist burying his head in her bosom.

At that moment the bathroom door had banged open and Elly padded in, wrapped in a bath towel. "Ooops, sorry. I wont be a minute, Kath. I just wondered if you'd let me borrow a pair of earrings." Elly had gone right on with her business, just as though Manning hadn't even been in the room. By then, Manning had jumped to his feet and stood there looking terribly mystified and a little flustered. Elly had departed and that just about ended the boudoir scene.

"One might as well try to find ecstasy in Grand Central Station," Kathy had said with a tinselly laugh. "It's pure You
Can't Take It With You
around here, I'm afraid." She had suspected this speech of trite imagery, but it was too late to find more worldly similes. Manning was on his way out.

"Well, I'd better be getting dressed, darling. Perhaps . . .”

"Ah, yes," Kathy had said, stretching her arms snakily above her head. "Perhaps sometime later we can meet clandestinely in the conservatory or in a rococo suite in a West Side hotel." She laughed airily, feeling very witty and very seductive.

Manning had been stunned. "It's a very smart room," he had said and bolted out.

Smart, witty, seductive. Seductive, witty, smart. Kathy had got up, poured herself a strong drink from the pint of rye in her suitcase and lain down on the bed for a little nap. Very, very, curious.

Now she waved gaily across the garden to him. "Manning, darling, hurry over with the replacements. I can't hold out much longer. Hahahaha!" This has got to be the
last
drink, Kathy told herself sternly. The last till dinner.

Manning's hand shook and the Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch sloshed wildly in the cup he was filling for Kathy. Who did she think she was, Beatrice Lillie? Ever since he'd met her, she had been putty in his hands—just like all the rest of them, only worse. She had practically slobbered every time she saw him. Then all of a sudden she was putting on this high comedy act. Manning didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. It reminded him of that Irish girl back home in New Jersey—back at Passaic High. Maureen, that's what her name had been. Well, this Maureen had acted just like Kathy; led him on and on until he was all ready for action and then she'd laughed in his face; laughed him right out of town; laughed until he had to quit high school, leave home and come to New York to spiv around until he landed a job in the chorus of
Anything Goes,

Manning never thought of Passaic any more. He never thought of Momma or Poppa or the store or how he had been in the dramatic club's presentation of
The Honorable Crichton
or the job he might now have at the Forstmann Woolen Mills. He only thought of Maureen laughing at him. That was nearly twenty years ago and he hadn't forgotten it yet. So Kathy wants to laugh too, does she? Okay, we'll see who's the best laugher before we settle down to anything permanent.

But Manning knew when he was beaten. He had to settle down to something permanent pretty fast. The June rent wasn't paid and there was little hope of paying July's. Maybe this career had more glamor than one at Forstmann's in Passaic, but a steady source of income never hurt anybody. He'd bring her around, God damn it. Just throw a little scare into her and then the big reconciliation. Maybe he could even get old Auntie Ned to be best man.

The lawn was filling up with people. The Hemenways had arrived. So had the Hem
in
ways and the Hem
ing
ways. The two-m Hemmingways were expected momentarily. No one who had lived in the vicinity of Pruitt's Landing for less than three generations could tell the difference between any of the four families, but as each of the H'ways felt that his genealogy was the most illustrious, there was certain to be misunderstanding, confusion and difficulty when they all—a total of twenty-three people—appeared at the same party.

The accordionist, temporarily free from the general's musical despotism, stopped playing "The Caissons Go Rolling Along" and launched into “Tea for Two," "She Didn't Say Yes," and "Who"—hummable old standbys which had kept him gainfully employed every Saturday afternoon since the depression. Timberline had to refill the punch bowl four times and the Gustafson sisters noticed that even the anchovy paste and pimiento sandwiches were beginning to go—always a sign that a party had turned the corner and was on its way to being a success.

Still the cars kept rolling up the drive. Betty Cannon was feeling a little desperate. Even if it
was
Daddy's birthday, it wasn't fair of him to disappear with Elly Ames and leave her to greet the guests and make excuses for him. Where was he, anyhow? "Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Crum, I'm so glad you could make it . . . Daddy? Oh, he's around
someplace.
Do go and get some of his famous punch before it all disappears. Timberline will serve you." Betty considered having a cup of Hell-for-Leather herself, but then thought better of it. She hadn't had
lunch
today.

Joe Sullivan stood first on one foot, then on the other, at the edge of the driveway. He felt alone and embarrassed, largely because he was both alone and embarrassed. Now he hated the whole Ames-Pruitt pack for leaving him hung up this way in a throng of strangers. He had to admit that Felicia had waved to him from the punch bowl, which was thoughtful of her, even if she was a snake from the word Go. And Joe had overheard Paul muttering "Hadn't we better take Sullivan with us, honey? He won't know anybody," But Claire had said "Oh, darling, please. No." And so Joe was alone. Maybe were all a lot of low-grade hicks back in Mooseheart, he fumed, but nobody back home would treat company like this.

Now he watched what he sardonically labeled The Idle Rich at Play. There were the Dressy Rich—older people mostly who had gone to some pains for the general's party. A few of the old dames were wearing full-length flowered chiffon dresses that fairly screamed Lawn Party. Lorgnettes and/or lavalieres, dependent on platinum chains, thumped against their stomachs. Their husbands wore yellowing white suits that looked as though they'd been cut in 1900 and carried yellower Panama hats.

There were the Smart Rich—the women wore trim little uniforms of black or navy and looked as though they gave some thought to calories and the trends in hairdressing. Their menfolk wore suits of tropical worsted, raw silk or chemical fabrics, and went bareheaded.

Then there were the Dowdy Rich, who were probably the richest of all. These women came in wrinkled dresses longer in front than in back. Their legs were encased in lisle stockings that gathered like Venetian blinds at the ankle and they were shod in soiled oxfords that proclaimed stout wear and bunions. One knew that their slips were made of real silk because they showed and one sensed real silk bloomers beneath.

There were the Athletic Rich who arrived late in shorts and tennis shoes, sunburned and disheveled, wrapped in cable-knit sweaters and smelling faintly like venison.

All told, the crowd didn't look much different from one at the bank president's reception back in Mooseheart or a faculty tea at the University. Only their accents were different. But Joe decided that they were hostile. "Goddam pack of snobs," he growled. Then he hitched up his trousers and made a beeline for the silver bowl of Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch.

The accordion swelled to deafening crescendo with the final bars of "I Get a Kick Out of You." Manning Stone thought wearily of hearing Ethel Merman sing it eight times a week in
Anything Goes,
then thrust aside his memories of the musical stage and smiled ardently at Kathy. The conversation rose to a roar.

"One thing about compost is that it really
does
discourage Japanese beetles, and I must say that our roses never looked as . . .”

"Barbara's so anxious for a boy this time. Three little girls so far and of course they do want a son to carry on the . . ."

". . . why he can't simply have a few bottles of cheap whiskey instead of this concoction . . ."

"Anchovies always give me the worst hives."

". . . train service is getting steadily worse. I wrote a letter. . .”