Her Father's House

by Belva Plain

  “Are you? Then we must have met before. I'm a people person, and yet I've got a bad memory.”

  “Oh, there you are,” Chloe Sanders called out. “I said to Frank, those are the Wolfes in that stunning little Italian number. When did you get it?”

  “We didn't. We rented it,” Donald said.

  “To try it out,” Lillian explained. “To see whether we like it enough to buy it.”

  Something trickled down Donald's neck. It was so warm that it could well have been a few drops of water, but it was not; it was shame. Why did she say things like this as if people couldn't see right through her remark? On the other hand and for all he knew, perhaps they didn't see.

  Frank Sanders now came up. “Place is jumping. I never knew I knew so many people. Take two steps and there's old Ray, or Charlie, or somebody. It's a great crowd. They've got two top bands—I forget the names—but later on there's going to be entertainment by the Dig Down Wheezers. They cost a dime or two!”

  “I'm starved,” said Chloe.

  The crowd was drifting toward the tent. It was a huge construction whose walls were of sheer white silk. Losing touch with the only couple they knew, as the Sanders were immediately surrounded by friends, Donald and Lillian found themselves at a table with strangers. They were all strangers to one another.

  Not the top echelon, he thought with some amusement. They're on the fringe, like us. They're the leftovers.

  Lillian was perplexed that they were not sitting with any of the women with whom she had become acquainted at the charity luncheons, and he saw that she was hurt. She did not understand that status here was assigned according to net worth, but since this was neither the time nor the place to explain that, he merely said that it was nice to be meeting new people. A pretty young woman across from them was telling everyone that they had never before been at a party like this.

  “It's so lovely of them to invite Rick and me. Our children go to the same day camp with theirs, that's how we know each other. Of course, we're neighbors, too, or sort of neighbors. Our house used to be the gardener's cottage on that big place across from here.”

  Donald liked her honesty, and her husband Rick's simplicity. He was a lawyer, a sole practitioner here in town.

  “Oh, Orton and Pratt,” he said when Donald, in answer to his question, had to give the name of his firm. “A lot of pressure must go with a job in a place like that, I imagine.”

  “Donald is one of the partners,” Lillian said unnecessarily.

  Why did she have to talk like that? She used to be so tactful. It was on his lips to tell her privately just how unnecessary and even boastful her remark had sounded, but thinking better of it, he drew her instead onto the dance floor and into the flow of the music.

  “It's very smart of them to have two bands,” she said. “The rock band will alternate with this one every half hour or so. In that way everybody will be happy.”

  Her face, turned up toward his, was like some gleaming tropical flower that he knew he had seen somewhere, perhaps in a botanical garden. The music lilted; he was swept into a sense of total harmony. How then was it that in a matter of seconds, this harmony could be broken by a trivial remark?

  Lillian spoke softly. “We go well together, don't we?”

  “We do,” he said.

  “You're happy. You didn't think you would like it here this much.”

  He smiled. “You read my mind, don't you?”

  “I do. You mustn't take everything so seriously, Donald. That's your trouble.”

  “No,” he said, “that isn't my trouble.”

  Just then someone tapped him on the shoulder. “I'm cutting in. It's allowed, didn't you hear?” The man was slightly drunk, or not so much drunk as just “feeling good.” “Why should you monopolize the best-looking woman in the room?”

  Because she consented to the man, Donald let her go. Back at the table he watched, and seeing that she was quite safe, rejoined the conversation.

  At the far end of the table, a stout man who was probably younger than he looked was holding forth. “Have you any idea what an affair like this costs? First they get party planners to put all of it together. Twenty thousand for starters for the planners. Then after that, the sky's the limit. Take a look at the flowers on this table. Just the flowers. From Hawaii, five hundred minimum for twenty-five tables, it's safe to say. And that's peanuts. What about the caviar at all the bars? Prime steaks, lobster, anything you want. Did you see the other dance floor, the one they built on top of the pool?” The stout man, whose enthusiasm had begun to border on awe, was not about to wait for an answer. “Walk around. Take a look. Tell you something confidential. Later, when they're sure the kids are in bed, nobody prowling around downstairs, they're having a couple of strippers for entertainment, so don't leave too soon.”

  Now the bands changed places. This one pounded. The accompanying singer bellowed. The dancers went wild. They spun, they collided, their knees and elbows worked like pistons, and they sweated.

  Donald looked for Lillian, and not seeing her pass, got up to search. Still unable to find her in the jostling mob now grown to double its original size, he sat down again. Oh, let her enjoy herself! As soon as she came back in sight, he would get up and join her, although the truth was that he could do without this kind of dancing; he had been rather good at it when he was eighteen, but by twenty-five or so, he had outgrown it. And laughing a little at himself, he watched and waited for her.

  As newcomers poured through the entrance, the tent was constantly losing its cooled air. The young lawyer Rick looked at his watch, and his wife covered her mouth to yawn. Half an hour had gone by since Donald's last sight of Lillian.

  Puzzled, a little worried, and a little angry, too, he got up and walked away from the tent. The night air and the sudden quiet once the band was out of hearing were soft. A few stars rose above the glow of the lanterns that had been hung among the trees. Little groups were scattered upon the lawn, strolling or standing. If he had not had something else on his mind, he would have absorbed the rare beauty of the scene.

  Well, she can't be far, he thought, and began to walk. Somebody must have seen her.

  Two men, passing him, mentioned a name that was all too familiar. “Son of a gun, they'll never catch him. He's smarter than ten Interpols. Or top-notch law firms, or the IRS, either.”

  The other man chuckled. “I'm on his side. Feather your nest, is what I say.”

  Chuckled! A lump of disgust formed in Donald's throat. Enough of this. Where the devil was she? Find her, and go home.

  “Looking for your wife? We saw her going down to the pond, I think.” Turning, Donald saw Rick with his wife hurrying away toward the road.

  The wife said, “We're leaving early. The baby-sitter, you know. But it was a lovely party.”

  Innocent, he thought, watching them go. She wanted to be polite about the party, which obviously they had not enjoyed. And he walked on toward the pond.

  Frank Sanders and a woman whom Donald did not know were standing there. “Looking for Lillian?”

  “Yes. She seems to have disappeared. I can't imagine—”

  “Have you looked at the beds?”

  “Beds?”

  “There are three or four of them on the other side of the tent.” Frank laughed. “You haven't heard about them?”

  For an instant, Donald went blank. In the second instant, when recall came, he was sure his blood pressure was rising.

  “Yes,” he said, “I'd read something, heard something, about parties like those, but I didn't expect it here.”

  “Why not? Anyhow, they're over that way if you want to look.”

  Donald's blood pounded; he even felt its swelling pressure under the wedding band on his finger. Walking rapidly back toward the tent, passing it almost at a run, he rounded a corner of high shrubbery and came upon Lillian walking ahead, accompanied by a man.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned, and seeing Donald, cried out, “Where'
ve you been? I've been looking all over for you. Hugh—it is Hugh, isn't it?—this is my husband, Donald Wolfe.”

  Both men nodded. Then the other one said, “Well, now that you've found each other, I'll look for my own party, be on my way.”

  “Lillian, what was that about?” demanded Donald when the other man was out of hearing.

  “About? I was looking for you. I met this man, and he was helping me look, that's all.”

  Light touched her flushed face; slanting across a bay enclosed by young spruce, it revealed a bed in the background, a proper bed with a couple lying on it.

  “Don't fool with me, Lillian,” he said, still very quietly.

  “What are you doing to me? I didn't even know about this, did you?”

  “Not till a few minutes ago.”

  “Then why are you accusing me? You always pick on me, Donald.”

  “That's not true. You know very well I don't.”

  Now as they walked away and drew closer to a lantern, he saw that her face was burning. She stumbled, and caught herself. There was a large, wet stain on her dress.

  “What have you been drinking?” he demanded.

  “Do I have to explain every breath I take? Do I?” she whimpered.

  Suddenly he thought he understood. No, she would not have been going voluntarily to one of those beds. The man had been about to take advantage of her condition. It was an old, old story.

  “Come this way, Lil. We're going home. We've had enough of this place.”

  “Maybe you have, but I haven't. The party's just begun, and I'm having a good time.”

  “What have you been drinking, anyway? Whatever it was, you've had far too much of it.”

  “I don't know what it was. What difference does it make? Somebody offered me a few drinks, they tasted good, and I drank them.”

  “These people are foul. Foul.”

  When she stumbled again, he picked her up and carried her, now almost limp, to the flashy little car, and they rolled out onto the highway. From time to time he looked over at her; she had fallen asleep, and there was something vaguely sad about a human being asleep and vulnerable, or so he always thought. Only a few hours ago they had driven to the party in such high spirits. She had been especially gaily beautiful in her dress—periwinkle, was it? Now, huddled in the seat with that big stain below the incongruous diamond necklace, she filled him with anger.

  It isn't only because she drank too much—that can happen, he thought. Or because of what that man might have done with her if I hadn't come along just then. It's the whole bad atmosphere of the place. That guy Rick felt it, too. They didn't belong there. That's why they left so early. And Lillian doesn't belong there, either.

  They were almost home when she woke up, tidied her hair, and checked her lipstick. Before they entered the building, she wrapped a shawl into a graceful curve that hid the soiled dress.

  “All right? Will I do?” She spoke brightly, as though nothing at all had happened.

  She “did” very well, indeed. Two men riding up in the elevator cast meaningful glances in her direction, and then toward each other, glances that possibly Lillian missed, but that Donald did not.

  “Shall I make some coffee?” he asked when they opened their door.

  “Not unless you want any. I don't need it, thanks. Did I disgrace you too badly?”

  “No, nor yourself, either. I got you away before you could.”

  When he went into the bedroom a few minutes later, she had already removed all her clothes except the necklace.

  “Unclasp this for me, will you please? I hate to take it off. It must be worth a year's rent on this place, or more, for all I know.”

  He removed the necklace and laid it on the bedside table. As her hand went out to touch it, he seized the finger that bore his ring.

  “I'm the man who gave you this diamond,” he said roughly. “Remember that.”

  “You're jealous,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Of whom? Of whom should I be jealous?”

  “Of anybody. Men at the party. Men in the elevator just now.” There she stood with her head high, teasing him and smiling. Damn her! She was infuriating, she was irresistible, she made him angry, and she made him want her with every bone and every drop of his blood.

  “Get into that bed,” he said, “and do it now.”

  It is remarkable, he told himself the next day, how a night of intense love can soothe the nerves, eradicate uncertainties, and make the world seem to be a place where almost everything is manageable. He was also thinking that the less time she spent with Chloe Sanders and her restless ilk, the better.

  “I was just thinking,” he said, “that with all the energy you have, it might be a good thing for you to work full time until your course begins. Why not ask Mr. Buzley? You always get along so well. He'd probably be glad.”

  As it turned out, he was glad. And every day Lillian came home with some new anecdote or impression with which she entertained Donald over dinner. The most amazing people came to Buzley's office, surely not the kind who came into Orton and Pratt. In one week there had been a famous rap singer accused of assault, and a woman who had come off welfare and won the lottery.

  “It's fascinating! And old man Buzley is remarkable. This is his wife's fourth year of fighting Lou Gehrig's disease, waiting to die, but you'd never guess when you're with him. You wouldn't believe his sense of humor unless you heard him cracking jokes. Poor old man, I'm really crazy about him.”

  Yes, he had done the right thing in leading her away from the Sanders crowd. Roaming through the city as they had in their first days together, renting a rowboat in the park, picnicking with friends beneath the trees, they celebrated the lovely month of June.

  Early in July there came an invitation. Roy Fox was giving a party.

  “I'm really surprised they remembered us,” said Lillian. “Why, the Foxes only had us because of the Sanders.”

  “This one copied his brother's list, that's all. I'm very sure no one there really remembered you or me.”

  “Roy's estate is supposed to be even more fabulous than Tommy's. I'm really curious to see how that can be.”

  Donald shook his head. “Lil, dear, we're not going.”

  “Not going! Whyever not?”

  “One person's ‘fabulous' is another person's disgust, Lil.”

  “What's the matter? Those beds again? Just because some people go in for that sort of thing doesn't mean other people have to.”

  Her voice and her posture told him that this was not going to be over with in five minutes. At the same time, something clicked in his memory: Of course! That man whom he had overheard applauding the very scoundrel who had fled the country with his stolen millions, that man was Roy and Tommy's father.

  “Foul,” he said. “Those people are foul.”

  “Why? Oh, because of those beds you consign them to hell?”

  “No, it's larger and deeper than that.”

  He was not about to start a discussion about morals, sexual, financial, or otherwise, so he answered simply.

  “The whole affair was vulgar. Too much of everything. Sometimes less is more. I didn't like the atmosphere, and I don't want to go again.”

  “You ought to get a soapbox, Donald. You sound like a preacher. You're a puritan.”

  “I may have been called a lot of things behind my back, possibly I have been, but I doubt ‘puritan' was ever one of them.”

  “Then you're some kind of radical who hates anybody richer than he is.”

  “You really know you're talking nonsense now. Do I hate, as you put it, do I hate Mr. Pratt? No, because he's decent in every way. He enjoys what he earns, doesn't waste, doesn't show off, and is, above all, honorable.”

  “All this heavy talk about a simple invitation. I can't believe it.” Lillian stared at him. “You can be so boring, Donald. Have you any idea how boring you can be? I had such a different impression of you that day we met, that you were vital, and humorous, a
nd open-minded.”

  Strange, he thought as he met her stare, that those are the very qualities for which I am sometimes praised. Still, he stood there looking at her blue eyes as he might have looked at the knives that had stabbed him.

  “I'm curious, Donald. What did you think of me when we met?”

  “I didn't think. I only felt,” he said.

  In the wide bed they lay without touching. Lights and shadows moved across the ceiling. Can we have made a mistake? he asked himself. Pain cold as terror ran through him. All this anger, all these words, because of some stranger's worthless invitation! Should he perhaps give in and go? Something said yes, give in, it's not worth the fuss. And something else said no. This goes much deeper than whether we spend those few hours with those particular people or not.

  But how deep, and why, and where does it end?

  In the morning after a few cool, civil words, each of them rushed off to work. Donald's day was a typical one, filled with meetings, papers, telephone calls, and no time for personal affairs. But by early evening when the long day ended, those affairs came flooding back, and he was shocked to realize that he did not want to go right home. So he telephoned, made an excuse, and went out for a hamburger with one of the new lawyers in the firm.

  This young man was lonesome because his wife was out of town visiting somebody in her family who was ill. She was pregnant, and he missed her terribly. But she would be coming back on Tuesday, and he was counting the hours, he said, unembarrassed to speak the words or to display the happiness on his face.

  He seems so innocent and so young, Donald thought as he walked home, although he isn't that many years younger than I am. Why do I feel so heavy and sad? Am I seeing a mountain when it's really only a hill? Am I?

  She had been waiting for him with something to tell him; this he saw on her face when he entered. He could not read whether the news was good or bad, only that it was important.

  “I'm pregnant,” she said.

  That night, he thought at once, the night of that party when we came home. In fact, he had even wondered about it later because he had taken no precautions; she had overwhelmed him.