She finished the last section of fruit and scooped up all the pits in her hand. Twenty-one. She was reluctant to throw them away, recognizing dimly that in some way these pits were alive and capable of growth. So of course they wouldn’t like to be thrown away. In the end, she removed, from its red velvet box, the diamond clip Martha had given her and put the pits in it instead. Then she placed the box carefully in one of her bureau drawers. If there had been a pen handy, she might have labeled the box, “Pits. The day I discovered number of sections in tangerines. June 10.”
But the label wasn’t necessary. She wouldn’t forget. The bureau was cluttered with boxes, odds and ends of ribbon and colored bits of wool, two robins’ eggs (hardboiled, as a preservative), pressed flowers and waxed maple leaves, and empty match folders. Each of these meant something to her, each was a patch of brightness, a thread of color from her life. She didn’t want to cast any of them aside; she couldn’t see the necessity for it. It was such a big house, there was so much room, why should it not be used?
“But it’s so untidy,” Martha had said.
Her mother hadn’t replied because the only reply she could think of was the truth, that untidiness didn’t bother her, she rather enjoyed it.
She closed the bureau drawer and moved toward her lounge. She was already settled on it before she remembered that she hadn’t put the diamond clip away. She should, of course, get up and do it right away. But she felt no interest in it. The clip was hers, Martha had given it to her, but it didn’t belong to her in the sense that the tangerine pits did. It even pleased her to see it lying there neglected on the table, while the pits lay snugly in the red velvet box.
But imagine trying to explain that to Martha! Dear me. Imagine, for that matter, trying to make Martha understand that she didn’t want expensive gifts from her, that she felt guilty about accepting them because the money was not Martha’s, but Charles’s.
She remembered the day Martha had given her the pearl earrings. She’d never owned or wanted to own earrings, but Martha insisted that she wear them down to dinner to show Charles, and to save trouble, she did.
She didn’t wait for Charles to notice them. She said at once, “Well, Charley, how do you like the earrings you just gave me?”
Charles smiled. “Fine. I have good taste, haven’t I?”
She was reassured by his smile. It was a little ironic but friendly, too, as if he couldn’t help the irony—that was for the whole world—but the friendliness was for her alone.
He caught her eye now and then throughout the evening. He seemed to know that the earrings pinched like the devil and gave her a headache. He always knew things like that. At first, she couldn’t understand how he did it but when she became better acquainted with him she realized that it was because he was extraordinarily sensitive. He was continually putting himself in someone else’s place. He understood other people’s triumphs and weaknesses and humiliations because they were his, too. He knew how she felt about the earrings because he knew how he, himself, would have felt under the circumstances.
Yes, Charles was a good man. It was easy to see why so many people were devoted to him. Yet it was easy, too, to see Martha’s side of the problem. Charles’s introspections bewildered her, his charm of manner made her feel graceless and awkward. She was impatient with his poor health and annoyed by his humor, because she believed that it was directed—and it usually was—against her.
There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Shaw slid off the couch with desperate agility, grabbed the diamond clip and said, “Come in.”
When Martha entered she was pleasantly surprised to find her mother taking an interest in things again, actually trying on the clip in front of the mirror.
“Do you really like it?” Martha said.
“It’s beautiful,” her mother replied, with truth.
“I’ll keep it for you in my wall safe. Where’s the box?”
“I thought we could wrap it in a silk handkerchief instead. I read somewhere that that was better.”
“Did you?”
“In a magazine.” Oh, dear me, she thought, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
She hoped that Martha wouldn’t pursue the subject, and Martha, for a change, didn’t.
She said instead, “Do we know anyone with young men in the family?”
“Young men?”
“Besides the Randolphs, I mean. The Randolph boy has buck teeth. Besides, he’s only fifteen. Laura wouldn’t be interested. It’s time she met some young men.”
“She does, doesn’t she? At school and places like that?”
“That’s different. We would give a party for her here if we knew whom to invite.”
“A party?”
“Don’t look so astonished. Other people give parties. There’s room in the drawing room for a small orchestra.”
“But . . .” Mrs. Shaw said, and stopped right there. No use saying “But” to Martha. If she decided on a party, a party was inevitable. It was also inevitable that in some way or other the party would go wrong. Martha would bustle around for days, shopping, cleaning, harrying the servants, coaxing the flowers, and then at the last minute, something essential would be missing.
“It would do Laura good,” Martha said. “It would take her mind off—things.”
“What things?”
“She’s been studying too hard.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Shaw said, surprised that Martha was taking the trouble to lie to her. It must be serious, she thought. What’s Laura been doing? Smoking on the sly? Drinking? Falling in love? That must be it, or Martha wouldn’t have talked about “young men.”
“A party would be nice,” she said.
“I think so, too. It’s such an ideal time to have it, when Charles is away. The noise might bother him.”
“I’m sure it would,” said Mrs. Shaw, knowing perfectly well that Charles didn’t mind noise.
“We could have Hunter’s do the catering. And what’s the name of those people who engrave invitations? Franklin’s, I think. I’ll have to ask Brown about orchestras.”
“Why don’t you ask Laura? She’d know more than Brown would.”
“I suppose so.”
Laura was, however, the last one in the house to hear about the party. Her mother told her when she went in to say good night.
“Martha’s giving you a party.”
Laura was at the vanity doing her hair up in pin curls. She held a bobby pin clenched between her teeth and it made her voice sound tight.
“Why?”
“She thought you’d like one. She’s going to a lot of trouble—an orchestra and engraved invitations . . .”
“Engraved invitations?” Laura turned violently. “I’d sooner die!”
“Well, my goodness!”
“I’d sooner plunge a knife into my heart! Is she trying to make a fool of me? That kind of party—my friends would howl. It’s a goon trap.”
“Oh.”
“When you’re an absolute goon, when you’re utterly, completely drippish, that’s the kind of party your family has to give for you because it’s the only way you’ll ever get anybody to dance with you. And I’m not a goon, I’m not!”
She turned back to the mirror to seek confirmation. Her image was not reassuring. Her hair was half up and half down, and the special anti-wrinkle cream she had spread around her eyes to stave off the onslaughts of old age was oozing down her cheeks like tears of oil.
She spoke again, more uncertainly. “I mean, when I’m all fixed up I’m not. And my new blue suit on.”
“My goodness, of course you’re not a goon.”
“She doesn’t have to catch any boys for me! Lots of boys think I’m a—pretty solid dish.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Not that I’m interested in boys
. They’re too young for me. I was only proving a point.” She grabbed a strand of hair and twisted it viciously into a pin curl. “What’s more, Charley said I’m going to be just as good-looking as she is when I get older.”
“What have you got on your face, dear?”
“Stuff. For my crow’s feet. Guaranteed.” She leaned forward and somberly examined in the mirror the skin around her eyes where, according to the manufacturers of the cream, she might reasonably expect to find the first hideous signs of old age.
“Laura?”
“What?”
“It’s just that Martha doesn’t understand about—goon-traps. I didn’t myself, I never even heard about them before. But I see now what you mean. And if you explain it to Martha, I’m sure she’ll see, too.”
“Oh, will she? Maybe she won’t want to. Maybe there’s nothing she’d like better than to make me out a goon because she’s jealous.”
“Martha has no reason to be jealous of you.”
“Oh, hasn’t she?” Laura began picking up the rest of the bobby pins, one by one. She looked sober and self-contained again. “Well, let her give the party, if she wants to. But I won’t come. I just won’t be here, that’s all.” She would run away. Driven from her home by her jealous sister, she would flee into Steve’s arms where she would find peace. She wished she had had a few more chances to entice Steve, in order to make her reception more certain. Still, it couldn’t be helped. She might never get another excuse for fleeing, so flee she must. It was too bad she had to leave before her $2.95 dimple-making machine, guaranteed, arrived from New York. But you can’t have everything.
“Now wait, Laura,” her mother said.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Well, what kind of party would you like? Martha tries her best, but she can’t be expected to read minds, you know.”
“It’s damn lucky she can’t.”
“Don’t swear, dear. What is your idea of a party?”
“Well,” Laura hesitated. “Just a coke sesh. You know, the gang coming in and some new records and maybe hot dogs to eat.”
“Then that’s the way you’ll have it.”
“Honestly? And no chaperones? Please, no chaperones?”
“No chaperones,” Mrs. Shaw said with a conviction she did not feel.
“When? When can I have it?”
“Any time. Tomorrow night, if you like.”
The fleeing would have to be postponed, which was perhaps just as well. It would give her time to try her new suit on Steve, and maybe dimples, too, if the machine arrived tomorrow.
She dashed across the room and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Honestly, you’re quite human!”
“I’ve always taken that for granted,” Mrs. Shaw said, but she was very pleased. She realized that Laura and her friends used old words in a new way, and to be called “human” was a high compliment. “Now go to bed. I’ll see Martha right away.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Will you be firm, really firm?”
“I’ll be extremely firm.”
“You’re terrif,” Laura said, and went serenely off to bed.
Her mother found Martha downstairs in the drawing room. All the lamps in the room were lit, and Martha was standing off in one corner, studying each piece of furniture, each light, like a stage manager.
Mrs. Shaw hesitated in the doorway. Some of her boldness had already deserted her. It was not that she was afraid of Martha but that she felt sorry for her. For Martha was planning, there was no doubt of it. She was planning not merely the details of the party itself, but who should be there and where each of them would sit, and what questions would be asked and what answers given. And in her plans, everything was perfect. The girls were well-dressed and pretty, with Laura the prettiest, of course; the boys were handsome and attentive. Everyone was gay and laughing, with Laura the gayest, the best dancer, wearing the most exquisite dress and capturing the best-looking boy. Everything was perfect, in Martha’s plans.
Her mother watched her with pity. Only someone who was bitterly unhappy and dissatisfied could spend all her time planning perfection. If she loved Charley, Mrs. Shaw thought, if she had a life of her own . . .
“I was just wondering,” Martha said abruptly, “about Laura’s dress. It should have a high neckline. Her collarbones stick out too much.”
She had to tell her then. She explained, very soberly, about the hot dogs, the goon-traps, the new dance records and no chaperones.
Martha didn’t argue. “Why, of course. If that’s what Laura wants.” She didn’t even appear surprised, as if she’d known all along that her plans would never work out. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?” she said.
“Nearly eleven.”
“I think I’ll go to bed.” She turned out the lamps, one by one. Her voice came again through the darkness.
“I wonder how many hot dogs.”
14
He saw Laura walking up the driveway with her arms full of parcels and tried to duck into the garage before she saw him. But he was too late.
“Hi!” she yelled.
“Hi, Squirt.”
She took the words as encouragement and quickened her step. He waited for her, uneasy. Laura was all right, but he never knew what to expect of her. She was at the crazy age where imagination overrode fact. Everything was subjective, words, people, even the weather. So if he called her “Squirt,” she might take it as a compliment, and if he’d said “Beautiful” she might just as easily think he was being ironic.
“Why aren’t you at school?” he said.
“Martha said I could skip my classes on account of the party tonight.” She lowered her eyes and strummed the string of one of the parcels. “I’d like you to come.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I’m afraid your sister wouldn’t approve. Anyway, I’m having company.”
“Who?”
He laughed. “None of your business, Squirt. I didn’t ask you who was coming to your party, did I?”
“That’s different. You know I’m not interested in just boys.”
“You better run along.”
One of the parcels fell from her arm. Instead of picking it up, she gave it a little kick with her foot.
“Who’s the company?” she said.
He grinned at her without answering.
“Is she pretty?”
“Yeah.”
“Blonde or what?”
“What.” He picked up the parcel and handed it to her.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, and marched away to the house.
He didn’t think Beatrice could be described as “pretty,” but she was at least “company.”
When she arrived, a little after eight, she was looking very attractive. She had on a tight blue wool dress and her hair was piled up on her head. It made her look harder and more sophisticated than she was.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Bea.”
He held the door open for her and she walked past him, looking around the apartment with polite curiosity.
“It’s nice. No wonder you want to stay.” She stripped off her gloves and packed them neatly into her handbag. “Mother couldn’t come. She has a headache.”
“That’s too bad.”
“At least, that’s her story. Mother always manages to get a headache when she sees a chance of getting me alone with some unsuspecting male.”
She smiled, not in the least self-consciously, but frankly, inviting him to smile with her.
He did. “The description hardly applies to me. I’m very suspecting.”
“Besides, we got that part of it settled the first night, didn’t we?”
“Did we?”
“I hope it’s all right if I left my car in the drivew
ay. There were a lot of others parked there.” She walked over to the window rapidly as if she could hardly wait to see the other cars again. “Is Mrs. Pearson giving a party?”
“No. It’s the kid sister. Laura.” He followed her to the window, wishing that she were gone and that he had the courage never to see her again. It was hopeless for two people to be together, when one of them wanted desperately what the other couldn’t give. No matter how smooth the surface talk, underneath it you could hear the whisperings of frustration, humiliation and even despair. Perhaps Beatrice felt like that right now, while she talked coolly about cars and watched the lighted doorway of the big house with bright benign eyes.
“I didn’t know Mrs. Pearson had a sister,” she said. “How old is she?”
“Fifteen, sixteen. You can tell by the kind of cars the kids came in. Half of them are hot rods, old jalopies hopped up to go like hell.”
She seemed to be thinking that over.
“Sixteen,” she said at last. “That’s very young.” She turned suddenly and looked at him, not directly into his face the way ordinary people looked at other people. He realized with a start that she was staring right at his mouth, straight into it, feeling every crease of his lips and pore of his tongue with her eyeballs. His mouth jerked at the corners and went stiff. It disowned him; he wasn’t the boss anymore; it was some separate and complete thing that Beatrice had claimed for her own and might even take home with her to perfume and fondle in the dark.
“Sixteen,” she said. “You know what I’d do if I were sixteen again, Steve?”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, in a minute. Don’t you want to hear what I’d do if I were sixteen?”
“Yeah, sure. I can listen and drink at the same time, though.”
It was only a few steps to the kitchen, but when he got there he was breathing as if he’d been running away from something. He took down a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard, handling it with fear and with hope, as if his escape wasn’t complete yet, but the Scotch might help him keep on running.
She didn’t stop talking. Her voice sounded rather dreamy, and she didn’t raise it to compete with the clink of glasses and the rattle of ice cubes. She didn’t seem to care whether he heard her or not.
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