The Dinner Party

by Howard Fast

  Perhaps her father or her mother? Not her father, she decided; for all of his icy aloofness and disdain for morality, his manners were impeccable—at least in terms of strangers. How often she had heard him spell out his definition of a gentleman: a gentleman is someone who treats a common laborer like a prince and a prince like a common laborer. It was not a definition that Dolly agreed with, since she had come to believe that the quality of a gentleman is something more than a display of manners; but she was satisfied that no remark or manner of her father’s could have precipitated Jones’s departure. On the other hand, her mother had carefully avoided any conversation with Jones, but it was hardly likely that he would have expected conversation from a lady Richard had once referred to as the “queen Wasp of Wasps.”

  Dolly walked through the house to the senator’s room, full of an overwhelming need to see him, to touch him. The door to his office was open, and as she entered, he called to her from the bedroom. He was standing in front of a full length door mirror, black shoes, black trousers, dress shirt pleated and rather elegant, white suspenders, and bow tie drooping from his neck.

  “I tried,” he said.

  Dolly took over the bow tie. “Oh, come on. Crouch a bit. You’re seven feet tall. Or do you want to sit down?”

  “I can still crouch. Damn it, I can still do a one-knee bend.”

  “Puffery! You haven’t done a one-knee bend in twenty years.”

  He watched her hands as she leaned over his shoulders from behind him and tied the knot. She was as manually effective as he was incompetent. In less than a minute, the tie was perfect.

  “You’re not even dressed,” he remarked.

  “Plenty of time. I’m a quick change; you know that. By the way, Clarence Jones bugged out. Leonard drove him to the bus station in town.”

  The senator thought about it for a moment or two, and then he asked why?

  “I don’t know, to tell the truth.”

  “Did Liz go with them?”

  “No—just the two boys.”

  “Did you ask Liz why?”

  “Yes. She said he was shy, scared, uneasy, embarrassed—what you will.”

  “She didn’t indicate that it was anything you or I said, or Gus and Jenny?”

  “No. Really, no. I think her explanation covers it. I must say, Richard, that I’m a bit relieved.”

  “Yes, it occurred to me that our two gents from the high places could take it poorly. Especially Justin’s wife.”

  “But I don’t want to feel better about it,” Dolly complained. “Richard, what is wrong with me—with both of us? That beautiful young man, do you know that every step of the way he fought through on scholarships. His father is a plain working man, and in the South. Think of the brains, the natural elegance of that young man, and we were apologizing to ourselves for sitting him at the table with that old man who presides over the end of things.”

  “Dolly, Dolly, you can’t think that way. This feeling that an atomic holocaust is inevitable is paralyzing. We’re not that crazy and we’re not that bad—and this guilt over the blacks isn’t productive of anything. We were as bad as South Africa, worse in many ways, and we changed it.”

  “We?” Dolly demanded indignantly.

  “Dr. King led it—yes, of course, but with a lot of help from a lot of black people and a lot of white people.”

  Her face crinkled and tears began.

  “Dolly, why are you crying?”

  “I don’t know,” she whimpered.

  He folded his arms around her. “It’s been a good day—the best day for us in a long time.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Driving back to the house, Leonard said to himself, I am not going to die, and that’s it. That’s the long and short of it. I’ve mourned enough and I’ve been frightened enough, and that has to come to a stop. He began to laugh, not hysterically, but quite naturally, elated by the fact that he was convincing himself of what was obviously untrue. That did not matter; at this moment he had convinced himself, and whether this conviction lasted an hour or a day, it was a marvelous relief. He recalled the time—he must have been twelve, Elizabeth ten—when he first read Barrie’s Peter Pan. He and Elizabeth were reading it at the same time; sometimes he read aloud, sometimes she read aloud, and since in the book Peter declared that if one wished hard enough, one could fly, they both decided to agree with Peter. For months after that, they dedicated themselves to flying, wishing harder and harder and harder, and when that led to no results, Leonard decided that one had to wish from a higher height than a chair. They climbed to the top of the old barn, and then, wishing like all get-out, Leonard leaped off. The result was a broken leg, for which Leonard did not blame the book but rather himself for not wishing hard enough. The childhood dream had not truly left him, but it lived with his knowledge that it was a dream and no more—which also did not change the fact that one could punch a hole in time here and there and believe for a little while.

  He still felt good as he pulled into his parking space, leaped out of the car, and went into the house. At Elizabeth’s room, he knocked, tried the door, and entered.

  “Lizzie?”

  “I’m in the shower,” she called back.

  Leonard paced the room. He was full of energy. As Elizabeth emerged from the bathroom, wrapping a terry-cloth robe around her, Leonard declared, “Enough of this! I’ve decided not to die!”

  She stared at him, speechless. Then, slowly, “Of course.”

  “I’m not crazy. If this lousy thing kills me, it kills me, but not with my help. I’m going to fight it every inch of the way. Maybe they’ll win, maybe I’ll win.”

  Elizabeth threw her arms around him, her damp hair falling across his face. “You’ll win.”

  “Oh, Lizzie darling, I won’t, but you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.” She stepped back, looking at him, examining him. “Remember all the fights we used to have?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did we fight, Lenny?”

  “We were kids. Kids fight.”

  “You’re such a great guy. I didn’t ever want to fight with you. I have such guilts about it. It was always my fault.”

  “No. Oh no.”

  “Sure. You remember that time I kept punching you, and you would never hit me back, and I just kept on punching until I was so tired I couldn’t punch anymore.”

  “Lizzie, you were ten years old. You couldn’t punch hard enough to hurt a fly.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked woefully, beginning to snivel. “You’re not saying that just to make me feel good?”

  “Lizzie, you were ten years old.”

  She began to laugh through her tears. “How did Jonesy take it?”

  “You know, I’m all right. No more tears, please, please. Let’s get through this dinner tonight. Now promise me, Sis.”

  “Yes, yes, Lenny. I promise.”

  “You promised before.”

  “Double this time, double. Now tell me about Jones, and then I have to dress. It’s almost six o’clock.”

  “I think he was right—I mean, if he felt that he could face a barrage of sly insults and innuendos, why should he stay? My God, Liz, this black and white thing stinks. Do you know—he has Aids. He was protecting me, from guilt and sorrow, even more sorrow.”

  “And you believe that?” Elizabeth asked. “That would make him a very great person.”

  “We find the quality in death,” Leonard said.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In ankle-length beige chiffon, white satin shoes with a two-and-a-half inch heel, and her great-grandmother’s pearl and emerald necklace—chosen specifically for the purpose of intimidating Winifred Justin—Dolly was reasonably pleased with the way she looked. Her hair, in a style that was avant-garde half a century earlier, curiously added to her youthful appearance—the look of a bright-eyed Greenwich Village radical, recently graduated from Sarah Lawrence or Bennington. As she came into the kitchen, Ellen and Nellie clapp
ed with delight, while MacKenzie nodded approval. The two women wore white service clothes; MacKenzie, a white jacket and black trousers.

  Dolly returned the compliment. “We do look classy, don’t we—like something out of that T.V. show—which is it?”

  “‘Dynasty,’” Nellie squeaked.

  “I’m sure. Now, Mac, you be in front when they pull up.”

  “Outside or inside?”

  “Outside for this one. They’ll be driving in a black stretch, and aside from the four people in back, there’ll be two Secret Service men in front, one driving, the other sitting beside him. They will hop out and open the car doors. You stand just outside our front door and open it to usher them in. I know this is all very obvious and silly, but the senator wants it to be done very formally. Nellie, you will be just inside the door, and you will say, ‘Follow me, please.’ Just that. But if the ladies have wraps, and they probably will, Mac will take their wraps from them first.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nellie said.

  “And meanwhile, Mac, have the Secret Service men take the car around back. They may insist on sitting in the car or they may prefer the house. The back porch is screened in, so they would be comfortable there. Ask them whether they would like today’s newspapers or some magazines, and whether they are hungry. Explain that since we will sit down to eat at eight o’clock, it would be more convenient for the kitchen to feed them immediately. What have you prepared, Ellen?”

  “S.S. men are always hungry. There was enough left from lunch to feed ten, and I got two nice plates in the fridge and—”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t call them S.S. men. It makes them upset and angry.”

  “But where do I take the guests?” Nellie wanted to know. “Will it be the library or the living room?”

  “The living room before dinner. After dinner, I’ll take the ladies and Leonard and Elizabeth.…” The sentence died. She and Ellen stared at each other. “Oh, heavens—I just never thought of it that way.”

  “We ain’t done it that way for ages,” Ellen said, her tone very tentative. “I don’t think we ever done it—did we?”

  “In Washington, do you remember, when we had the two Supreme Court judges.”

  “Yes. Yes, that is so.”

  Dolly glanced at the big kitchen clock. “Let me talk to the senator.” She kicked off the high heels saying, “Remind me,” and then fled through the house to the senator’s room. The door was closed, and without ceremony, she flung it open and burst into the room. The senator was standing in front of his desk, quite handsome in his white jacket, declaiming to the wall, “—no, sir, mercy is not a stranger to us, and God help us if we toss compassion to the winds. What is left then, sir, what honor, what pride—” He was staring at Dolly and speaking at the same time. “Practicing. You look beautiful. Where are your shoes?”

  “In the kitchen. I can’t run in high heels.” She was used to his exercises in elocution and demanded no explanation. “We have a problem.”

  “Urgent?”

  “You bet. I was working out last minute stuff in the kitchen, and I explained that, as you suggested, I take the ladies into the library and leave you and your two buzzards at the table. Cigars and brandy and all the rest. But we didn’t know that Lenny was coming home. What on earth do I do? I can’t ask the boy to leave with the ladies. That would be a dreadful put-down and I simply will not do it. What is this all about? Do you know? And can Leonard stay with the men?”

  “You know what it’s about, Dolly. Your father is beginning to build a road across Central America. My guess is that they want it stopped without any public fuss.”

  “But you’ll be there.”

  “When it’s off the record and I’m the host at our country house, it’s off the record. If there were no such thing as that kind of privacy and silence, then our whole government would collapse in a few hours. And since I think your father will agree, I’m trying to get what I want—a break for the Sanctuary people.”

  “Then Leonard can be there?”

  “If he keeps his mouth shut and understands the rules.”

  Dolly sighed with relief. “Thank heavens. Shall I talk to him?”

  The senator hesitated, then he said, “No.” Pause. “No. No, I’ll talk to him myself.”

  “Yes,” Dolly agreed. “That’s best. I must run.”

  Dolly entered the kitchen. They were waiting, like a tableau. She dropped onto a chair and put on her shoes. “You know, I could forget to put them on,” she said to Ellen. “I’ve done it before, it feels so good to get out of those damn shoes. All right,” she said, turning to the others, “this is the way it goes. I take the ladies into the library, and you, Nellie, bring coffee and mints, two pots, decaf and regular. Ellen will have it for you. Meanwhile, Mac, coffee at the table and brandy and port. Oh, yes,” turning to Nellie, “offer the ladies brandy or Baileys cream, just those two unless they ask for something else. I’ll be there, so we’ll have that under control.”

  “And nothing else at the table?” Mac asked. “I mean if they ask?”

  “Whatever they ask for, of course. And when you pass the humidor, make sure you have at least three shapes.”

  “I always do. I’ll mix the Don Diego and the Flaminco.”

  “Of course. Then leave the humidor and the coffee at the table and close the doors behind you. Privacy after that, unless the senator calls you.”

  “Right. Don’t worry, Miss Dolly. Smooth as silk.” MacKenzie agreed, thinking that he had done this dozens of times, which she would have remembered had she been less taut. Why now, he wondered? Why was this evening so different?

  “Your mother buzzed,” Ellen said. “She wants you.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Just as he had a hundred times rehearsed his offering to the Senate, so did Richard Cromwell go over what he would say to his son. But it didn’t work the way he planned it. He tapped at the door to his son’s room.

  “Come on in,” Leonard said.

  The senator entered, closing the door behind him. He stood awkwardly, clearing his throat. Leonard, dressed except for his white jacket, which was draped over the back of a chair, was sprawled on his bed. He rolled over now and got to his feet.

  “You know, Lenny,” the senator said, “the way I feel.…” No, that wouldn’t wash. Why in God’s name couldn’t he speak to his son, straightforward and direct, and say what he meant and nothing else?

  “Lenny, I’ve been a rotten father,” he said straight out.

  Leonard stared at him, as if the senator had come naked into his room.

  “You know,” the senator went on, “I’m no great shakes at anything. If I weren’t a senator, I don’t know whether I could earn a decent living.”

  “No, Pop!”

  “Let me tell the truth for once in my foolish life. I love you. I haven’t said it since you were a kid. I was never able to. I go around with my head on the Hill in Washington, and I don’t see you. I don’t see anything. I don’t see your mother. I don’t see you, and I never had the guts before to ask you to forgive me.” Then he stood forlorn.

  Leonard, his eyes filling with tears, asked himself, Why now? Why does he give me something that has to be taken away? He moved to his father and put his arms around him, tentatively at first and then clutching him in desperation; and in turn the senator held his son to him, the first time since Leonard had been a small child, feeling his ribs, the bony vehicle of his trunk, clutching at his bones, his life, his flesh, his spirit, for now Leonard was laughing through his tears.

  “Are you all right?” the senator asked him.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Pop, I’m all right, I’m as high as a kite and I’m laughing and crying because I have to die and I don’t want to die—I want to stay with you and work with you.”

  The senator took his son by the shoulders, tenderly yet firmly, moving him away to arm’s length. “What did you say?”

  “I’m going to die,” the boy whispered. “I didn’t wan
t to tell you. I have to tell you. Please forgive me.”

  “For what? What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Pop, I have Aids.”

  “No. What are you trying to tell me?”

  “That I have Aids. The disease—A-i-d-s,” spelling it.

  “Oh, God, no—no, you’re crazy, Lenny. You can’t have Aids.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on. Don’t toy with me.”

  “Dad—”

  “You look fine. You’re not sick.…”

  Leonard pulled loose from his father’s grasp, dropped into a chair, raised one trouser leg and pushed down his sock. There was a small purple spot, the size of a blueberry. “That’s it,” he said. “Kaposi’s sarcoma. You can’t turn it off, Pop. I have about six months, maybe a little more.”

  Like a somnambulator, the senator moved to his son, knelt, and touched the small purple spot. “Does it hurt?” he asked inanely.

  “Not much.”

  It became harder for him to speak. “Lenny, you’re telling me the truth? This isn’t a punishment? If it is, all right, I deserve it.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Still kneeling, the senator put his face on his son’s lap. He was crying uncontrollably now. Leonard stroked his hair and begged him to stop. “Please, please, Daddy.”

  The senator climbed to his feet, nodding, his head shaggy with hair in every direction. Leonard rose and gave his father the handkerchief from his jacket pocket. The senator accepted it and rubbed his eyes.

  “We don’t leave it at that!” he said suddenly. “No, sir, we fight it right down the line. There has to be a way. We have enough money to really go at it, and we’re going to lick it, Lenny, we’re going to lick it.”

  “Sure, Pop,” he agreed. “Both of us. You’ll help me?”

  “That’s my life—from here on.”

  “Thank God. That’s the best thing I heard today. Oh, I was afraid that you’d be so angry with me.”

  “Angry? How could I be angry? I’d give my life to help you.”

  “Pop,” Lenny cried, almost in abandon, “Don’t you understand—I’m a homosexual. I’m gay.”