Auntie Mame

by Patrick Dennis

  “Debbie, let go of Grammy’s beads! Isn’t she an angel?”

  “Celestial,” Auntie Mame said, drawing her skirts closer.

  “How d’you do?” Emily said, taking my hand limply. “Deborah, if you’re going to act like a wild Indian you can go right back home. Boyd,” she whined, “do something with her. She didn’t take her N-A-P this afternoon and she’s a little T-I-R-E-D.”

  “Golly, honey,” Boyd boomed, “what can I do with her?”

  “Well, I can’t go hauling her around in this …”

  “You haven’t been throwing up again, have you, Emily dear?”

  “Oh, no, but we’ve had another upset with that D-A-M-N maid. Honestly, nowadays you’re working for them instead of them working for you. Do you know,” she said, fixing a keen eye on Auntie Mame, “that those niggers not only ask the world, but they insist on a ten-hour day and every Sunday off and G-O-D knows what …” Her spelling bee was interrupted.

  “Sshhh,” Mrs. Upson warned sotto voce, “they’ll hear you. Wouldn’t you like to hold her, Mame dear?”

  “Not parti …” Auntie Mame moaned softly as little Deborah was placed on her lap. “Ouch!” she cried as Deborah grasped one of her earrings. “Let go, damn y … Oh! Mustn’t touch,” she added darkly to the child.

  “Now Deborah,” Emily whined, “if you’re going to make a pest of yourself you can just … Boyd, do something with her!”

  “Red, red!” little Deborah crooned, grabbing hold of a ruby clip on Auntie Mame’s lapel. “Have it!”

  “Oh, let go, you little … darling,” Auntie Mame said.

  “She likes you, Mame dear,” Mrs. Upson said. “I can tell.”

  The dog came loping out and Deborah was put down to play with him, leaving a large wet spot in Auntie Mame’s lap.

  “Boyd, don’t let that D-A-M-N setter lick Deborah’s face! You don’t know where he’s been!” Emily whined.

  The hot sun and the beer were working in keen co-operation to give me a headache, and I don’t remember exactly what was said. It was awfully noisy and everyone talked at once about nothing. I noticed that Auntie Mame was drinking a lot of straight Scotch and I couldn’t say that I blamed her.

  At seven o’clock, the houseman wheeled out some wrought-iron cooking and eating equipment and little Deborah was summoned by many voices to come and take a nice nap on Grammy’s bed. Little Deborah was having none of it, however, and there was a great deal of coaxing and commanding and threatening and finally an out-and-out chase, with little Deborah screaming and gurgling and the dog barking hysterically. But as Deborah raced past Auntie Mame’s chair she happened to trip and land with a soft thud on the grass. I could have sworn that Auntie Mame’s foot had shot out in the child’s path, but Auntie Mame pretended great concern and little Deborah was put into dead storage, so to speak, for the rest of the evening.

  When things quieted down, Mr. Upson appeared in a tall chef’s hat and a big canvas apron with clever things on it like “Chief Cook and Bottle Washer,” “Cordon Bleu,” “I’m Your Cookie,” “Ye Greasy Spoon,” and “At Home on the Range.”

  “Isn’t he a spectacle!” Mrs. Upson giggled.

  “A sight, believe me,” Auntie Mame said.

  “Every Sunday night Claude insists on doing the cooking. I got him that barbecue set at Hammacher-Schlemmer and he’s just like a child with it.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “Golly, Dad,” Boyd said, “I’d love to get a picture of you in that rig. It’d be swell for a Christmas card.”

  “Well, Boyd, you could catch a shot of Cuddles and I at the pit, ’cause she’s gonna help Buster, aren’t you, Cuddles?”

  “Am I?” Auntie Mame asked blankly.

  “You betcher boots you are, Cuddles. Couldn’t get the meat on the table without you. Bring your drink down and give me some immoral support at the pit. Hahaha!”

  “I hope the meal’s as good as your daiquiri,” Auntie Mame said coquettishly, pouring two stiff hookers of Scotch.

  “Soda for you, Mame dear?” Mrs. Upson said solicitously.

  “No, thank you, Doris,” Auntie Mame answered, and minced down the lawn to the barbecue and Mr. Upson. There was so much smoke that we couldn’t see either of them, but I could hear Auntie Mame coughing and choking. She came out once, her eyes streaming, to have the glasses refilled, and bravely went back into the flames, carrying full tumblers of straight whisky.

  It seemed to take forever to cook steaks “just right,” as Mr. Upson kept saying. Just Right was black with soot and ashes on the outside and cold and raw on the inside. We were served one steak apiece and it struck me as a most criminal waste of about twenty dollars’ worth of good beef. It also appeared that perhaps the smoke and the Scotch had been a little too much for Mr. Upson.

  We sat around a glass and iron table gnawing determinedly on Mr. Upson’s steaks and muttering guttural growls of insincere appreciation. Mr. Upson polished off a lot more Scotch during the meal and once or twice Mrs. Upson said, “Claude, do you think you should?” Otherwise we dined in diligent silence. Emily suffered several minor gastric upsets during the meal—not that I blamed her—and the peace and quiet was finally broken by Boyd, who had the lamentable habit of talking with his mouth full.

  “Gee, Dad,” he said, “you know that property out behind here? I came out on the five-oh-seven with Charlie Haddock on Friday and he says they’re thinking of selling it to some people from Summit, New Jersey, named Bernstein—A-bra-ham Bernstein.”

  “Oh, no!” Mrs. Upson whimpered.

  Mr. Upson’s fork clattered to the table. “Bernstein!”

  “Not the Abraham Bernsteins from Summit?” Auntie Mame said. “I know them very well. He’s an editor, and she’s an authority on Rimbaud. They’re a delightful couple with two children named …”

  “Stop!” Mr. Upson said. “This is no joking matter.”

  “I’m not joking. The Bernsteins are friends of the Co …”

  “It’s impossible, Boyd. This whole section’s restricted.”

  “Not beyond your boundary it isn’t. That isn’t Mountebank.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Gloria cried, “how dreadful!”

  “I won’t have it,” Mr. Upson barked. “I’ll stand here with a gun if necessary, and keep them off …”

  “Buster,” Auntie Mame said, “what’s come over you? They’re charming people. She’s very dark and vivacious and one of the best cooks in …”

  “I’ll bet she’s dark and vivacious. A greasy, thick-lipped, loudmouthed little …”

  “Oh, but you’re all wrong there. Sylvia’s divine, really, and Abe went to Harvard in the same class with Samuel …”

  “You mean you really know these people?” Mr. Upson asked.

  “But, of course. He has a marvelous job with …”

  “But they’re Jews.”

  “Well, certainly they’re Jews. She’s related somehow to Rabbi Wise and he …”

  “Can’t you get it through your thick head that they’re Jews? That they want to move in right next to me?” Mr. Upson said.

  “Claude, please,” Mrs. Upson said.

  “Yes, Buster, I heard Floyd—Boyd—say that they were going to buy out here. And you’ll love them. One of the most stimulating young couples I know.”

  “Lookee here,” Mr. Upson said evenly, “a joke’s a joke, but if you think I want a lot of sheenies throwing their filthy garbage all over my lawn …”

  “Buster what are you talking about? I tell you that these people are friends of mine. They couldn’t be more fastidious.”

  “Will you shut up!”

  “Claude!” Mrs. Upson said.

  “Now see here, sir,” I said, half rising.

  “Please,” Gloria whispered, “Daddy’s in one of his moods.”

  “I don’t care what he’s in, he doesn’t talk to my aunt …”


  “Boyd,” Mr. Upson roared, “if you and I have to form a posse—a pack of vigilantes—we’re going to keep these dirty kikes and all the rest of their lousy, stinking race out of …”

  “You can’t really be so naive as to believe that the Jews are a race,” Auntie Mame said. “Why, any anthropologist …”

  “Don’t give me none of your high-toned anthropology! I just know that as long as I have a breath left in my body I’ll fight every goddamned last one of these Izzys and Beckys trying to muscle in on white man’s territory. And, by God …”

  “Do you mean to sit there and tell me,” Auntie Mame said, “that you think you own Connecticut? That you’re some sort of self-appointed deity who has supreme power and the final word on who may buy what property and where and when?”

  “Mame, a man’s home is his castle. That may sound old-fashioned, but it’s still true, and I haven’t worked like a dog all these years to build up this nice place only to have it ruined by a pack of mockies movin’ in right under my …”

  “Claude,” Auntie Mame said with narrowed eyes and voice of steel, “I have told you three times that these Filthy Kikes you’re talking about are friends of mine. People I have known for several years. Attractive, intelligent, educated people. You might reserve judgment until you’ve met them.”

  “Oh, yeah? You can talk that way now, you in your fancy mansion on Washington Square, but what would you say if they moved in right next to you?”

  “I believe I’d say ‘Welcome to Washington Square, Sylvia, and if you and Abe would like to come over for dinner while you’re getting settled …’ ”

  “Shit!”

  “Claude!” Mrs. Upson said.

  “Goddamn it, Doris,” he yelled, “I mean it!” He turned to Auntie Mame. “You sit and talk like the New Republic or some parlor pink when another Christian faces a serious …”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use the term Christian where it is so obviously misapplied,” Auntie Mame said steadily.

  “Now, see here, Mame …” Mrs. Upson began.

  “Please,” Gloria said, “can’t we change the subject?”

  “To what, Gloria? Negroes?” Auntie Mame said.

  “Don’t interfere, sweetheart,” Mr. Upson said. “Now look, I been to your house and seen all its fancy European splendors, and maybe I am just a dumb insurance broker without your big Franklin Delano Rosenfeld outlook on life, but I didn’t notice you cavortin’ around with a pack of hebes when I was down to dinner. Oh, no, you had a noble Englishman and a French prince and a famous actress—not a bunch of Jews!”

  “I suppose it would be cruel to tell you that the Vera Charles whom you and Doris admire so extravagantly was born Rachel Kollinsky, the daughter of a second-rate Jewish comedian.”

  “Impossible!” Mrs. Upson breathed.

  “Well, that’s your business!” he roared on. “There’s no accounting for those theater people anyway. They’re a different breed of cat. But when it comes to havin’ Jews right next door—practically in your family …”

  “Claude,” Auntie Mame said quietly, “do you realize that at this very moment a maniac in Germany named Adolf Hitler is talking just the way you are now?”

  “Now, don’t bring politics into this. I’ll betcher a New Dealer through and through.”

  “I have always admired President Roosevelt.”

  “I’m talking about Jews, and when it comes to them, Hitler’s got some pretty sound ideas.”

  “You can’t mean that,” I said, “he’s slaughtering them.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to slaughter them …”

  “I rather thought that with your talk of guns and posses and vigilantes, you had something of the sort in mind,” Auntie Mame said coolly.

  “And, yes, by Christ, that’s what I would do!”

  “Just how many Jews do you know personally, Claude?”

  “I know all I want to,” he screamed. “Pushy, bossy, aggressive, loud …”

  “As loud as you’re being at this moment?”

  “Goddamn it! I’m talking about a pack of kikes moving in and rubbing shoulders with nice people—decent people!”

  “And is this an example of your nicety? Your decency?” Auntie Mame took the deep breath that means business, and even in my misery, I discovered myself getting fascinated.

  “Claude,” she said, “I’ve known dozens of Jews in my life and it has also been my sorry experience to have heard quite a few gentiles who have talked about Jews as you do. I know the adjectives—all of them. Jews, you will tell me, are Mean, Pushy, Avaricious, Possessive, Loud, Vulgar, Garish, Bossy people. But I’ve yet to meet one, from the poorest pushcart vendor on First Avenue to the richest philanthropist on Fifth Avenue, who could ever hold a candle to you when it comes to displaying all of those qualities.”

  “Mame!” Mrs. Upson gasped.

  “By Christ, I’m not going to be insulted in my own home any longer. You can get outta here and go right back to Jew York and sleep with all the filthy kikes you can …”

  “Shut your dirty mouth!” I said, jumping up from my chair.

  Mr. Upson sat back goggle-eyed, and across the table Boyd rose and glared at me. There was a cry from Gloria.

  “T-take back your ring and get out of here! Go on and marry some cheap little Jewess, if you love them so much. You’ll be a lot happier that way. You’re just not in the same class with us, and what’s more, you never will be!”

  “Gloria …”

  “Patrick doesn’t know it just now, Gloria,” Auntie Mame said, rising from the table, “but you’ve just paid him the most beautiful compliment he’s ever likely to receive. I will thank you for him. And now, I’ll be excused, if I may. Patrick, are you coming too, or shall I telephone for a nice Christian cab driver—perhaps an Aryan from Darien?”

  “Wait,” I said, “I’m coming with you.”

  We drove rapidly, the wind blowing cold against our hot faces. After a time Auntie Mame said: “Patrick, you know, I always like to give a fairly large amount to charity every year. I have so very much.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I murmured.

  “What would you think if I were to overbid Sylvia and Abe on that property adjoining the Upsons’ and put up a home for Jewish war refugees?”

  “I think that would be wonderful.”

  “Good,” she said, “I hoped you’d say that.”

  The big diamond engagement ring flashed coldly in my hand as we sped away from the slums of Connecticut.

  Chapter Nine

  and the Call to Arms

  In life’s twilight, the Unforgettable Character is left pretty much alone with her house and her garden and her cat. The foundling is grown up and settled down and everybody says she’s done a hell of a good job of raising him. She has her friends and her hobbies and her businesses and you’d think the old girl would be satisfied. But no. She misses the patter of tiny feet around her house and so what does the old girl do but get two foundlings and start all over again.

  This dénouement is obviously geared to stun everybody. Not me. Auntie Mame would never have done anything on so trivial a scale. She took on half a dozen children and lived to tell the tale.

  After Gloria Upson returned my ring, my heart was officially broken, although I now doubt that it was even sprained. But when you do something as drastic as end an engagement, you have to do something else that’s equally drastic just to balance things. Me, I went to war. Europe was already in it, and it seemed a matter of minutes before America got in, too. The day I sent the ring back to Cartier’s I also became a Volunteer in the American Field Service. Two weeks later I sailed for North Africa, while Auntie Mame wept in Washington Square.

  It’s probably shocking to say that you enjoyed a war, but I did. Life in the Field Service was made up of equal parts of boredom and excitement. I saw a lot of new places and new faces. We didn’t have to d
o anything like stand at attention or salute people, and I was never terribly scared. When you worked, you worked hard and got shot at and ate hard tack and bully beef. When you played, you played hard and lived at Shepheard’s Hotel and flirted with Queen Farida at the Turf Club.

  Auntie Mame wrote almost every day. At first her letters were long dirges of how lonely and wasted she felt. They made me feel sad and, for some reason, a little guilty. But Pearl Harbor was attacked that December and her correspondence took on another tone. Her letters were filled with descriptions of her new activities and I began to smell the smoke of a new fire, for indeed, Auntie Mame was becoming more warlike than Alexander of Macedon.

  “I sold more bonds than any woman who’s ever worked El Morocco!” she would write. “They’re giving me the Iridium Room next week, as a challenge. Those big spenders are lousy bond-buyers, but I’m blackmailing them into patriotism.” Or, “I patrolled Washington Square for my first blackout last night. My dear, there are really stars over New York with all the lights off!” Or, “Now that I’ve broken the bandage-rolling record for Manhattan Island, I’m going to give it up. There are more important things to do and the A.W.V.S. wants me to head a new committee.” Or, “I’m so heartsick and despondent I could weep! The WACs rejected me! The sergeant at the recruiting office said I was too old! Well, I’d hate to be hanging since that old dike was eighteen.”

  She had more uniforms than a four-star general. Her house became an unofficial USO. She ranked high on every committee of Amazons in New York. Still, she found time to do a lot of shopping for me. Tons of delicacies followed me all over Africa and Italy: cookies and caviar and pralines and pâté, tins of chicken and lobster and crabmeat and terrapin. And just to prove that Auntie Mame hadn’t grown too realistic, one package containing specially bottled strawberries bore these instructions: “Marinate in champagne and thinly sliced limes in refrigerator. Delicious with pheasant.” One box held nothing but medicine bottles with labels like “One tablespoon before meals” and “Apply on irritated area before retiring.” I was pretty mystified until I took a sniff and discovered that each bottle contained bonded bourbon which Auntie Mame had siphoned off into pharmacist’s bottles in a sly attempt to get around the U.S. Postal Regulations.