The Betsy (1971)

by Robbins, Harold

  “You’re imagining things,” he said. “You grew up here. These people have always been your friends. Married to Loren or not won’t make any difference.”

  A sad look came into her eyes. “At one time I thought so. Now I’m not that sure.”

  The song ended and they stopped on the floor. A woman’s voice came from behind them. “Alicia, darling! Where have you been hiding this perfectly ravishing man?”

  They turned and Angelo saw the beautifully tailored couple standing next to them. The woman’s face had a vaguely familiar look.

  Alicia smiled. “Angelo Perino, my sister-in-law and her husband, the Prince and Princess Alekhine.”

  The princess held out her hand. Angelo took it. “Kiss it or shake it?” he smiled.

  “You can do both,” she laughed. “And the name is Anne. You went to school with my brother but we never met.”

  “My hard luck.” He kissed her hand and turned to take the hand of her husband.

  The prince was taller than Angelo, with thick gray-black hair and bright dark eyes set in a strong, tanned face. His grip was firm and direct. “You call me Igor,” he said in a deep friendly voice. “And I have been looking forward to meeting you. There is much we have to talk about. I want you to tell me all about the new car.”

  “That can wait,” Anne said. “Tomorrow is time enough for you men to talk business.” The music began again. “Igor, you dance with Alicia,” she commanded, taking Angelo’s arm. “I want to learn all about the new man in Detroit.”

  She came into his arms with all the assurance of a woman who had been there many times before. He looked down at her. “You’ve been reading too many magazines,” he said.

  “Of course,” she answered. “What else do you think Americans in Europe do with their time? They read magazines and that way they keep in touch. It makes them feel a part of things.”

  “They could come home,” he said.

  “Aren’t you clever?” she smiled. “Changing the subject so quickly. But I won’t be put off that easily. I saw the article in Life. The one about DeLorean at Chevy, Iacocca at Ford, and you. Is it true what they said about your grandfather? That he was the liquor dealer who supplied the liquor for my parents’ wedding in this house?”

  “Not true,” he said. “He was never a liquor dealer, he was a bootlegger.”

  She began to laugh. “I think I’m going to like you. I’m beginning to understand what Grandfather sees in you.”

  At one o’clock in the morning the grand portieres were drawn back, revealing the sumptuous buffet and the gaily decorated dinner tables. Half an hour later, the dinner entertainment began.

  The orchestra leader spoke into the microphone, but even with the amplification his words were lost in the greater bedlam coming from the tables. He turned and gestured to the wings of the small temporary stage. The girl who stepped in front of the microphone was recognized by everyone there. For years they had seen her face on television every week and for a long while she had even been the voice for one of the major automobiles. Now she opened her mouth to sing but no one could hear her or even cared to listen. They were too busy with their conversation and food.

  Loren stood at the side of the stage, swaying slightly. He tried to hear her, but nothing. He moved closer to the stage until he was standing right beneath her. Still nothing. Suddenly he was angry.

  He climbed up on the stage quickly and crossed to the microphone. The singer looked at him in bewilderment. He help up a hand and the orchestra stopped playing. He turned and looked out at his guests.

  No one had even noticed what was happening on the stage. He bent down and picked up a spoon from a table in front of the stage and banged it on the edge of the microphone until he had caught their attention. Bit by bit the room began to quiet down.

  He stared out at them, his face flushed and angry, his collar wrinkled and soft with his perspiration. “Now, listen to me, you slobs!” he shouted into the microphone which carried his slurred words into exaggerations that filled every corner of the two giant rooms. “I paid fifteen thousand dollars to bring this little lady all the way here from Hollywood to sing for you and you all better shut up and goddamn well listen!”

  Suddenly, the room was silent, not even the sound of a fork or spoon could be heard. He turned to the singer and made an exaggerated courtly bow.

  “It’s all right, little lady,” he said. “Now you can sing.”

  The orchestra began again, and as her soft voice began to fill the room, Loren turned and started from the stage. He stumbled slightly on the last step, but recovered his balance before he fell and weaved off toward the bar.

  Angelo was standing at the bar as Loren came up to him. He put his hand out to steady him.

  Loren shook his hand away. “I’m alri’.” He turned to the bartender. “Scotch on the rocks.” He looked at Angelo as if he had just seen him for the first time. “Ungrateful bastards!” he mumbled. “They don’t appreciate anything you do for them.”

  Angelo didn’t answer.

  Loren picked up his drink and tasted it. “Good Scotch,” he said. “You don’t get the hangover you do from Canadian. You ought to try it sometime.”

  “I get hangovers from everything,” Angelo smiled. “Even Coca-Cola.”

  “Ungrateful bastards!” Loren said again, looking out at the crowded rooms. He turned back to Angelo. “When did you get into town?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “You didn’t call me,” he said.

  “I did,” Angelo replied. “But you had already left the office.”

  “I want to see you before the meeting tomorrow,” said Loren. “We have some important things to talk about.”

  “I’m available.”

  “I’ll call you,” Loren said. He put his empty glass on the bar and started away. He turned back abruptly. “There won’t be time tomorrow morning,” he said. “You meet me here at the bar when the party is over. That’ll be around three o’clock.”

  Angelo looked at him. “It’s a pretty large evening. Sure it won’t keep until the morning?”

  “Think I do’ know what I’m doing?” Loren asked belligerently.

  Angelo smiled. “I know you don’t,” he said easily.

  Loren’s eyes narrowed and his face flushed even more. He stepped toward Angelo.

  “Don’t,” Angelo said quietly. “It would be a shame to spoil your daughter’s party.”

  Loren stood there for a moment, then he relaxed. He even smiled. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Thank you for keeping me from making a horse’s ass of myself.”

  Angelo returned his smile. “That’s what friends are for.”

  “Will you do me a favor?” Loren asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Will you meet me at three fifteen and drive me back to the plant?” Loren asked. “I don’t think I’m in any condition to drive myself.”

  “I’ll be here,” Angelo said.

  He walked out through the giant French doors into the garden. The gaily colored lanterns hung along the paths swayed gently in the late night wind. He lit a cigarette and started down the path toward the pool house.

  The heavy beat of the rock group grew louder as he approached the building. Through the large picture windows he could see into the discotheque. It was filled with wall-to-wall dancers who seemed oddly frozen in flashes of colored light.

  He walked in through the open doorway and pushed his way to the bar. He ordered a drink and the bartender put it down in front of him. He picked it up and sipped it. His nostrils also picked up the acrid-sweet smell of marijuana. He looked around him. In the dark he could not tell who was smoking the grass or who was on tobacco. Cigarettes filled the room like fireflies.

  “Do I know you?” The girl’s voice came from behind him.

  He turned around. She was young, there was no doubt about that, but then so were all the girls in this room. Her eyes were a pale blue and her long blond hair fell straight along her
face to her shoulders. There was an oddly familiar look about her mouth and chin.

  “I don’t think so,” he smiled. “But then, I don’t know you, so that makes us kind of even.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Hardeman,” she said imperiously.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Who else could you be?” he smiled. “Is it proper to congratulate you, Miss Elizabeth?”

  She stared at him. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m not really,” he said quickly. “I just don’t know what’s the right thing to do in these circumstances.”

  “You’re not putting me on?”

  “Honest Injun,” he said seriously.

  She grinned suddenly. “Can I tell you the truth?”

  He nodded.

  “I really don’t know what’s proper either,” she laughed.

  “Then I’ll let my congratulations stand,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She snapped her fingers. “I never forget a face. You’re the man who was driving the Sundancer SS the first time I saw it on Woodward Avenue one night last winter. You were with that girl with the big—. The one who looked like Miss Hurst Golden Shifter, I mean.”

  He laughed. “Guilty.”

  “Do you work for my father?” she asked. “Are you one of the test drivers?”

  “In a kind of way,” he admitted. “I guess you can put it like that.”

  A dismayed look suddenly crossed her face. “I know you,” she said. “I saw your picture in Life. You’re Angelo Perino.”

  “That’s right,” he smiled. “But I’d rather be listed as your unknown admirer.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Perino. I didn’t mean to put my foot in my mouth.”

  “I’ll forgive you if you give me this dance,” he said.

  She looked at the dance floor, then back at him. “Here?” she asked doubtfully. “Or back at the main house?”

  “Here,” he said, laughing and leading her onto the floor. “I’m not really as old as I look.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Meyer Davis orchestra began playing “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” and the sound of it filtered through the half sleep into Number One’s bed. A vague memory stirred and he pushed himself upright, pulling the pillow behind him. He sat there thoughtfully for a moment, then pressed the button on the night table beside him.

  A moment later Donald came into the room. As usual, he was dressed as if he had never gone to bed.

  “Tell Roxanne I want to see her,” Number One said.

  “Roxanne?” Donald’s voice was puzzled.

  Number One looked at him. Then he remembered. Roxanne was gone. Many years ago. That was the trouble with memory. You never outlived it, only people.

  “Get me dressed,” he said. “I want to go downstairs.”

  “But the party is almost over, sir,” Donald said respectfully.

  “I don’t care,” Number One said, annoyed. “Get me dressed.”

  Twenty minutes later, Donald pushed the wheelchair out of the room and down the long corridor. Number One held up his hand as they came to the balcony overlooking the grand staircase leading to the entrance hall. Donald paused and they looked down.

  The guests were still thronged around the door as they waited for the parking attendants to bring their cars. They were still talking brightly and seemed reluctant to leave.

  “It must have been quite a party,” Number One said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “About how many people do you think?”

  “Between four-fifty and five hundred,” Donald answered.

  Number One looked down at the crowd silently. People never changed. They weren’t very different than the people who came to his parties all that many years ago. He looked back at Donald. “I don’t want to get caught in that crowd,” he said. “Take me to the library elevator.”

  Donald nodded and turned the wheelchair around and they went back along the corridor. At the end of the corridor, they turned into another that led to the other wing of the house. They stopped in front of the elevator door and Donald pressed the call button. The clock on the wall next to the elevator door told them it was ten minutes to four.

  The discotheque was silent, only the musicians were left, disconnecting their electronic amplifiers and gathering their instruments. Somehow, now that they were not playing they seemed oddly awkward and their monosyllabic instructions to each other were strangely stilted and archaically formal.

  Angelo put his drink on the bar and looked at Elizabeth. She seemed curiously pensive and into herself. “I guess we’re the last,” he said.

  She glanced around the darkened room. “I guess so.”

  “You’re down,” he said shrewdly.

  She thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “It’s always like that after a big one,” he said. “Somehow you gear up for it and while it’s happening, everything’s a ball. But the moment it’s over—boom! You crash.”

  “I could use a drink,” she said.

  He signaled the bartender.

  “No,” she said quickly. She looked at him. “What I mean is—I would like a drag. Liquor doesn’t turn me on. I don’t like the taste of it.”

  “All I have are cigarettes,” he said.

  “I’m cool,” she said, opening her small evening purse, taking out what looked like a package of cigarettes. She opened the fliptop box and shook out a corktip filter cigarette. She placed the cigarette in her mouth.

  He held the light for her. “That is cool,” he said. “I’ve never seen them like that.”

  “There’s a dealer who brings them in from Canada. You can get your favorite brand. Kent, Winston, L&M’s, Marlboro, you name them.” She dragged deeply and then giggled. “Only you have to be careful sometimes you don’t pass them out by mistake.”

  He smiled.

  She looked at him. “Do you turn on?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “But not when I’m drinking. They don’t mix.”

  She dragged again on the cigarette. This time she held the smoke in her lungs for a long while before she let it out. She blew the smoke out toward the ceiling. “I’m beginning to feel better.”

  “Good.”

  She laughed. “Matter of fact, I’m a little high.” She looked at him. “But then I figure that I’m entitled to it. I haven’t had one drag all night, even though everyone else was turning on.”

  “So I noticed,” he said dryly.

  She took one more pull on the cigarette then ground it out in a tray on the bar and got to her feet. Her eyes were smiling again. “Okay, Mr. Perino,” she said. “I’m ready to go back to the manor house and face my family.” She laughed humorlessly. “What’s left of it, that is.”

  He took her arm and they walked out into the garden. The hanging lanterns went out, plunging the paths into darkness. She stopped abruptly and faced him.

  “It really was a farce, wasn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You know my mother’s leaving for Reno tomorrow to get a divorce, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Then why the hell did they have to put me through all this?” she exploded. Suddenly she began to cry. The hard, bitter sobs of a child.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and stepped toward him, burying her face against his chest. “What were they trying to prove?” she sniffled.

  He held her lightly, almost impersonally. “Maybe they didn’t want to cheat you out of anything.”

  “They could have asked me,” she said.

  “The one thing I’ve learned about parents, Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “is—that they always ask when they shouldn’t and that they never ask when they should.”

  Her sniffling stopped. She looked up at him. “Why do you call me Miss Elizabeth?”

  In the night, his teeth flashed whitely. “Because it’s your name. And I like
the sound of it.”

  “But almost everyone calls me Betsy.”

  “I know,” he said.

  She touched her eyes with the handkerchief. “Do I look all right?”

  “You look all right to me.”

  “I hope my eye makeup didn’t run. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been crying.”

  “It didn’t,” he said.

  “Good.” She returned the handkerchief. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” he said, putting it back in his pocket.

  They walked along silently for a moment, hand in hand. Suddenly she stopped and looked up at him. “Do you believe in astrology?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” he answered.

  “I do,” she said firmly. “I’ve just had my chart made up. You’re Taurus, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know?” he smiled. He really wasn’t. He was a Leo.

  “You had to be!” she said excitedly. “It was all in my chart. I was due to meet an older man and he would be a Taurus and I would dig him very much.”

  He laughed aloud. “And do you?”

  A mischievous smile came to her lips. “You wouldn’t want me to make a liar out of my chart now, would you?”

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he smiled. “That’s the very last thing in the world I would want to do.”

  Abruptly she put her hands on his face and, standing on her toes, kissed him. Then her mouth grew hot and opened and her body clung to him. His arms tightened around her, almost crushing the breath from her, then let her go as quickly as he had taken her.

  He looked down, shocked at his own unexpected response to her. “Why did you do that?”

  She smiled a secret smile and suddenly she was no longer a child. “Now you can stop calling me Miss Elizabeth,” she said.

  Number One came through the elevator doors into the library. A lonely barman was there cleaning away the remnants of the party. He looked up when he saw them.

  “Don’t put away the whiskey,” Number One said.