Saturday turned out to be a perfect boating day with a clear faraway pale blue sky, a stiff breeze from the north and water well wrinkled but not too choppy. Don and I had new dark blue top siders and I had a new long high-necked striped shirt supposedly worn by Basque fishermen, but which Don surveyed critically and finally said made me look exactly like a hornet. However, I felt nautical and Vogue-ish and, anyway, one nice thing about Elizabeth Gage even if I wore my old bathrobe with one sleeve torn out and rubbers I knew I would be better dressed than she would be.
At about ten o’clock, as Don was fixing his emergency sailing kit of Scotch and Scotch and Scotch, there was a honking out in front and I looked out the window and a boat just a tiny bit smaller than the Queen Mary with sails was easing up. “Good God,” I said to Don, “do you suppose this is Everett’s boat?”
“Could very well be,” Don said without emotion. “Everett said something about taking college boys along as crew.”
“Well, no wonder Elizabeth Gage has no washing machine,” I said heatedly. “I’m surprised they have food. That boat must have cost at least fifty thousand dollars and imagine the upkeep.”
“Speaking of food,” said Don, “are we supposed to be bringing any?”
“No,” I said. “I offered but Elizabeth Gage said she had everything.”
One of the crew rowed in for us in the dinghy and Everett immediately said that I looked terribly chic and where did I get the shirt. He looked wistfully at Elizabeth Gage who had on red pedal pushers with enormous legs, an over-all jacket, the kind plumbers wear, and high-heeled straw sandals. She was different though, without the children. Not at all sad, very witty and a superb cook. As is always the case on a boat, hunger was a constant thing but Elizabeth Gage produced marvelous food at intervals until one o’clock in the morning when we finally dropped anchor in the bay by our house, and there were several other couples besides the Wheatons and Don and me aboard and the galley left much to be desired. When Elizabeth Gage wasn’t handing around loaves of hot fresh French bread hollowed out and packed with fried chicken, she was baking strawberry shortcake or brioches or stirring tiny hot meatballs to be speared with toothpicks. I was amazed and even Don heaped lavish compliments on her. She only said in her sad little voice, “It’s nothin’—I like to cook, it’s easy for me.”
That night when we were brushing our teeth, I said to Don, “There must be more to that marriage than meets the eye. Elizabeth Gage was charming today, and she is certainly an inspired cook. She couldn’t be as inefficient as she seems.”
Don said, “Connie Pegler is certainly attractive.”
Connie Pegler had jet-black curly hair, deep blue eyes, dimples, weighed less than a hundred pounds and bought her clothes in the children’s department. She had given me these statistics just as I was asking for a third piece of chicken and accepting a second ear of corn. Elizabeth Gage had said, “Now you hush up, Connie, just because you’re no bigger than a gnat you have no call to make the rest of us feel like hippopotami.”
Like many little women, Connie Pegler liked to curl up on big things like davenports or other people’s husbands’ laps.
Her own husband was nice in a pale factual way. He wore glasses, had plump pink arms sprinkled with tan freckles and little stiff red hairs, and he knew more about plankton than the Bureau of Fisheries. It was while he was telling me about plankton in southern waters that I noticed Connie and Don heading for the prow with a blanket. The moon had just come up and we were in Admiralty Inlet just off Marrowstone Island. Everything was silvery and very romantic. I looked hopefully for Everett but he was occupied, I was happy to see, with Elizabeth Gage. They were lying back on a coil of rope looking at the stars. Her head was on his shoulder and he was giving her drags of his cigarette. I had found it very frustrating to sit in a pool of moonlight and listen to Paul Pegler drone on about protozoa and entomostracans. Also it had gotten quite chilly.
I said, “For anybody as adorable as Connie Pegler keeps telling everybody she is, she certainly nabbed herself a dull husband.”
Don said, “You should know, you spent enough time with him.”
I said, “What else could I do with you sneaking off in dark corners with Connie and a blanket.”
Don said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Connie had forgotten to bring a jacket. She was cold.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
The next morning when Elizabeth Gage called me up she said, “Say, lil ole Connie was sure makin’ time with Don, wasn’t she?”
“I despise little women,” I said bitterly. “Especially ones with naturally curly hair and eyelashes seven inches long.”
“I thought you’d feel that way,” Elizabeth Gage said, “and really, honey, there’s no point because she’s just crazy about that weevil she’s married to. Always has been and he’s so dull he even bores P.J. It’s sure hard to realize though that Connie has four children. She is a whiz, her house is always slick as a whistle, she always looks pretty and she is one of those mean little things that keeps their figures no matter how many children they have. She is always after me to reduce, but I just can’t. I’m too tired all the time.”
“How was the baby-sitter?” I asked.
“Oh, that poor woman,” Elizabeth Gage said mournfully. “When we got home all the kids were up runnin’ around and bawlin’ and she was almost out of her mind. I’ll never leave them again, I told Everett.”
“Maybe that’s the trouble, maybe you don’t leave them enough,” I said.
“Be that as it may,” Elizabeth Gage said levelly, “that woman certainly doesn’t know the first thing about handling children. I don’t know who recommended her to you, but she’s no good at all.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” I said. “Lots of people on the beach have used her and they think she is fine. Anyway, you and Everett seemed to be having a wonderful time last night.”
“Oh, we were,” Elizabeth Gage said without enthusiasm. “He is always as sweet as peaches in front of people, but when we got in the house he hit the ceiling. He said we have the worst-behaved brats in the world and I cried and the children cried and it was real embarrassin’ for the sitter.”
Poor Elizabeth Gage, she was really so sweet but she was letting her children ruin her marriage. I said, “Why don’t you all come to supper. We’ll have it on the beach.”
“Oh, that would be fun,” she said, “but Everett’s got to take the boat back to the yacht club. He wanted me to come along but I can’t leave the poor little children with a sitter again. I sure wish I could think of somebody. It would mean so much to Everett. Of course I don’t know a soul on the island but you. Oh, well, I’ll just have to tell Everett.”
“Leave them with me,” I said, wondering as the words left my mouth what I would tell Don and wasn’t I just trading places with Elizabeth Gage and ruining my marriage with her children.
“Oh, honey, you really mean it?” she said. “You aren’t just foolin’?”
“Of course I’m not,” I said bravely, looking around to see if Don was within hearing distance.
“Oh, Betty, you’re wonderful!” she said. “The sweetest person in the whole world and the children will be so thrilled, they adore you.”
At this point Don materialized beside me and so I said quickly, “Don wants the phone, I’ll see you in a little while.”
“Who were you talking to?” Don asked. “Elizabeth Gage?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do they want us to go out in the boat again?” he asked eagerly.
“Well, no,” I said. “Everett has to take the boat in to the yacht club and Elizabeth Gage was just telling me how much she’d like to go along.”
“Why doesn’t she?” Don asked.
“She’s going to,” I said and went upstairs to put rubber sheets on all the beds. Mercifully Elizabeth Gage was in a great hurry when she delivered the children and drove away before I herded them into the kitchen and Don yelled, “Good God, what’s this
?”
I said, “We’re going to have a good time, aren’t we, children?” Baby began to scream. I picked her up and she screamed louder. “Do you know what’s the matter with her?” I yelled at Little Donny.
“Uh, uh,” he said, his forefinger in his nose up to the second joint.
Little Gail said, “Yesterday Baby cried from early in the morning until way late last night when Mommy came home.”
Little P.J. said. “I’m hungry.”
I said, “I’ll make some sandwiches and we’ll all go down to the beach.” I put Baby down and she stretched out on the floor and began pounding her heels in time to her screaming. Leaning over I yelled, “Want a cookie, Baby?” No answer. “Want some candy, Baby?”
Little Donny said, “She’s sleepy. Mommy said so when she brought her over.”
I picked up Baby, carried her kicking and shrieking upstairs and into our bathroom, ran a full tub of water, peeled off her gray, wet clothes and dumped her in. She stopped screaming and began to play. The other children who had crowded in with us said, “We want a bath too.” I told them to start undressing but they said they didn’t know how. I told Little Donny who was six and Little Gail who was five that they were big enough to be undressing themselves and now was a good time to learn. When I had them all in the tub I poured in a whole box of bubble bath, tossed in some little plastic boats I keep for just such emergency and went downstairs for the shampoo, some dishtowels, a huge piece of oiled silk I kept sprinkled clothes in and some scissors.
I washed all the hair to the accompaniment of bloodcurdling howls and great flailing of arms and legs, scrubbed them all thoroughly, rinsed everybody off in the shower, then took them out one by one. After I had dried them, I sprinkled them plentifully with bath powder, swathed them in dishtowel diapers covered with oilsilk and one of Don’s pajama tops pinned over. Then I combed their hair, cut the girls’ bangs, brought them down to the kitchen, gave them peanut butter sandwiches, milk and ice cream and put them all down for naps. After I had scoured out the bathtub I put all of their clothes in the Bendix. I felt very noble, like a Red Cross worker in a flood area.
When Don came in for lunch, he asked suspiciously, “What have you done with them?”
“Bathed them and put them down for naps,” I said virtuously.
“Why do you get yourself into these traps?” Don said.
“Because I’m unselfish,” I said. “I try to do nice things for other people. I don’t just sit around thinking about myself all the time.”
“You’re not unselfish,” Don said. “You’re just a sucker. I’ll bet you ten to one Elizabeth Gage has had somebody taking care of those brats of hers ever since she had them. Anyway why does she need help so much? Everett makes lots of money and he told me that Elizabeth Gage could have a nurse and a maid if she wanted.”
“A likely story,” I said. “She didn’t even have a washing machine but I notice that Everett has a fifty thousand dollar yacht.”
Don said, “I think Elizabeth Gage is one of those women who likes to be pitiful. She gives me a pain.”
Just then Connie and Paul Pegler came in. Connie was wearing the tiniest pair of white shorts I’d ever seen and a hand-knit, burnt-orange, turtle-necked sweater. She looked beautiful. Don fixed drinks and headed for the living room. I quickly suggested that we all go out on the porch because the children were asleep in the bedrooms off the balcony.
“What children?” Connie asked.
“Oh, I’m taking care of Little Donny and Little Gail and Little P.J. and Baby,” I said airily.
“So that Elizabeth Gage can have dinner with Everett and try to make the mean ole thing happy?” Connie said, laughing.
“That’s the picture,” Don said.
Connie curled up on the white chaise longue, the largest and most becoming spot on the porch, and said, “Listen, Betty. I’ve known Elizabeth Gage and Everett Wheaton for years and years. I have also taken care of Little Donny and Little Gail and Little P.J. and Baby so that poor little Elizabeth Gage could have dinner with mean ole Everett and try to make him happy. Would you like to know what the next step is?—you get the children for two days, then for two weeks and then for the summer. You hose them down, cut their hair and try to housebreak them. The minute Elizabeth Gage gets them home she undoes all your good work—nobody is goin’ to tell her how to bring up her children. Then you get Elizabeth Gage and the children because Everett is drinkin’ and he can’t stand the children and he is so mean and once he even told Elizabeth Gage she was sloppy and he was sick of livin’ in a hog wallow. They will stay with you for a week or two—in the meantime of course your own husband moves out because Elizabeth Gage immediately makes any household into a rabbit warren. If you are really a sucker you try to clean up Elizabeth Gage—put her on a diet perhaps, even cut her hair and give her a Toni. Then one fine day Everett appears—drunk because he has been so lonely—Elizabeth Gage runs into his arms—he says what have you done to yourself—she says that mean old Betty cut my hair and made me diet—he says where are the children—she says that mean old Betty has them all takin’ naps all the time (this is all whispered, of course, with Everett giving you dirty looks over her shoulder). So they scoop up the children and leave and all the way home Elizabeth Gage entertains Everett with all the mean things she has said about him, only she puts them in your mouth and the next time you see Everett he either doesn’t speak or barely chips off one small icy hello. Of course you and Elizabeth Gage know the same people and you’re bound to run into each other and she can be cute and funny and before you know it another summer has rolled around and she has another baby—the others are still wetting their panties and their beds—Everett is still drinkin’ and bein’ mean and, if you’re a softie like me, you’re off to the races again.”
I knew that Connie was probably telling the truth but it was hard to give up my Red Cross work so suddenly—to part with my picture of Elizabeth Gage, thin and tastefully dressed with her hair combed and wearing a brassière, standing in the doorway of an immaculate house, surrounded by clean dry children, waiting for Everett, who would have gained a little weight and lost most of the deep furrows in his cheeks. After the reconciliation, of course, they would all come down to my house to thank me, with tears streaming down their faces, for saving their marriage.
Then Anne and Joan came home and after they had been introduced Joan said, “You look awful, Betty, what’s the matter? What have you been doing?” I noticed then that I was awfully rumpled and damp and remembered also that I had not put the children’s clothes in the dryer. I jumped up and ran out to the service room, the girls following. As I took the things out of the Bendix, Anne said, “What are those grubby little things?”
“Elizabeth Gage’s children’s clothes,” I said. “I gave them a bath. They are upstairs taking naps.”
“Not in our rooms,” the girls shrieked.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “But I put rubber sheets on the beds.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Anne said. “Those children are just gruesome.”
“No they aren’t,” I said stoutly. “They are just pitiful and neglected. Now let’s go out on the porch.”
The children awakened from their naps about three. Baby opened her eyes and her mouth at the same time and shrieked and shrieked and shrieked. She didn’t even stop for breath but like a singer pulled in new air via her diaphragm while holding one high shrill note. Then Connie appeared in the bathroom and yelled at the top of her voice, “BABY, STOP THAT NOISE!” To my astonishment she did. Leaning against the basin, Connie said, “I had that for two weeks once, only it was Little P.J. Paul finally stopped him. He yelled louder than P.J. It’s the only way.”
After Paul and Connie had gone Anne and Joan helped me with the children. We had them all fed and in bed again at six-thirty—then went out on the patio and I had a martini while the girls broiled steaks. It was very peaceful. After the second martini I felt sorry for Elizabeth Gage all over again. I said
, “Andy, couldn’t you fix Elizabeth Gage’s hair?”
“Sure I could,” Anne said, “but she’d have to wash it first. Imagine washing your hair only once every two months. Ugh.”
Don said, “Let’s talk about something else.”
Joan said, “You know, Betty, you’re just asking for trouble when you try to change Elizabeth Gage or her children. She must like the way she is or she wouldn’t be like that.”
Anne said, “Oh, that’s not fair, Joanie. She has four babies and she’s always tired.”
Joan said, “Connie Pegler has four babies too, she told me. Wow, she’s pretty.”
Don said, “Can’t we talk about something else?”
When Elizabeth Gage and Everett came for the children, about 1:45 A.M., they were both pretty high. Elizabeth Gage was flushed and disheveled and really looked awfully pretty even if she hadn’t combed her hair, had two runs in her stockings and a great many spots on her suit. We had a nightcap with them then Elizabeth Gage and I went upstairs to retrieve the children. On the way up Elizabeth Gage said, “Where are Anne and Joan?”
“Oh, they’re sleeping in the guesthouse,” I said. “They love it up there.” This was not exactly true as Anne and Joan had finally been driven to the guesthouse like sheep to the slaughter, reluctant and bleating.
The minute Baby opened her eyes and saw Elizabeth Gage she began to scream. Elizabeth Gage picked her up and murmured into her neck, “Poor little Baby. Did Mommy leave her with mean ole Betty? Did she miss her Mommy?” As Elizabeth Gage murmured and cooed Baby stopped screaming long enough to give me a triumphant look over her mother’s shoulder. Then we gathered up the other children who were all wet and sad and cross. Elizabeth Gage made them sadder by telling them how pitiful they were—how mean Mommy was to go off and leave them—how mean Daddy was to make Mommy go off and leave them. She asked me if she could borrow the pajama tops and a blanket to take them home in and I said yes and so she herded them downstairs and through the house and up the backstairs and then Everett who was having another nightcap with Don wouldn’t come right away. Elizabeth Gage cried, all the children cried and I finally pushed Everett out the door.
Onions in the Stew Page 21