by Ann Ripley
The caterer raised a hand. “One minute, madam. I have just the thing for you.” She went to Louise’s refrigerator and poured a glass of tomato juice. Then from a case she had brought with her she took an envelope of something and stirred it into the juice.
She came up close to Louise and handed it to her conspiratorially. “This won’t do everything, but it will do some to set you to rights.”
“Oh, thank you,” sighed Louise, willing to drink almost anything, but knowing she should drink no more of that divine wine that Bill had brought into the house. Allure, he had called it. What a wonderful name!
She drank the tomato juice, tasting its special flavor, which she realized was yeast. Maybe this woman should just carry liquid vitamin B-12 in syringes, the stuff they gave alcoholics in hospitals. At Washington parties, there surely would be plenty of customers.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought the juice helped her stand straighter. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking down at her benefactor. “Mrs. Wickstrom, is it?”
The woman smiled and nodded dismissal. Louise realized she had been standing in the way of progress in setting out desserts.
Now, if she just went to the bathroom and relieved her strained bladder, she would be back to normal. Then Bill would stop giving her those concerned glances from across the room, where he was talking nonstop to her friend Nora. When she saw them talking that way, heads together, like two lovers, she wanted to rip Nora away and shove her right out of her house, right across the cul-de-sac into her own damned house. What a fatiguing prospect, to say the least. And anyway, she liked Nora, didn’t she?
To keep out of the traffic pattern, Louise made her way toward the master bathroom. She was still sober enough to know she and Mary were supposed to be doing something at this party. Mary, lovely in pale blue silk, was moving through the party like a bluebird gliding through a summer garden. She was conversing with each and every man present. Spying on the husbands, of course! Louise, too, would do her part, but first, the bathroom.
When she reached the dim master bedroom, she found the farthest corner occupied. Sandy and Frank Stern were in ecstatic embrace, and in imminent danger, Louise felt, of falling onto the bed, in which case she wasn’t sure what would happen next.
“Oops!” cried Louise, before she could stop herself and back out again. The couple broke apart. Frank grinned. Sandy smiled and said, “Just a little private hello—he just blew back into town after a business trip. You, of all people, understand how it feels to have your spouse away for a month.”
So, one man down. Surely a guy who smooched his wife like that wasn’t fooling around. Pleased with herself, Louise entered the bathroom. Sweeping aside chiffon skirts that seemed to have multiplied during the evening, she sat down on the toilet and held her head in her hands and closed her eyes. The whole world went around in wild circles. In alarm she opened her eyes. She cautiously sat back, enjoying the feel of cold porcelain through the thin fabric of her dress. Hail to the British who had invented this splendid thing! She tried reclosing her eyes. This time things didn’t swim around so much.
Sitting here, she could actually think and remember. There was not only her and Mary’s caper to handle. There was something Bill wanted to accomplish out of this party, too. Ah, Peter Hoffman. She was supposed to talk to him, and she hadn’t. She was supposed to find out … she couldn’t remember what. She noticed this Peter had talked to only the best-looking women at the party. He had captured Nora on the couch for his dinner partner until Bill somehow took over. Hmmm, that Nora.
So. To review: She knew it was a good party. No one except Bill had noticed she was a little drunk. That made her suspect others also might be pie-eyed. The woman novelist wasn’t; she had glommed on to their psychoanalyst friend, Ian, and was draining him dry of the dark juices of his clinical experiences. Louise was reminded of a sucked-dry bug caught in a spiderweb, although Ian was a little large to imagine literally sucked dry. Louise now knew where this woman got the material for her books.
Her old Bethesda friends were out there in the living room and the family room, even pouring out into her studio, happily meshing with the new ones here in Virginia and with the State Department types.
Of course, some had met before somewhere or other in Washington. They were all from the same cloth. All poised. All ready to either talk or keep their mouths shut, depending on horn they were thrown with. Most with some kind of expertise, and all knowing the same inside-the-Beltway gossip. That neant they could at least fake their way through any kind of conversation, no matter how shallow or how deep.
Even behind closed lids, the bright lights of the bathroom were beginning to make her feel like a prisoner undergoing interrogation. She got up from the toilet as gracefully as possible, to prove to herself that she was not a staggering drunk. She did it without a misstep. Standing up, the world became dizzier. Although that concoction of Mrs. What’s-her-name had been helpful, she wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Louise went back to the party, determined to get done whatever it was that attractive husband of hers on the couch talking to her too-beautiful neighbor wanted her to do.
Everything had now changed. Even the music. From classical, it had become Sinatra favorites.
Mort and Sarah Swanson were dancing to “A Foggy Day in London Town.” He was a thin stick; she, in her yellow and black chiffon gown, was the rounded and beautiful attached chrysalis. They swayed to the music in a little space near the fireplace. Hmm … could she cross Mort off her list, too?
Bill was now captured by—or had captured, who knows?—Peter Hoffman’s wife, Phyllis. Louise had tried a conversation with her and come up empty, although the woman was well read, she would give her that. She had read all the latest books, even the nonfiction.
It was as if Peter Hoffman had been waiting for her. All of a sudden he was next to her, looming over her. “I was looking for you,” he said. He was very tall—six-six, she guessed. She liked very tall men.
She smiled up at him. “I’ve wanted to talk to you, too.”
“You’re pretty tanked up, I see.”
Louise’s mouth fell open and she stared at him. Should she laugh or cry? She giggled. “My secret is out.”
He moved in close to her. “You’re a cool one. I’m glad I didn’t upset you by observing the obvious.” His voice was soft but penetrating. Rather pleasant, she thought. “What I think we should do is this: I’ll get two desserts with coffee.” He whispered “coffee” as if it were the magic word. “Then we’ll go into a bedroom—with the door open, of course—and eat and drink. Then you’ll feel better. And we can talk, too.”
She looked up at him and grinned. “Great idea,” she purred. “I’ll just stand here and be social while you do that. People might have missed me.”
Several passed her on the way to the dessert table, telling her what a lovely party it was, how delightful the food, the wine, the flowers….
“Ridgebrook—yes, lovely caterers.”
“The red is Allure. Yes, it’s a lovely wine.”
“David Travers did the bouquets. Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?”
She was gracious but tried above all to not smile like a fool. Smiling too much was a dead giveaway.
Peter came back, a plate with a cup on it in either hand. “You lead the way,” he said. She had to think a minute, then led him to Janie’s room. It was unoccupied by either coats or humans.
They sat at Janie’s desk in two black lacquered student chairs.
“Nice room. This your daughter’s?”
“Yes. Janie’s—or Jane’s. I guess we’ll have to call her that soon. This is her room.”
“Saw her tonight,” said Peter. He cut into his pastry with a fork that was dwarfed by his large hand. “All dressed up for the occasion. I think I’ve seen her before somewhere.” He looked over at Louise. “She’s a beauty, you know. I hope you’re prepared for it.”
Louise chipped away at her napoleon, taking sm
all bites. It wasn’t sitting well down there in the old stomach. The coffee tasted better.
“Oh, yes, Janie. She’s a very attractive girl.”
“That her boyfriend with her, that tall young guy?”
“Oh, Chris. No … I mean, I don’t know. I have the feeling they’re just … good friends. He lives in the cul-de-sac.”
A few more swallows of coffee. Wonderful coffee. Peter was still talking … about what? Still Janie? Treating Louise so well, thinking she was sodden with drink.
Suddenly, from barely hanging on to his remarks, she came back a little. It felt like the dawning of the age of Aquarius. Back from the brink. Back to sobriety. Gentility. Probity. Clear analysis.
She was ready to take command again.
She cleared her throat. “Now tell me, Peter, about your background.” Her voice sounded natural enough. “I’m so happy to hear you’re being considered for such a … a … high post.” Where were her adjectives when she needed them? She looked at him with wide eyes. “It is a very, uh … high job, is it not?”
“High? High?” he mimicked, laughing. But his voice was harsh. “It’s a damned important job. You bet it’s, as you call it, ‘high.’” He looked at her through his gold-rimmed aviator glasses, and she saw how good-looking he was. He seemed to exude energy; maybe it came out in his sweat glands. She also sensed that in spite of her tongue-tiedness, he knew she was no longer completely drunk. She felt almost, but not completely, equal to this man Peter.
“What exactly will you be doing as deputy secretary of defense?” Now her voice sounded prissy. “Do you know in advance what your responsibilities—”
He bit off the end of her sentence. “Not completely, of course not. It depends on the players. What they want me for is my expertise on artillery.” He looked at her again, as if deciding something. “Are you really interested or”—he chuckled a little—“are you just toying with me?”
She sat back and relaxed and smiled. “I truly am interested,” she said in a lilting voice. Bill had assigned her some vague, informational mission; she was sure he didn’t mean it to be Mata Hari, but what the hell, it was kind of fun.
He put his fork down and sat back. It was working. “Well, I could tell you all about tactical arms, the kind of arms that will be our future—the small but very lethal arms—they’re my specialty.” He sighed. “But when you smile like that, with that figure of yours and those great legs”—he waved a hand in a wide gesture that ended up with his fingertips just touching her upper arm—“well, let’s just say if I were your husband, I wouldn’t be making out with that neighborhood poet.”
She flinched as if she had been lashed in the face.
“Oh, please, no … she’s my friend … she’s our Friend. She wouldn’t … he wouldn’t …”
Peter leaned over, took her hand in his warm hands, and said cajolingly, chuckling a little as he did, “It’s all right, my pretty Louise. I’m putting you on; you’re so innocent.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You’re like a breath of spring.” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “They just don’t often make women like you. Of course your husband is innocent—doing his party duties. Right now he’s talking to my lovely wife.” His voice had developed a little sneer. “And I’m sure no woman will be bereft of a conversation with Bill Eldridge before the night is over.”
Louise’s voice was very low. “He’s a lovely man. You don’t know him, do you?” She looked down at her hand, which at last she noticed was still in his possession. “I … I didn’t mean lovely man.” She made a pushing move with her free hand. “Strike ‘lovely.’ I mean, he is a fine man—they don’t make them any better than Bill.”
Peter started nodding assent even before she finished. Then he said, “He has to be pretty damned fine to have a wife like you.” He caressed her fingers, rather like a doctor, as if he were exploring their narrow bone structure. Although it was pleasant, she wished he would give her hand back to her.
“Now,” he said, “let’s change the subject and talk about your little, uh, misfortune here with the police. Have they found anything at all?”
She was telling him what she knew when she heard a lilting voice. “Oh, excuse me.”
Janie, with faithful Chris. “Hi, Ma. I don’t mean to break in, but the caterer wants you for something.” The teenagers stood in the doorway, embarrassed, as if they had interrupted a tryst.
“Yes.” Louise jumped up from the chair, amazed at her agility. “I’ll come right away. Janie, Chris, I don’t think you’ve met Peter Hoffman.”
Peter languidly got to his feet, as if he had all the time in the world, and approached the young pair. “We invaded your bedroom, Janie. It was crowded out there.” He stood looking down at Louise’s daughter, whose hair tonight was twisted and pinned up, with just a few blond curls falling artlessly down the sides and back. She wore what she called her Victorian dress, soft pink printed silk in an old-fashioned style with a square lace collar low enough to show the tops of her young breasts.
First he stared at her face. Janie stared back, as if in thrall. Then he raised a big hand and gently caressed a curl that had fallen on her right cheek. He moved the hand and raised her chin for an instant. Finally he took both of her hands and drew them up for closer inspection. “Beautiful face, beautiful hands. Like your mother.” That intimate, steely voice.
For an instant they all stood as if frozen. Chris looked embarrassed, his eyes seeking something to look at other than the tall man. Janie flushed, only increasing her luminosity.
Louise felt every alarm in her body activate.
“Excuse me while I go to the kitchen,” she said breathlessly. She clasped Janie’s arm and said, “Come with me, dear. They may need some help from us.” She pulled her gently away.
“Ma,” said Janie in a low growl, as they went down the hall. “Why did I have to come? I don’t think they need our help—I just think they need to talk to you.”
Louise tried to keep her voice light, under control. “I’d prefer you don’t continue to stay in your bedroom while the party is going on out here.”
Janie looked curiously at Louise. “Oh. All right for you, not all right for me. Another double standard.” Her voice softened. “But it’s okay. It’s something about that man-something you didn’t like, right?”
Louise looked into her blue eyes, innocent eyes, but painted tonight with the skill of Cleopatra.
“My love,” said Louise, and paused and touched the sleeve of her darling daughter’s gown. “Some other time I’ll try to explain it.”
Janie patted her mother on the shoulder. “Well, anyway, Ma, it sure sobered you up in a hurry. For a while there I didn’t think you were going to make it till the end of the party.”
Louise heaved a long sigh. “Oh, Janie. Sometimes I wish …”
“What?”
Louise smiled weakly. “Never mind. It’s just that you are such a truth teller.”
23
The Hangover
THE FIRST THING THAT CAME INTO HER CONSCIOUSNESS was the singing. She opened an eye and focused in on the white knobs on the antique dry sink across the bedroom. The white sheet and coverlet covered practically her whole head and face, and she felt like a bear coming out of hibernation.
But much worse, probably. A bear would not have a head that felt like this. A head with a round ball of pain in it that needed excision.
Bill, she realized, was passing back and forth outside the closed bedroom door and singing in his usual adventurous monotone something she couldn’t recognize. Rolling Stones? Yes. “I’ll Never Be Your Beast of Burden.” Out there in the hall, deliberately trying to wake her up. She couldn’t help smiling. What a little pill he was!
She stirred her head and moved her shoulders and decided maybe she could get up after all. She swung weak legs down to the floor and sat there, trapped by her twisted silk nightie. Then she waggled her toes until she found her waiting mules and decided to rest for a moment.
The door opened. Fresh and dressed, he smiled at her. “At last! She lives. She sits up. Will she take nourishment?” He came over and started to sit down beside her on the bed.
“Be careful,” she warned. “Don’t rock the bed.”
“Bad head, huh?” He sat down and held her head in both hands as an archaeologist might hold an ancient skull. Then he gently massaged.
“Oh,” she moaned, leaning toward him. “Keep it up; I’ll follow you forever.”
“The reason I want you up is I have this great breakfast for you—a little sausage, a little scrambled egg with mushrooms.”
“Oh, no, I can’t eat that.”
“Of course you can eat. Come on, just try it. Besides, I have no one to talk to when you’re asleep; Janie went to church, to represent the family and keep us okay with the big guy upstairs.”
She looked at Bill, buoyant and cheery, carrying her again. What would she do without him?
He jumped up and brought her two aspirins, a glass of water, and her robe. Clad now in its comfy fleece, she walked with him into the living room. No one would have known they had had a big party last night. Between Bill and the caterers—no thanks to her—the place was perfect, the bouquets giving extra elegance. Bill had drawn closed the wide gauze curtains across the broad expanses of windows.
“It looks so nice and peaceful here, with the curtains closed,” murmured Louise. “Very womblike; just what I need.”
“I thought you wouldn’t be able to stand the light for a while. Now you sit down and we’ll eat.” He served the breakfast at the dining room table, complete with orange slices on each plate.