“I wonder if the bridge lifts?” Homer said wonderingly.
Darrow coughed discreetly. “I — uh — believe it’s inoperative at the moment. But I’m sure it can be repaired.”
Jan looked at Darrow suspiciously. She and Aunt Sheila were losing an ally. For Mr. Wallace Darrow was not in the business to sell the customer what he liked, but only what the customer would like — and buy. A sale is a sale is a sale, and when you sell a white elephant, it’s a supersale.
I chuckled.
Aunt Sheila asked, “What’s so damned funny, Tasteless? I always knew you favored your father’s side of the family.”
Aunt Sheila was my mother’s brother’s wife. He had died young and released her for greener pastures. I said nothing.
Homer said, “Look at that construction. Solid stone. By golly, this place isn’t all glass.”
“There is some glass, Homer,” Jan said meekly. “There are a lot of windows and some of them are almost eighteen inches wide.”
Homer laughed. “Oh, you young ones — Glass, glass, glass. All glass is good for is wrapping whiskey in.”
And we laughed, Homer and I, as the car stopped in the courtyard, in the cobbled courtyard, and we got out.
“Authentic,” Homer said. “Authentic as hell, by golly.”
“Authentic Chas Addams,” Jan agreed. “Where would a decorator start, with a place like this?”
“You’d have to start with dynamite and a bulldozer,” my Aunt Sheila said. “Level it, I say.”
Homer stiffened and swiveled slowly to stare at his bride. She lifted her chin and returned the stare.
Homer asked politely, softly, “Don’t you even want to see the inside?”
A pause, and then she said quietly, “If you do, I do.”
Nobody had any further comments to offer as we walked along toward the high, broad, brass-studded front door.
The door opened before we had a chance to ring the bell and a woman stood there, waiting for us to identify ourselves.
It wasn’t Mary Mae. This girl was around thirty, black-haired, blue-eyed, slim and serene.
Wallace said, “I phoned Miss Milgrim about fifteen minutes ago. I’m Wallace Darrow.”
“Come in,” the girl said. “I’m Joyce Thorne, Miss Milgrim’s secretary.”
We came into a lofty, musty entry hall, complete with lances, tapestries and an enormous medallion set into one wall, a huge scarlet-enameled “M” set into a background of peeling gilt. The alliteration of Mary Mae Milgrim was apparently symbolic to her.
“Authentic,” Homer said again in admiration.
“Genuine early Pathé,” Jan admitted. “A grand house for orgies.”
Homer looked at her skeptically and then Miss Thorne said, “This way, please.”
We went through a high, narrow archway into a room two stories high, with a beamed ceiling. It was dim in here, damp and cool. A fireplace big enough to roast an elephant divided the long wall, and the furniture was solid oak early mission. The drapes over the narrow windows were maroon velvet and they were closed this smoggy April day. Consequently, the room was dark enough so that the illusion at the far end of the room was adequate for devoted Mary Mae Milgrim fans.
For the lady stood there, slim and proud in black velvet, not a wrinkle visible from this distance, the creamy white skin flawless in the shadowed room. One hand rested lightly on the back of a refectory chair as she smiled at us graciously.
“Good afternoon, guests,” she said melodiously. “Which one is Mr. Wallace?”
“Mr. Darrow,” Wallace corrected her. “Wallace Darrow, Miss Milgrim, of Darrow, Weldon and Lutz.” And then he introduced us.
When it was Homer’s turn, he bowed with true Texas courtliness, and said warmly, “I consider this, Miss Milgrim, the high point of my life. You will always be the greatest of them all to me.”
There was a momentary silence after that tribute.
And then Miss Milgrim nodded acknowledgment to Homer and said to Darrow, “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the house. Miss Thorne will be your guide.”
This much I’ll say for the place: it had a lot of rooms. The servants’ rooms were small and the other rooms were large, but all of them had narrow windows and high ceilings.
Both Homer and Jan were shaking their heads as we went from room to room, but I am sure their thoughts were not the same.
Eventually we came back to the big, dim room where Miss Milgrim waited. Homer, I could see, was ripe for the harpoon, and it seemed certain that Darrow would know it if I did. Jan seemed resigned, though she is unpredictable. My Aunt Sheila was looking thoughtful, glancing at Homer constantly, as though appraising him.
Miss Milgrim was sitting in the refectory chair, back straight, chin well lifted, in an admirable attempt at gracious poise. There weren’t many people who would be anxious to buy this mausoleum; she couldn’t afford to look too hungry.
Homer said, “It’s a wonderful house, Miss Milgrim. In perfect taste.”
Jan blanched. Aunt Sheila kept her face carefully blank. Darrow glanced between Homer and Miss Milgrim and there were dollar signs in his eyes.
Miss Milgrim said, “Thank you, Mr. Gallup. I doubt if you’ll find many houses as soundly constructed in this town.”
There was some scorn in her voice. This was the town that had forgotten Mary Mae Milgrim.
The ringmaster, Darrow, looked around at all of us and came up with the cliché I was waiting for. He said earnestly, “They just don’t build them like this any more.”
Next to me, Jan whispered, “Thank God!”
Miss Milgrim said, “I’m sure you’ll want to talk with your clients in private. I’ll expect to hear from you, Mr. Darrow.”
That was our dismissal. Homer once again told Miss Milgrim what a wonderful house she had and the five of us went out to Darrow’s car.
There, Homer asked, “How much?”
“It’s listed at a hundred and forty thousand,” Darrow said. “The land alone should be worth that.”
Homer looked at his bride, “Well, Sheila-?”
Aunt Sheila hesitated, looking at Jan. Jan made no comment. Aunt Sheila said softly, “You love the place, don’t you, Homer?”
He nodded, and his face was a little boy’s. “I guess it’s kind of old-fashioned, huh? But Jan could fix that up, couldn’t she?”
Jan looked at the cobblestones in the courtyard and didn’t answer. Aunt Sheila said, “If anyone could, Jan could. Homer, it’s your money and I’m happy any place where you’re happy.”
Darrow was busily leafing through his book, getting the details on the house. He said, “A hundred and forty thousand is the asking price, Mr. Gallup. I’m sure it’s open to an offer.”
Homer shook his head. “If Miss Milgrim wants a hundred and forty thousand, that’s what she’ll get. We don’t chisel Miss Mary Mae Milgrim, not on any deal where I’m involved.”
Darrow shrugged and continued to look through the listing. Then he said, “There’s a rather strange condition to any sale, I see. “He frowned. “Perhaps Miss Milgrim would be willing to waive it.”
“What is it?” Aunt Sheila asked hopefully.
“There’s a servants’ cottage over at the north end of the property,” Darrow explained, “of three bedrooms and a bath and a half. Miss Milgrim wants to retain the right to live in it, rent free, for the rest of her life.”
Sheila frowned, waiting a reaction from Homer. Jan looked hopeful.
But Homer took a deep breath and studied his future home with the look of a lad viewing his first Christmas tree. “Wonderful,” he said rapturously. “All this — and Mary Mae Milgrim too!”
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Renewal Copyright © 1987 by William Campbell Gault
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