Mr. Hutchins must have changed, Tommy thought. He sure wasn’t handsome now. “Well, I’m glad he didn’t win,” Tommy said. He couldn’t imagine Mr. Hutchins as his father. “But what are the spoils?”
“That’s what the victor gets after the battle,” his Uncle Christian said. “It’s the plunder he takes home with him. It’s just an old expression.”
“Oh,” Tommy said.
His father stood up. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you. And here’s to each and every one of you.” He raised his glass to his guests and drank from it, and then touched his glass to his mother’s—“And to you, Emma”—and they each took a sip as the crowd broke into applause. “And now let’s have fun—and for anyone who’d like it, a real drink! Or more of Sally Barlow’s famous punch. Just remember that it packs one, too.” Tommy knew his father didn’t think champagne was a real drink; it was just something you had to have for celebrations, like Mrs. Barlow’s punch.
The band started playing again, and his father took his mother’s hand and led her from the table, the rest of them following after. He walked her through the dining room into the ballroom, where he put his arm around her waist and they began to dance as the waiters cleared the tables of everything but the glasses and the buckets with the ice in them for the champagne. Others joined, and soon the room was filled with swirling, dancing, happy couples. His mother, Tommy noticed, was wearing shoes of palest pearly gray, made of silk, not the fuchsia shoes with the straps that she’d shown him and John. Maybe she’d returned them. But she had put her buckles on them, and her feet sparkled as she moved. His mother was a very good dancer.
His father didn’t dance very long. He didn’t enjoy dancing—he said he danced the way he sang—but it was a man’s duty and he did it, and he danced with a lot of the other ladies too, not very long with any of them but long enough to be polite. Tommy knew that he would have to leave soon. He was being allowed to watch the dancing for a little while, but then, when all the tables had been cleared and he had seen enough, Rose was going to take him back to the Island. He could never see enough, he thought. He stood in a corner, watching. His mother was dancing with Nick Kingsfield now. She liked dancing with him a lot more than with Mr. Sedgwick, who stepped on everyone’s feet and if he didn’t crush your toes he ruined your slippers. The band was playing “South of the Border (Down Mexico Way),” and Nick and his mother were really doing a fancy dance, swooping back and forth and around the floor. Nick was very good. His mother ought to be dancing with Mr. Wolfe to that one, Tommy thought, and in a minute she was but the song had changed. The band was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” and he could see his mother singing the words to the music.
“That’s a pisser,” Dr. Randolph said from behind him. Tommy hadn’t realized he was there. He was drinking a Coke, but from a glass.
“What?” Tommy asked.
“It’s a pisser,” Dr. Randolph said again. “This party of your mother’s is a real pisser.”
Tommy laughed. Dr. Randolph always made him laugh when he talked like that. He walked into the foyer and through the screened doors onto the porch. It was nice on the porch. The air was fresh, and the lanterns were beautiful. His mother was lucky that it was such a fine night. It could have been cold, at the end of August, or it could have been raining, but it was neither cold nor wet: a perfect summer night. He walked the length of the long porch, looking through the windows into the ballroom, hearing the music. All the windows were open because it was so pleasant. The candles were burning still, and the mirrored ball shot beams of light into the farthest corners of the room, spattering it like sunlight through the leaves when the leaves fluttered in the breeze. It was like the kaleidoscope his mother had given him, all beautiful colors and swirling forms, but with music. Phil Meyer was dancing with his wife. Daisy did look like a bride. She liked white. Bob Griswold and Margie Slade were dancing together. Margie was wearing her mother’s diamond bracelet. Tommy bet that Emily had noticed that. They’d sat pretty close to each other at the table. Her bracelet looked as fancy as any of Mrs. Hutchins’, Tommy thought. Tommy saw David standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching Margie. He was waiting to cut in, and in a minute he did. David really didn’t want Margie to dance with anyone else, but sometimes she did. So did David; it wouldn’t be polite, otherwise. Nick was dancing with Madge McGhee now—David had said he could have her—and Vint Steer was dancing with his mother. Tommy’s mother always said that was a nice thing to do, dance with your mother, but Vint didn’t look as if he were enjoying it much. Phelps was dancing with Emily, and then he danced with Daisy. Everybody was dancing. Well, not everybody. A few couples were strolling on the porch, taking the air, and Tommy could see through the doorway that there were people in the lounge, too. He could see Ophelia behind the bar, and he decided to go in and see if she could talk to him. Maybe Buck was free now and they could play Hide-and-Seek around the clubhouse. But when he got near the bar, he could see there was trouble. Mr. Hutchins was having an argument with Ophelia. He’d never seen Ophelia have an argument. Ophelia never argued with anybody, and everybody was always very nice to her. “Are you sure you want another drink?” Ophelia asked him. “Wouldn’t you like a hot cup of coffee?”
“Nigger bitch!” Mr. Hutchins shouted. He was snarling, and he was drunk. Tommy knew he was really drunk. “Kiss my white ass!” Tommy couldn’t believe his ears, and neither could Mrs. Steer and Mr. Aldrich, who had come into the room together. Mrs. Hutchins sat alone at the table, rings trembling as she put down her bourbon. “Oh, no,” she said, “oh, no. He’ll ruin this lovely party.” She said it softly and stared off, not at Mr. Hutchins but into the distance. Mr. Aldrich ran to the bar, put his hand on Mr. Hutchins’ arm, and said, “I’m taking you home,” and Mrs. Steer saw Tommy and immediately rushed him into the cardroom and out the side door onto the porch.
“Some people don’t know how to behave when they drink,” she said. “You’ll have to learn that, but I’m sorry you had to learn it now.” Tommy already knew that, but he’d never seen anybody act like Mr. Hutchins. “Some people are despicable when they drink,” Mrs. Steer said, “and you’ve just seen someone be utterly despicable. He’s contemptible. I’m sorry.” Mrs. Steer put her arm around his neck and patted his chest. “I am sorry, Tommy.” She stood with him on the porch, holding his hand, and in a minute Mr. Aldrich and Mr. McGhee came out the side door with Mr. Hutchins between them. Mrs. Steer pulled him aside. She didn’t even look at Mr. Hutchins. He was too contemptible. The two men walked him off the porch and around the back of the clubhouse. Tommy heard a car door slam, and then another and another, and the car started and drove off. “I don’t think anyone noticed,” Mrs. Steer said, letting go of his hand, “except for us. I hope not.”
“Mrs. Appleton was playing the slot machines,” Tommy said. “She probably noticed.”
“Well, let’s not talk about it. At least your parents didn’t see it, and he’s gone now.”
“Mrs. Hutchins is still here,” Tommy said.
“I’d better go talk to her and see if she’s all right,” Mrs. Steer said, “and apologize to Ophelia.” She gave Tommy another friendly pat. “It must be time for you to leave. It’s getting late. Isn’t Rose supposed to take you home?”
“Yes,” Tommy said, “she is. After I’ve seen some of the dancing.”
“You’ve seen plenty of dancing.” She laughed. “I’ll find Rose and send her out. Wait here,” and she bent and kissed him on the cheek. Mrs. Steer hardly ever kissed him. “I really must try to say something to Ophelia—and to Mrs. Hutchins, too. It’s not her fault.”
No, it wasn’t her fault, Tommy thought, and it wasn’t Ophelia’s fault, either. He certainly liked Ophelia a lot more than he liked Mr. Hutchins. Right then Tommy loved Ophelia. He wanted to go in and say something nice to her, too, something to comfort her, but he didn’t. He wished he could give her something nice so she wouldn’t feel bad. If it had happened to him, she would have made him a chicken s
andwich. Tommy wasn’t in any hurry for Rose to find him, though, so he didn’t go back inside, or stay on the porch either, but walked down the steps and onto the grass, listening to the music float out of the clubhouse and across the fairways, and watching the lanterns twinkling from the porch. He noticed that from the golf course you could see the fires from his father’s furnaces glowing faintly far off in the sky toward town, and, in the sky, he could see the shimmering of the northern lights. That meant it would be cold tomorrow.
After a while he saw a car turn off the River Road and into the country-club drive. He thought it must be Mr. Aldrich coming back. He walked across the grass to the porch to see what was happening. It wasn’t Mr. Aldrich. It was Mrs. Slade’s Packard with Reilly at the wheel! He didn’t look like much of a chauffeur, but Mrs. Slade wouldn’t care. He made a swooping turn and stopped the car at the steps. Mrs. Slade was alone in the back seat. Tommy ran down the steps by the driveway and opened her door. “Mrs. Slade!” He hugged her. “I thought you weren’t coming!” She stepped from the car and rose to her full height. Her dress was solid black, and in front it was slashed all the way down to where her breasts used to be when she had all of them, though you couldn’t tell anything was missing. But when she moved up the steps the skirt flared out from her hips, and it wasn’t solid black at all but had panels of scarlet. She looked incredible. She was clutching a long white fur, and around her neck her ruby necklace glinted in the night, and there were rubies in her ears as well. “Wow! You’ll knock them out,” Tommy exclaimed. “What happened? I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I changed my mind, Tommy. Suddenly I wanted to hear music. I wanted to go to a party. I wanted to dance, to see the world of brightness. I wanted a slice of the old life, the grand life. My, this sure as hell does look grand,” she said, taking in the lights and the music. She called to Reilly. “Keep the car running, Bucko. I may have to make a quick getaway. But don’t worry, honey,” she said to Tommy, “I’ll behave. Mrs. Rich Bitch knows how to behave when she wants to. Let’s have a little dance.” The music filled the porch.
“I don’t know how,” Tommy said. “I can’t dance.”
“It’s easy,” Mrs. Slade said. “You put your arm around my waist and we’ll take a little turn around the porch. Just follow me and the music. Listen! They’re playing ‘Lady Be Good.’ What could be more appropriate?” She draped the fur around her shoulders, placed Tommy’s arm around her waist, and took his other hand in hers, and the two of them twirled around the porch, her black dress flashing scarlet, her rubies twinkling in the lantern light, her white fur flying. Tommy stumbled to keep up with her. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “All you need is practice, my little beau, and you’ll be a wonderful dancer. You’ll learn, and you’ll love it. So will the ladies. One more whirl!”
Tommy heard the screened doors swing open. Mr. Wolfe had come out during their last whirl and was watching them. “Well, Luke the Wolfe!” Mrs. Slade exclaimed when they stopped. “Doing the cucaracha?” She extended her hand toward him and waited expectantly. “What are you waiting for?” she said. “Kiss it.” Mr. Wolfe bent over her hand and touched it with his lips. “It’s a habit he picked up in Mexico,” Mrs. Slade said to Tommy. “I hope that’s all you picked up.” Mr. Wolfe hadn’t said a word. “I’m going to be very grand tonight,” she said. “Mrs. Rich Bitch knows how to be very grand.” She took the fur from her shoulders and handed it to Mr. Wolfe. “Thank you, Lucien,” she said, “that will be all,” and she swept toward the door, very grandly, too, and entered the clubhouse. Mr. Wolfe dropped the fur on a chair and walked around to the other side of the porch, off the cardroom.
Tommy watched Mrs. Slade through the screened doors. “Hello, Randy”—that’s what she called Dr. Randolph, who was standing in the foyer—“how’s the reformed doctor?” Tommy bet Dr. Randolph thought that was a pisser. She strode right by him, though, and over to Margie, who was standing by the French doors holding hands with David, and kissed them both on the cheek. They spoke for a second and Margie pointed toward the ballroom and Mrs. Slade walked purposefully in, tall and straight as an arrow. Tommy ran to the windows and saw her go directly to his mother, who was standing next to one of them, close enough so he could hear.
His mother was surprised. She was very surprised, but she hesitated only a moment. “Well, Mrs. Slade,” she said, “how nice you could come after all.” She extended her hand. “And thank you for the gift.”
Mrs. Slade kissed his mother on her cheek. “Emma, I suddenly realized I couldn’t possibly miss this scene. Thank you for asking me. I’m glad you like the animal. I wanted to send you some kind of creature, something appropriate, something silver.” She smiled. Then she laughed. His mother didn’t speak. “And now that I’m here, I can see that I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’ve had one dance already, on the porch, and it’s time for another. Where’s the bridegroom? The bridegroom must have his dance.” The company parted before her as she walked off to find Tommy’s father. She was knocking them out, all right. She was certainly knocking them out.
The orchestra was playing John’s song now, “I was a good little girl, till I met you,” and John and Emily were dancing to it, and in a minute Tommy saw his father and Mrs. Slade swing by the windows.
“What are you looking at?” It was Phil Meyer, putting his arm on Tommy’s shoulder. He was startled.
“Oh, just the party,” Tommy said. “I’m looking at the party. I’ve never seen anything like it.” It certainly wasn’t like Thanksgiving, or any of the other parties Tommy had seen at his house or on the Island.
“Neither have I,” Phil said, “and I’ve been to a lot of parties. Let’s sit down.” Phil led him toward a chair, one of the chairs the ladies rocked in. “Well, what’s on your mind, my friend?” That was Phil’s question; he always asked Tommy that.
“Nothing,” Tommy said. He wished he could talk to Phil about what was on his mind. He really did like him. “School starts next week. I’ll be in third grade.”
“How did the golf lessons go?”
“Fine. I learned to hit the ball. The lessons are over now.”
“Did you like them?” Phil asked.
“They were okay,” Tommy said. He wished they could talk about something else.
“Well, Mac,” Phil said, “I told you, you learn to keep your eye on the ball and the rest of the game comes naturally.”
“I’m learning,” Tommy said. Phil had told him. “I learned to see through a telescope, too. That was interesting.”
“Well, I’m going off for a little stroll, a breath of air,” Phil said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Goodbye,” Tommy said. He wished Phil had stayed. Maybe they could have talked. He watched him fade into the darkness of the golf course. In a few minutes Tommy went back to the windows. Mrs. Slade had finished her dance with Tommy’s father. She was standing in front of Dr. Randolph now. He looked as if he wished he were somewhere else. Yes, a real pisser, Tommy thought. It made him smile. She took Dr. Randolph’s hand and led him to the floor. The band was playing “Thanks for the Memory,” and Mrs. Slade was laughing and looking into Dr. Randolph’s eyes. Tommy couldn’t hear her, but he could tell she was saying something and that she thought it was funny, too. Mrs. Slade looked beautiful when she danced.
“Do you suppose Mrs. Proper thinks we don’t all know?” It was Mrs. Appleton’s voice. He heard her voice before he heard the footsteps clumping slowly and heavily down the porch. “It’s scandalous, that’s what it is. Simply scandalous.”
“Balls of brass.” That was Mrs. Barlow.
“Sally!” Mrs. Appleton sounded shocked. “Upon my word!”
“Oh, Frances,” Mrs. Barlow said, “when you look like a mountain, the way I do, and feel like one, too, you can’t help but envy it a little. Now that it’s only a memory.”
“It’s still outrageous. And I’m surprised at you!” The two of them stopped at one of the windows and looked in, l
istening. They stared in silence for a moment.
“Look at her,” Mrs. Appleton said. “Just look at her! She’s nothing but a common tramp. What ever made Emma invite her?”
“Blackmail, probably,” Mrs. Barlow said.
“I’ll bet that woman planned this all along. I’ll bet she had that dress made just for this. She picked the right color, too. Scarlet. Well, the dress is nothing compared to what she’s made for, of course.” Both Mrs. Barlow and Mrs. Appleton laughed.
“That comes later,” Mrs. Barlow said. “Maybe. With luck.”
“You’ve got to admit it, she’s got more nerve than a barrel of monkeys. They both do.”
“No,” Mrs. Barlow said, “that’s fun.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The expression is,” Mrs. Barlow said, “more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Nerve is something else. Nerve is brass. Like brass balls.” Mrs. Barlow laughed loudly.
“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way, Sally. It sounds so vulgar.”
“I’ll try to behave, Frances.”
“Well, whatever,” Mrs. Appleton said, “she’s apparently more fun than a barrel of monkeys, too. Maybe I should have said rabbits.”
Tommy walked down to them. He looked through the window at Mrs. Slade. She was dancing with Mr. Wolfe now. “Those are real rubies,” Tommy said.
“So are my teeth,” Mrs. Barlow said.
“Where did you come from?” Mrs. Appleton asked.
“From the porch,” Tommy said, and Mrs. Barlow began to sing the song the band was playing. “You may not be an angel,” she sang, “but I’m sure you’ll do.” For somebody so fat she could hardly huff her way up the three steps to the porch and couldn’t even get into a rowboat to go to the Island anymore, she had a surprisingly nice voice.
“Run along, now,” Mrs. Appleton said. “We’re talking ladies’ talk. It’s not for little boys’ ears.”
“I’ve heard it all,” Tommy said. He knew that was rude of him, but he said it anyway. He didn’t care. He walked the length of the porch and around the corner to get away from them. He didn’t want to be anywhere near them. He wanted to be alone, but he wasn’t. Bob Griswold was running across the grass, his tie undone and his shirt open, his jacket flying in his hand. He ran to the porch, leapt up the steps, and hurried in the cardroom door and directly into the men’s locker room. He glanced at Tommy but seemed scarcely to have seen him. Tommy stood there for a while, then walked slowly off. He wasn’t in any hurry.
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