“Well, I expect you to do something very nice for Daisy now,” her mother said, her hand resting lightly on Tyler’s shoulder. “To make up for tricking me into telling you.”
“Anything,” Tyler said.
Daisy watched the exchange in agony. She recognized her position in this game: She was the spectator watching a rally from the bench.
“I think,” Daisy’s mother said, winking at Daisy, “that you should be her escort for the party we’re throwing next week.”
This clearly was not the kind of task Tyler was expecting, but he smiled at Daisy gamely, saying, “Of course. I’d be honored.”
Daisy wanted to die, to sink into the floor and disappear. She had been angry with her mother before, but at the moment, she hated her.
1959: AUGUST
I
The day of the party, Daisy’s mother appeared in her bedroom at 6 a.m., ordering her out of bed like a general in a green silk dressing gown.
“I can’t believe you’re still sleeping,” she said, pulling back the warm blanket and sending a chill of fresh morning air down Daisy’s legs. “Early bird catches the worm. And the girl has to clean the rooms, for heaven’s sakes. You all know that. Do I have to do everything myself?”
Daisy wanted to point out that if the girl was cleaning the rooms, then she wasn’t doing everything herself, but her mother had already marched out.
Daisy stumbled downstairs to the kitchen, where she found her father and aunt sitting bleary-eyed at the kitchen table. Her father’s stubble cast a shadow across his jaw as he sipped his coffee. Her aunt, encased in voluminous yellow, was staring morosely into her own cup.
“What’s for breakfast?” Daisy asked.
At the mention of breakfast, Aunt Helena groaned and put her head down on the table.
Her father smiled and stood up, tightening the belt of his flannel bathrobe.
“Ah, Daisy, my sweet, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Come over here and give your old man a kiss.”
Daisy walked obediently over to her father, who put his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. Her father smelled like sleep and something sour. Daisy wriggled out of his arms, squinting up at him.
“Everyone’s feeling a bit out of sorts. Except your mother, of course. Nothing save a natural disaster could stop her at this point,” he said, chuckling. “How about some scrambled eggs for my best girl? Not sure I’ll be able to do them as well as Mummy, but I’ll give it a go.”
“OK.” Daisy sat down. “Can I have some coffee, too?”
“Coffee?” Her father stopped and turned back toward her, brandishing the frying pan. “When did you start drinking coffee?”
“Mummy lets me have a little with lots of milk.”
“Mummy has some interesting notions.” He didn’t sound convinced. “I suppose it’s all right. I’ll pour a drop into a mug and you put in the milk. Deal?”
“Deal.” Daisy walked over to the icebox and took out the bottle of cold milk.
“Daisy, dear,” her aunt’s muffled voice said behind her, “will you pour me a glass of that lovely milk? In fact, just bring the whole bottle.”
Daisy looked at her father.
“Crikey, Helena,” her father said, laughing.
“It’s your fault, Hughes. You and your whiskey sours.”
“Well, you didn’t have to drink ten of them,” he said.
“You didn’t have to keep pouring them. You know how I love whiskey sours.”
“I think the secret’s out.”
“Well, I’m paying for it now. Badly done, Hughes.” Her tone was petulant, but Daisy could see she was trying not to smile.
She brought her aunt a glass and the bottle of milk. Her aunt pressed the bottle against her forehead. Daisy thought about the strange effects parties seemed to have on adults, like Christmas, when there were no rules. Her father and aunt, in their pajamas, acting crazy. It reminded her of the grown-up movies her mother sometimes took her to, where the adults said things to each other and everyone in the audience laughed, except Daisy, who couldn’t see what was so funny.
In any case, the party had obviously taken hold of Tiger House, and Daisy felt it coming over her like a fit of temper. In the distance, she could hear her mother opening the windows in the front rooms, to air them out. This was followed by the clattering of serving dishes, and intermittent exclamations of “Goddamn it.”
Ed arrived in the kitchen, freshly showered and wearing neatly pressed dungarees. Aunt Helena made a visible effort to sit up when he entered, but Daisy saw him cast a disapproving glance over her anyway. She suddenly felt annoyed.
“We’re all having breakfast in our pajamas,” she told him imperiously.
“The Indians rose with the sun to hunt their breakfast,” Ed said coldly.
“Well, go have breakfast with the Indians, then,” Daisy said.
“Ed,” her father broke in. “Scrambled eggs?” He said it in his normal voice, but Daisy noticed his hand had gone still over the pan and the eggs had begun to smoke.
“No, thank you,” Ed said, staring at her father for a moment before turning away. “I’m going to check the mousetraps.”
Her cousin left the kitchen, but his disapproval remained, poisoning the air of camaraderie.
“Well,” Aunt Helena said, rising with a sigh. “I better go and get dressed. Your mother probably needs help.”
“Soup’s up,” her father said, placing the plate of eggs in front of Daisy.
Daisy had just shoved a slightly burnt forkful into her mouth when her mother entered the kitchen.
“Daisy Derringer,” she said sharply. “Get your foot off that chair. And what’s this bottle of milk doing out? It will spoil.” Her mother picked up the bottle and looked around. “What’s all this mess? All these pans and dishes and glasses.”
“People have to eat,” Daisy’s father said, putting the pan into the sink and walking over to her mother. “Even soldiers get breakfast before going into the field.”
“People do have to eat.” She tried to slip out of his embrace. “But people don’t have to drink so much and then laze about the next morning when a hundred and one guests are arriving in twelve hours.”
“Laze about, indeed. It’s six-thirty, for God’s sakes. Decent people are still in bed.”
Daisy watched her parents over her breakfast. Her father was smiling down at her mother, who was fidgeting like Daisy did when someone was trying to put suntan lotion on her.
“What’s the point of hiring the girls if you won’t let them do the work for you?”
“Just clean up the goddamn dishes, Hughes,” her mother said, leaving Daisy and her father to the bright, messy kitchen and the plate of cooling eggs.
By midday, the house was in a frenzy. The intense heat was making the cut flowers wilt, despite constant baths by one of the girls, who stood guard with a pitcher of ice water. Also wilting in the heat were the Top Liners, the ragtime band her mother had hired from the mainland. They had arrived in some disarray and were now cooling their heels out back behind the ice cellar. As far as Daisy could glean, they had suffered some kind of rock attack on their way over and her mother had ordered them to hide themselves.
“They’re stoned,” her mother had exclaimed when Daisy’s father brought them from the ferry.
“I wish I was stoned,” her father had said.
“Well, go find yourself a gin bottle and get to it, if it’ll keep you out of the way,” Daisy’s mother had replied acidly. “Although I think Helena has a head start on you.”
On the front lawn, across North Water Street, men in overalls and undershirts were erecting the bandstand and hanging the small cloth flags, lanterns and tigers on poles around the perimeter. There seemed to be some difficulty in getting the angle of the stage right, given the slope of the lawn down to the harbor.
“They say that every year, and every year they manage,” her mother said in Daisy’s direction, but to no one in particular,
after inspecting their work.
Ed had disappeared somewhere and despite all the commotion, Daisy felt bored. She had been instructed to sweep the front walk, which she hadn’t done. Instead, grabbing one of the tea sandwiches from the kitchen, she retreated up to her bedroom, where she fell asleep in the noon heat.
She was awoken some hours later by her father’s anxious voice.
“Daisy,” he said, shaking her gently. “Sweetheart, have you seen your mother?”
Daisy shook her head slowly.
“It’s four o’clock. I can’t find her.” Her father looked around her room as if he expected her mother to jump out from behind the closet door or something. “Hmm. Well, if you see her, tell her it’s four. She may have lost track of the time.” Her father patted her leg and walked out.
Daisy roused herself and wandered downstairs. The house had been transformed. Her great-grandmother’s linen lay smooth and crisp on the dining room table, with chilled silver buckets overflowing with bunches of happy-looking hydrangea and sweet pea in the center. Outside, the bartender, his stiff collar soaked with sweat, was setting up his wares, polishing the ice bucket with a soft chammy cloth. The heat was still unbearable, and the oyster shucker hired to man the raw bar was fussing with the ice chests, his green visor casting a pall over his worried face.
Daisy peeked into the blue sitting room, where a half-finished glass of scotch beaded on the side table. She didn’t find her mother in the green room either, or the kitchen, which was just as crazy as Daisy had left it, with the girls trying to devise a way to cool down the consommé.
“Have you seen my mother?” Daisy asked.
When she got no response, or even any indication that they had heard her, Daisy raised her voice. “Have you seen my mother? My father’s looking for her.”
Her voice came out a little louder than she had intended and all the girls stopped talking, although none of them looked her way.
“She may have lost track of the time,” Daisy added more softly, feeling embarrassed.
One of the girls, her dark hair clinging to her face, wiped her hands on her striped apron and said, “She’s out there,” waving in the direction of the back lawn. “With the music men.”
The others looked at the girl who had spoken and then turned their attention back to the large bowl of consommé.
Daisy headed out the back door, taking care not to let the screen bang too loudly on the frame.
She found her mother behind the old ice cellar with the Top Liners. The musicians were drinking beer from the bottle and inspecting their instruments. Her mother was lying on her back in the grass with her shoes off, staring up at the sky.
“Mummy?”
Daisy’s mother turned her head without lifting it and looked at her.
“Darling,” she said in a voice that suggested she had been sleeping, although her eyes were open. “Hello.”
“Daddy’s looking for you. It’s four o’clock.”
“Is it four o’clock? My goodness, I need to get ready.” She made no move to get up. “It’s just so lovely and peaceful here.”
Daisy looked around and saw only the driveway and the graying ice cellar.
“Oh.” She shifted her feet. “Well, should I tell Daddy I found you?”
“No, no. That’s all right, sweetheart. Give Mummy a hand up, will you.” Her mother stretched her arms to the sky.
Daisy clasped her mother’s hands and gave a tug, but she was dead weight. “You’re too heavy,” Daisy said.
Her mother giggled. Daisy stole a glance at the musicians, but they weren’t paying any attention, just twanging strings and cleaning mouthpieces.
“All right, all right, one more time. I promise I’ll help,” her mother said.
Daisy did as she was told and pulled again. Her mother pushed herself up and dusted her skirt off.
“I suppose we have to shake a leg now,” she said, propelling Daisy in front of her toward the house. “Run along and start your bath. I’ll come and check on you before the guests arrive for supper.”
“I’m not a baby,” Daisy said. “I don’t need checking on.”
“Of course you’re not a baby,” her mother said, absently. “Go on, now.”
From the bottom of the stairs, Daisy watched her mother ascend, twirling her skirt and humming some unknown tune.
* * *
Later, Daisy sat on her bed, freshly washed, smelling her damp hair. She loved the smell of her special shampoo, like honeysuckle and jasmine, with the faint odor of salt that never left her in the summer.
She heard her mother’s step as she approached the third-floor landing.
“Daisy,” she called. “Oh, good, you’ve bathed,” she said when she entered her bedroom. Her mother was wearing her dressing gown, but her hair was already dry, swept back in black glossy waves.
“The guests will be here soon, so you’ll need to keep yourself busy until supper is over. All I ask is that, for god’s sakes, if you’re going to go and play, you don’t wear your dress for this evening. The girls should have made you children sandwiches, which you should eat in the kitchen.”
“Where’s Ed?”
“I don’t know, darling. But I have a favor to ask you. I want you to help Aunt Helena get dressed. I have Daddy to help me, but your aunt might need some help with her jewelry, or her hair, or whatever else. All right?”
“All right,” Daisy said, watching her mother. Her dreamy mood seemed to have dissipated and she was back to her brisk, businesslike self. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy’s getting himself dressed. Now, shoo and help your aunt.”
Daisy put on her bathrobe and went down to the second floor.
“Aunt Helena,” Daisy said, knocking on the bedroom door. When there was no answer she turned the knob and pushed it open.
It was one of the larger, bright rooms at the front of the house, papered with large bluebirds in golden cages resting on flower-covered vines. But the striped upholstery was almost hidden from view by mountains of clothes strewn willy-nilly over every piece of furniture. On the floor, dresses, which had been stepped out of and left where they fell, lay like wilting blooms on the rug. Beyond, windows looked out on a calm, blue harbor.
Aunt Helena sat at the dressing table, her hands motionless on its glass top, surrounded by makeup pots and open lipsticks.
“Aunt Helena?” Daisy moved slowly around the discarded clothing.
“Oh, Daisy, sweet pea,” her aunt said, not bothering to turn around. “I can’t seem to get this rouge to go on right.”
In the mirror’s reflection, Daisy saw that her aunt had placed two stripes of rouge, like welts, on her cheekbones and made some halfhearted effort to rub them in. Sweat glistened on the fine, blond hairs covering her upper lip.
“Do you want some help?” Daisy asked. “Mummy thought you might.”
“I bet she did,” her aunt said, something hard creeping into her soft tones.
“I could do your rouge; I’ve watched Mummy do it a thousand times.”
“Oh, I suppose that would be nice,” her aunt said, finally. “Thank you, sweetheart. You really are a dear.”
Daisy located a handkerchief abandoned among the makeup and, finding a clean patch, dipped it into the pot of cold cream.
She gently rubbed the rouge off her aunt’s face and then wiped the remaining cold cream away.
“OK, now you have to suck your cheeks in,” she instructed.
Her aunt gave Daisy a glance in the mirror and did as she was told. Then she puckered her lips and starting making goldfish noises with her mouth.
Daisy started laughing. “Not like a fish, Aunt Helena.”
“Oh really?” her aunt said, in mock surprise.
“Stop it,” Daisy said, giggling.
“No, I’m sure this is how they do it in the Ladies’ Home Journal.”
“No, it isn’t,” Daisy said, laughing harder. “You’re just being silly.”
“Me, si
lly? No, no, Daisy dear, it’s the latest fashion. Goldfish glamour. I’m telling you, it’s all the rage.”
“Aunt Helena,” Daisy said, “quit it.”
“All right, all right, I’ll be serious.”
Her aunt put her lips back to normal and Daisy picked up the rouge. She passed her middle and forefinger across the waxy surface and then slowly rubbed a blushing circle on the apple of each of her aunt’s cheeks.
“You know, dear, I do know how to put on rouge.”
Daisy spread the color out from the edges, up the length of the cheekbone.
“It’s just sometimes everything seems so unimportant and impossible.”
She saw her aunt’s eyes well up in the mirror.
“So … I don’t know … pointless.”
Daisy felt an overwhelming urge to run out of the room, away from the fat tears that were collecting in her aunt’s glassy blue eyes. But she knew her mother would be mad, and between the two, she decided she’d rather face Aunt Helena.
“There.” Daisy stood back, pretending to be keenly inspecting her work. “That looks nice.”
“So, which lipstick?” Her aunt spread her hand over the collection of gold tubes. “Midnight Garden, Tickle Me Pink, Atomic Red, Lobster Bisque? Oh, do you see what I mean? Exhausting.”
“Lobster Bisque, definitely,” Daisy said, wiping the tip of the lipstick off with the hankie. She started to apply the color to her aunt’s lips, but she goofed it and some of the Lobster Bisque ran outside the edges.
“I’ll do it,” Aunt Helena said. “I think it was choosing that was the hardest part.”
When her aunt had finished, she replaced the top carefully back on the tube, but managed to knock a little silver box off the tabletop, sending what looked like tiny white candies into her lap. She quickly scooped them up and put them in her pocket.
“So which dress are you going to wear?” Daisy asked, looking around the room.
The sound of Vic Damone, who Daisy loved, drifted up the stairs from the record player.
Ohhhh, the towering feeling, just to know somehow you are near.
“What do you think?”
Tigers in Red Weather Page 11