House Party

by Patrick Dennis

  General Cannon had caught her quite by surprise. It was his great pleasure to take women by surprise. Part of his charm. He had simply come up from behind her, wrapped his arms around her and given her a little nip on the nape of the neck. "The French technique of romance," was how he described it. Then he came around and kissed her hand. His daughter could have dropped gratefully through the floor.

  Betty liked the Ameses. She wished she knew them better than she did. She envied them. They seemed so united. With four of them, how could they ever be lonely? They all had each other. "Kathy," she said, sitting down next to her—anything to cover for Daddy, "Kathy, I'm so glad you're all right. It was terribly hot out in the garden and I felt the sun was getting too strong for you . . .

  Elly snickered into her champagne glass, and a bit of her drink spilled onto her dress.

  "Yes, Betty," Bryan said quickly, "poor Kathy can't take the heat very well." What a girl that Betty Cannon is, he thought. In spite of her old man she could really go places. Take tonight, for example, when she's all fixed up. She looks every bit as grand as Felicia. With a little training she could be a great wife—really an asset; meet people, dress well, be charming in a natural way . . .

  "Sometimes I think," Betty went on, "that our parties would be better inside the house. But it's so higgledy-piggledy with all of Daddy's trash that he's dragged from one horrible place to another that . . ." The sentence trailed off. Betty was amazed at herself. What can I have said? she thought. She repeated it silently. It pleased her. It pleased her so much that she repeated it again. "Yes," she said aloud, "our house—which could be lovely if it were left as my mother had it, is so full of Daddy's junk that we really can't have anybody inside it, except for a few stuffed carcasses and simple-minded old Sergeant Timberline and our idiotic maid of all work—a Miss Betty Cannon. Could I just have a drop more, please, Bryan?" I've really lost my mind, Betty thought. This is it. This is the beginning of the end.

  Golly, Bryan thought, where's she been? I've never paid any attention to her before. Look at those eyes! The color in her cheeks! She's about—let's see, Paul's twenty-seven, Elly's twenty-two—she's about twenty-five, give or take a year. "Here, Betty," he added tentatively, handing her a glass. Their fingers touched and Bryan started slightly.

  "Thank you, Bryan," Betty said. She was amazed at the look of interest he gave her. I've said too much, she thought. Now he probably thinks I'm an ill-tempered, discontented shrew. And, what's more, I am!

  Bryan moved his chair closer to hers. "Tell me, Betty," he began, "don't you ever get into town at all? I mean, if you'd like to keep a poor old bachelor company at dinner—or maybe go to a play or whatever you want to do—well, I'm in the book. We could . . .”

  Of course I haven't had any lunch, Betty thought rapidly, except some deviled eggs left over from the party, but surely one glass of champagne hasn't made me irresponsible. And it can't be that I've misunderstood him.

  "Well, Bryan, I do go to New York every so often but those times are so rare and I'm so busy, that I . . ."

  Busy, boy I'll say I'm busy! I'm busy wiping the soot off my face from that terrible open car. Then I'm busy going to Miller's and buying a new riding crop for Daddy to flog his horse with. Then I'm busy buying him fresh campaign ribbons for his chest. Then I'm busy shopping for his shirts and ties and socks and underwear and pajamas.

  Then I'm busy getting him out of the bar at his club and taking him to whatever official banquet we have to sit through. Then I'm busy smiling at the other generals and their wives and listening to Daddy talk about how brave he was in Texas. Then I'm busy holding his head on my shoulder all the way back home. Then I'm busy helping Timberline put him to bed. I manage to keep occupied, thanks.

  She said aloud: "But maybe I can get in sometime next week—Thursday, say, or Friday."

  Betty could hear Mrs. Clendenning say: "Oh, General Cannon, I do adore a uniform!" She watched her father puff his padded chest. Well, I wonder how she'd like it if she could see what's under that uniform, Betty thought. First the sponge rubber bosom, then the corset, then the truss, then the tattoos—'Mother' on the right arm, a horrid snake on the left that says 'Don't Tread on Me', and across the chest, across the chest, the American flag. I hope when they add Hawaii and Alaska to the Union they pierce him right through the heart putting in new stars!

  Betty set her glass down firmly. This was treason. What was it they said in soap operas? Oh yes, "I feel that I'm seeing you for the first time." Well, Daddy, your little soldier feels that she's seeing you for the first time after one-quarter of a century, and it's not a very pleasant sight. You're really a stuffed tunic.

  "But which day, Betty?" Bryan was demanding. "Thursday or Friday? Why don't we make a definite date right now?"

  "Well . . . I . . . well, let's say Thursday!"

  "Thursday it is. Where do you want to go?"

  "I don't much care, Bryan, just so it isn't a public banquet and it's a place with a lot of civilians." No, she told herself, this is really happening. The most eligible man in the world is asking old Little Soldier out to dinner! She picked up her glass tentatively. And what's more, I'm going. What is it Daddy keeps saying? Oh, yes, how he's been both father and mother to me. Well, don't wait up, Mom, Pop, because . . .

  "Hey, Little Soldier," the general shouted across the circle. Betty turned vivaciously to Bryan and pretended not to hear.

  And it was easy not to hear. The lounge was crowded. Unattached young men were calling to Elly and a few were even calling to Kathy. From the bar came a roar of merriment, the crash of a glass and a still louder roar of merriment.

  "David, stop it! You're killing me!"

  "And there was old Barbara, dressed up like the Queen of Sheba . . .”

  "Peter, don't you think you've had enough?"

  "Boola-boola, boola-boola, boola-boola, boola-boo-lah!"

  The ceiling above began to reverberate with the scintillating rhythms of Hyman Kahn and his Colonial Club Orchestra. Betty could feel, rather than hear the familiar music as it was banged out by the percussion section.

  Just one of those thump—two, three, four

  Just one of those thump-thump-thump

  One of those thump (clang!) That now and then thump! (clang!)

  Just one of those thump—two, three, four

  The steward was making the rounds of the lounge. "Dinner is served, Mrs. Bascom." "Dinner is being served, Mrs. Hemenway." "Dinner is being served, Mrs. Ames." No one paid any attention to him. It was tradition at the club dinner dances to allow the orchestra to play a full set before anyone went to dinner. It also gave the food, which was barely lukewarm at nine o'clock a chance to become even colder.

  "Hélas! My dear Claire, I recall so well the day when the Princess Royal said to me, 'Neddy,’ she always called me Neddy . . ."

  "Oh, but General I'd adore to see the pictures!"

  "Well, listen, Betty," Bryan was saying to her, "there's a little fish house called Oscar's Salt of the Sea right near my apartment. It; isn't dressy, but the food is . . ."

  "Little Soldier! Front and center!" General Cannon had picked a moment when the lounge was fairly quiet. Now it was so still you could hear yourself breathe. General Cannon was creating what one called a Scene.

  Betty looked dispassionately across at her father as he stood there pointing an accusing finger at her. She had seen his apoplectic rages before, directed at horses, dogs, Timberline, junior officers, enlisted men, tradesmen, natives and servants. They had terrified her. Never before had she allowed herself to be in a position where Daddy might direct one of his rages toward her.

  But now that the full force of his anger was upon her, Betty wasn't in the least frightened. Instead she was amused. The purple face, the labored breathing, the pulse beating in his throat reminded her of the Big Mean Cat enraged by the Cute Little Mouse in animated cartoons. Seeing the general at the height of his opera bouffe histrionics made Betty long for a bit of slapstick comedy a
nd she wondered if there was a siphon bottle or a custard pie close by. "Was there something you wanted, Daddy?" she asked calmly.

  "I said three times to go to where my cap an' cape are hung up an' get them photos, so I can show 'em to Vi'let here!” the general roared.

  "Really, General, we could wait . . .” Violet began nervously.

  "Into eternity," Lily breathed.

  "Now sir . . ." Bryan was saying.

  "Since you left your things in the men's room, Daddy," Betty said quietly, "it's not likely that I'd be able to get them for you. I suggest that you go yourself."

  "Never mind," Paul said. "I’ll go." He got up quickly and crossed the lounge.

  Betty watched her father coolly as he sank back, bewildered, into his chair. She was conscious of Elly's giggle and the sigh of relief that emanated from the group. But what an old ass my father is, she thought. She picked up her glass and resumed her conversation with Bryan. She felt nothing: neither disloyalty nor shame nor embarrassment nor satisfaction. But for the first time in her life she felt like a human being and she wondered why the sensation wasn't just a bit stranger.

  "If everyone's ready," Mrs. Ames said, "I think we'll go upstairs."

  17: Dancing

  Dinner had been no better and no worse than Mrs. Ames had expected. There had been jellied soup, a sort of tough, overdone cut of beef called filet mignon, canned mushrooms in canned gravy, some undefinable vegetables, a salad and a kind of ice cream with fruit sauce called Coup North Shore Bath and Tennis Club, all served at air temperature with a liberal sprinkling of sand. Uncle Ned, at the opposite end of the table, had eschewed the California burgundy-type wine which came with the meal, ordered champagne for all, and had made a great show of reading the label through his monocle. Mrs. Ames supposed that she should have been grateful to him, but she couldn't for the life of her think why.

  "Ouch!" Violet screamed. "Oh, you naughty, naughty man!" The general's laugh boomed out and Mrs. Ames heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently Violet was getting it now. For, besides being a lot other things, the general was a pincher. Mrs. Ames rubbed her thigh tenderly and wondered if she'd ever be able to walk again. Twice around the dance floor with General Cannon had made her doubt it very much, and the series of pinches beneath the tablecloth had made her almost certain that her declining days would be spent not only in penury, but in an artificial limb as well.

  She looked down the table, which was more than half empty. The young people were up dancing to the more or less torrid samba being drummed out by the Colonial Club Orchestra. That was a good sign, at least they weren't hating this as much as she was; only that Sullivan boy was sulking by himself. Uncle Ned jounced by, as limber as a marionette but oblivious to the dance steps of the decade. "Of course, my dear," Mrs. Ames heard him saying to Claire, "you'd scarcely remember my darling Isadora Duncan, but . . ." Remember her, Mrs. Ames thought, why Duncan was dead before that Devine girl was even born.

  From across the floor she could hear Kathy saying, "Oh, but darling, this reminds me of the time the Monte Carlo Ballet Russe asked me to dance Giselle." What on earth is poor Kathy talking about, Mrs. Ames wondered, why, I could hardly drag her to dancing school. Then it occurred to her that poor gawky, shy Kathy was still at work on her new technique.

  Mrs. Ames was of mixed emotions as to how pleased she was with the change, but whatever Kathy was doing, it seemed to be working. Quite a lot of men were dancing with Kathy tonight—people from other parties cutting in on her—and even a few of the young married men were leaving their wives at tables to take a few steps with this new, this ludicrous, this frightening Kathy.

  But Mrs. Ames didn't know whether Kathy was being laughed at or with, and she still wished the silly girl would settle back into more modest dresses and go on being good with children and old ladies. It was more believable.

  A few minutes later Kathy spun by with Manning and Mrs. Ames averted her eyes. She had danced once this evening with that Mr. Stone, herself. There were no two ways about it, Mr. Stone danced exquisitely, but wasn't it almost too exquisite? Were nice young men supposed to dance so well or only, only—gigolos?

  Mrs. Ames looked for Elly and then she realized that Elly must be in the center of those short-haired young men, lean and cunning in their white dinner jackets. Now she heard Elly say: "Listen, guys, my feet hurt and I itch under this dress. Do I have to keep on dancing?" Ten easy ways to win a man, Mrs. Ames thought. How does that child manage? Well, at least I'll have no trouble with that one, or, she thought as she watched Joe Sullivan scowl, or will I?

  The boys in the Colonial Club struck up "Parlez-moi d'Amour," a melody which Mrs. Ames always connected distastefully with a musical toilet paper roll in her sister's last Villa Violetta. But now, as she saw Bryan glide past with Betty Cannon, her heart beat faster with love and pride. Bryan was so, so absolutely right. He looked bronzed and virile under the colored lights—dark, but not dark like Manning Stone; Bryan's darkness made one think of sunshine on a dune instead of moonshine on a divan. The long white Pruitt teeth, the great black Pruitt eyes, the little hint of silver at his temples, enhanced the vision. He danced well. He danced like a gentleman. And how pretty Betty looked tonight! She looked tall and proud and fiery and cold as though she'd just pulled off some great coup—and of course she had. Once again, Mrs. Ames heard Violet cry, "Oh, Gen-er-al Cannon! You devil!"

  Bryan held Betty firmly and spun her around. He liked the way her skirts billowed out. She looked pretty tonight—beautiful. She looked like a princess. Funny he'd never noticed her before—not really noticed her. This was the kind of girl who mattered; someone who was a real lady, who had kindness and willingness, who had a mind of her own, too. Here was a girl with humility, but a girl with great pride. Here was a girl with looks, not flashy or transient, but real, permanent looks like Mother's. Here was a girl . . .

  Bryan's eleven fiancées faded into dim memories. They were tramps or opportunists, all of them. Girls who'd do anything to Mrs. Bryan Ames and then swank it over all the women who weren't Mrs. Bryan Ames. Betty was different. She was really a lady, and a lady who'd probably like to be Mrs. Bryan Ames, but for the right reasons.

  Bryan was amused by himself. Tonight at dinner, with Betty Cannon sitting fierce and proud and willful, but sweet and humble and kind, as well, between him and Paul, he had felt absolutely jealous when she started talking to Paul about houses. What a lot she knew about them—a silly, sheltered kid like that who'd never been away from her boorish old father's ignorant blustering and bullying. But still she came from very good stock—her mother was an Allen.

  "Having fun?" Bryan asked, smiling down at Betty.

  "Of course I'm having fun," she said. "I love to dance and I so rarely get the chance."

  The colored lights whirled gaily around her. She'd been to dances here before—lots of them—but somehow they'd never seemed quite so out of the ordinary. There'd always been Daddy to worry about or the fear that she'd get stuck with some unfortunate partner. The food had always been mediocre and the music and the company ditto. But tonight the dinner had seemed ambrosial, Toscanini couldn't have conducted an orchestra better, the people were as scintillating as Betty felt herself. Daddy, for all she cared, could jump off the roof and as for getting stuck—well, Betty would just like to spend the rest of her life stuck with a man like Bryan. She looked up into his smile—really, the teeth those Ameses had! Now she smiled herself and let her head rest on Bryan's shoulder.

  The Colonial Club Orchestra began playing "Night and Day” the way they'd played it for twenty years. Swaying dreamily with Betty Cannon, Bryan said, "Why couldn't we take a walk together or something early tomorrow morning—before everyone's up?"

  "Why not? I'd love to, Bryan."

  Yes, Mrs. Ames thought to herself, Bryan could do worse than to marry a girl like Betty Cannon: a nice, simple, sweet, thoughtful, considerate wife who'd be a good mother to perfectly beautiful children. She's not spoiled, poor thing; fa
r from it. She could do with a bit of spoiling. She's practical, she can give him all the comforts of home; she's intelligent, but she's not too smart for him. Of course there's her father, but just to have Bryan happy and settled down, I'd be perfectly willing to see the general three or four times a year. Well, two times a year, anyway.

  The orchestra broke into a raucous tune with a steady one-two, one-two beat. With the opening bars, General Cannon was up, dragging Violet giggling behind him. Poor Violet, Mrs. Ames thought. Then she realized that she was quite alone at her end of the table with that terrifying Mr. Sullivan glowering five places away. Well, I could always go to the ladies' room and powder my nose, she thought. Perhaps I ought to anyway. She reached tentatively for her bag but it was too late. He was up and on his way toward her.

  "Dance?" he asked blackly.

  "Thank you, Mr. Sullivan," she said hesitantly, "but you don't really have to dance with a back issue like me, you know. Why don't you go cut in on Elly? I'm sure you'd like that much better."

  "If I wanted to cut in on Elly, would I have bothered to come up here and ask you to dance?"

  "W-well, you might have—just to be polite. I know how the young have to suffer with the old and . . ."

  "I never do anything to be polite. That's because I haven't any manners. You know, just a hick from the middle west."

  "Oh, you mean like Abraham Lincoln," Mrs. Ames said reasonably.

  Joe took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. Now, what in hell do you suppose she meant by a crack like that? he wondered. Maybe I ought to start jitterbugging with her. I guess that's what she expects. He held her sedately and began dancing. It took only a moment to see that the old doll was a pretty good dancer—a damned good dancer—kind of yielding and willowy; graceful and not at all stiff the way he might have expected. Well, he thought, if she thinks she's the old man's Cyd Charisse, let's give her a little workout. He tried an intricate step and was as pleased as he was displeased to see that Mrs. Ames followed him perfectly.