"This is where we're going to what?” Claire gasped.
"Listen, honey, this whole thing came to me last night. I've even talked to Mother about it. I'm quitting Rabadab right away. We're going to live out here. I'm going to get hold of some land and do what I've always wanted to do. Look here," he said, pulling a crumpled tissue from his pocket. "This is the plan of the house I'm going to put up. It's . . ."
"Are you insane?" Claire asked quietly.
"No, look, honey. Here's the way I see this house . . ."
"Paul, what are you talking about?"
"Why, about my work—what I want to do with my life. I don't plan to stick around New York designing Class B dinettes for a Class C builder. I didn't get an education to waste on . . ."
"Haven't you ever thought about me—what I want to do with my life?"
"Well, honey, this won't be so bad, really it won't. I'm going to use part of this house for an office. We can live in the rest. But we won't have to live here long—two years, three at the most."
"Three years? Do you expect me to take a train into town every day?"
"Why, of course not, honey. It won't be easy at first, but one thing you won't have to do is support me. I'm going to talk to Bryan and get a loan from the bank. If any bank ought to help us it's the family bank! This house isn't very grand or anything, but it'll tide us over until we can afford to build a place of our own that's really terrific. In the meantime, the gatehouse is plenty big enough for us and for our children, too. The last caretaker had three kids and . . ."
"Children?” Claire shuddered.
"Why, yes," Paul said, mystified. "Most married people usually . . .”
"Do you mean to stand there and ask me to give up my career, my whole future, to come out to this godforsaken haunted house and have a lot of . . ."
"Honey, I told you it would just be for a year or two. Now look at this house I've dreamed up. This is only a rough sketch, but it's absolutely foolproof. It . . ."
"Is that you, Bryan?" a voice called. Betty Cannon appeared from the other side of the gatehouse. "Oh," she said as she saw Paul and Claire.
This was Betty's first day as a free soul. There had been no reveille this morning because Betty had hidden Timberline's bugle. She had slept peacefully until seven, when she got up, dressed and left the house where her father was still snoring fitfully. She had neglected to lay out his riding clothes or to prepare the sausages and eggs and oatmeal and popovers which made up his first breakfast each day. Sergeant Timberline's lantern jaw had fallen open when he had seen Betty, looking as cool as a cucumber and as pretty as a picture, march out to the kitchen.
She had said: "Good morning, Timberline. I'm going out now and I'd like you to put up the top on the car."
"But, Miss Betty," Timberline had croaked. "What about the general's breakfast?"
"The general will have to get his own, or perhaps you could recreate one of those famous eight-boy curries he's always talking about. You know, your rugged days together on the field of valor. Now if you'll just go out and see to the car, I'll make a pot of coffee. I expect you'd like some as well."
Timberline had been too stunned to disobey. At five minutes before eight, Betty had stepped smartly into the car and driven off to her tryst with Bryan Ames. Her new life was starting out just gorgeously. She had been full of plans—plans for new clothes, for taking that art course, for finding a place to live and filling it with her mother's nice old furniture, and for marrying Bryan; somehow she liked the sound of what she hoped her new name would be. Elizabeth Ames, Betty Ames, yes, that was pretty.
She had stopped the car at the gatehouse and had taken a last look at her face in the rear-view mirror. It was kind of exciting having a secret rendezvous with a man at eight in the morning. She would have liked it better if Bryan had come to fetch her in his smart new car, but she was more than willing to meet a man like Bryan half way. If he wanted to meet her at the gatehouse of the old Pruitt Place, that was fine with her. But where was he? By eight-fifteen she began to grow restive. By eight-twenty she became a little angry. At eight-twenty-five her resolve began to crumble. It had all been too good to be true. The new life was over. She'd been stood up. Bryan had either forgotten about meeting her this morning or, more likely, he'd only been kidding when he suggested it. At eight-thirty she was ready to start up the car and turn back, to apologize to Daddy, to give Timberline a couple of dollars to put down the top of the car, to return his bugle, and to spend the rest of her life as she had spent the first twenty-five years, in obedient subservience to Daddy.
He would forgive, but not forget, this declaration of independence. It would be treated as a minor misdemeanor only to be expected from troops with too much time on their hands and too little to do with it. There would be an added stretch of KP and possibly a month's confinement to barracks. Then life would go on as before. Betty was just ready to start the car when she heard a man's voice.
Well, she had never been so embarrassed in her life. To happen upon Paul and this New York girl amounted to being caught in flagrante delicto. She would have gladly been struck dead then and there. "I . . ." she began, "I was just driving into the village to, uh, to pick up something at the shop when the car stopped right here. Right in front of the gate. I know so little about machinery and . . ."
Paul was not pleased by seeing Betty either. She couldn't have picked a worse time or place for her old Packard to break down. He had wanted to make his position clear to Claire right away. To clear the air and then get down to the facts. You really couldn't do that in front of another woman.
Claire, on the other hand, was rather relieved that Betty had come along. Claire didn't like Betty Cannon; but she didn't dislike her either. Actually, Betty made Claire unsure of herself. Girls like Kathy and Elly and Felicia could all be easily classified—neatly labeled and tucked into pigeon holes. Betty, however, was full of surprises and Claire didn't like being surprised. Still, Betty's entrance would undoubtedly put an end to this painful subject.
Now, having trapped herself neatly in an untidy lie, Betty couldn't do what she most wanted to do—get into her car and drive away from the scene of her complete humiliation. She'd have to bluff things out for a time, and then maybe pretend that the old car had just repaired itself and make her getaway.
"You two are certainly up with the birds, aren't you?" she said with a hollow gaiety.
"Aren't we though?" Claire murmured.
Paul wished that Betty would drop dead; wished it as ardently as Betty herself did. But in a burst of logic he saw that there was no reason to be rude. He liked Betty, anyhow. Hadn't they had a really interesting talk about architecture at dinner last night? Only at this particular moment . . . Well, he might as well take the plunge. Be firm for once. "I was just showing Claire what possibilities this old dump has," he said.
"What sort of possibilities, Paul?" Betty asked with inane brightness.
"Mm thinking, very seriously, of getting out of the city and turning this place into an architect's office and also into living quarters," he said levelly, He didn't dare look at Claire.
"But what fun!" Betty said. "I love poking around in old places and fixing them up. Our own house has so many possibilities, if only . . ."
Paul was both pleased and surprised to come across this unexpected ally. If Betty Cannon could be sold on the idea, so might Claire. Women were funny. "Then you do think it would work, Betty?"
"Why, of course it would work, Paul. What a funny question for an architect! Since it always has been living quarters, there's no problem about living in it. As for an office, you could use one of the downstairs rooms and knock a couple of the front windows together."
"Yes, that's right," Paul said eagerly.
"You know some of the old Victorian horrors have quite a lot of style," Betty went on blindly. "This one, for example, has. Just plant a few things in front of it and paint the doors and things—not anything trite like shocking pink, but . . ." Horrif
ied she caught a glimpse of Claire's shocking-pink skirt: "Although it's a lovely color."
"See, Claire?" Paul said. "See how simple it's going to be? Come on. Let's go in and have a look around." The door opened with a screech that congealed Claire's blood. It's no use, she said angrily to herself. I don't care if it's the Palace of Versailles, I'm not going to five here. I'll use every weapon I . . .”
"Come on, honey," Paul called.
In stony silence Claire heard Paul and that Cannon girl exclaiming over the size of the rooms, over the splendid condition of the house. She was numb as she heard them talking about knocking down this wall, putting up a partition here, cutting a door here, a window there.
"Of course I'll have to get a new stove and a refrigerator," Paul was saying.
Over my dead body, Claire kept saying to herself. Over my dead body! Grimly she followed them upstairs. It was warm on the second floor and Claire felt the perspiration coursing down her face. She walked through a cobweb and gave a stifled scream.
"A good cleaning and a coat of paint . . ." Betty was saying. Claire mopped her brow with the back of her hand, removing a great deal of make-up. How do these hicks like Betty Cannon keep so cool, she wondered, itching beneath her sweater.
"And there's so much space on this floor, Paul," Betty enthused, "you could have a kind of upstairs study or workroom or . . . Oh, look! Paul, Claire, have you ever seen anything so darling in your life? A nest of brand-new baby mice! They can't be an hour old and they're just as pink as . . ."
The air was rent by a hideous scream. Claire screamed once. She screamed twice. She screamed a third time. Then she took to her heels. For a girl so patently unathletic, she was surprisingly quick about getting down the stairs and out of the house.
"Claire!" Paul called. He started after her, but by then Claire was out of sight, running pell mell up the driveway to the main house.
"Paul," Betty said. "I'm so sorry, I . . .”
"Oh, what the hell," Paul said. "It doesn't matter. She'll get over it. It's just that . . ."
"What, Paul?"
"It's just that, well, there goes my dream!"
"I guess we've both had some disappointments this morning, Paul. But she'll come around. I know she will. She . . . Well, she probably isn't quite geared to the idea of living out here and . . ."
"Look, Betty," Paul said desperately, "if you haven't got anything better to do, how about letting me take a look at your car, then we can go to the diner and get a cup of coffee or something."
"Paul, shouldn't you be looking after Claire or . . .”
“Please, Betty. Right now I just want to be where the household isn't. If you don't mind . . ."
"I haven't anything better to do, I guess, Paul. I'd love to and maybe the car has fixed itself."
"Oh, Betty, if you only knew how important this thing is to me. It's something I've dreamed about ever since I was a kid. Can you understand what it's like to have a really big dream almost come true and then . . .”
"Yes, Paul," Betty sighed, "I can understand perfectly." Together they walked out of the gatehouse and drove away in Betty's car.
Bryan was awakened by a fearful slamming of a door down the hall. He muttered darkly and rolled over. Then he opened his eyes wide and stared at his wrist watch. "Holy smoke!" he said aloud. "Nine o'clock!" He sat bolt upright in bed, "Overslept one whole hour!" He leaped out of bed and crossed the room to the extension telephone on his writing table. He picked it up and jiggled it. Silence. He clicked the receiver up and down. Still silence. "Oh, my God," he said. "Mother again! Why can't she pay her bills on time? The phone cut off at the Pruitt Place!"
Well, there was nothing to do about it now. July 4 was a Sunday and a holiday and no telephone! Tomorrow the telephone company would be closed, too. This was a great start for the big romance!
Dejectedly he walked back to his bed and climbed in. But then, he thought, I can always explain to her. She's a good kid, a really swell girl. She'll understand. I'll make it all up to her. She'll understand, I know she will. After all, maybe she overslept, too. Pulling the sheet over him, Bryan plumped the pillow and closed his eyes. I'll just get a wink more then I'll shave and drive over to see her. I'll tell her the God's truth—or maybe I could pretend that she hadn't understood my directions and that I was waiting at another place. Or, I could say . . . He closed his eyes again and dozed off.
21: Self Service
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Kathy moaned.
"Wake up, dopey, I want to talk to you."
"Oh, Elly, will you leave me alone! It's the middle of the night."
"It is not, it's nine o'clock! Move over, I'm crawling in with you."
"You are not. It's too hot and besides . . ."
"That's my girl. Ooooh! What long toenails you have!"
"Well, you don't have to get into bed with me, Eleanor."
"This'll do until I can get into the one I want to." Elly put two cigarettes in her mouth and lighted them. "Here. Peacepipe."
Kathy pulled disdainfully on the cigarette and had a violent coughing fit.
"Courage, Camille," Elly said, thumping her on the back.
"Damn you, Eleanor Ames," Kathy growled, "can't you leave me . . ."
"Listen, Kath. You know how to make curtains and slip covers and fix everything real dainty, don't you?"
"Certainly I know and you know I know. Is that why you got me up?"
"And, Kathy, do you think I could find a little apartment like yours—only cheap—not more than sixty or seventy-five at the most—and get it all gussied up with chintz and that kind of junk?"
"I suppose anyone could," Kathy growled. "Rents are kind of high on the East Side, but . . "
"Who cares about the East Side? I'd just as soon live in Hell's Kitchen if I could make the place nice. You know—homey."
"You could make your own place nice if you and those lazy little sluts you room with would only . . ."
"Oh, we've tried, but every time we start cleaning up that hole down in the Village some guy calls up and says how about a beer or dinner or movie or something, and so we just say to hell with it and let the stuff pile up."
"I've never been troubled with quite so many cavaliers," Kathy said. "Up till now . . ."
"But anyhow I'm sick of living with a lot of other women. I want to find a place and start out fresh and . . ."
"What's come over you?" Kathy asked suspiciously.
"I suppose you know all about cooking soufflés and meat loaf and that kind of stuff, too?"
"Well, yes. It's expensive to eat out all the time."
"Is it very hard?"
"No, not very. Can't you do anything like that?"
"Well, one of my roommates can make pot roast, but if she has a date, the rest of us just eat spaghetti and peanut butter and beer and brownies from Cushmans and Mrs. Kornberg's Famous Chopped Chicken Liver. But let's say I quit going out with every guy who calls up and kind of settled down and . . .”
"Are you feeling all right, Elly?"
"Listen, Kathy," Elly said, sitting up and looking earnestly into her sister's face, "if I tell you something will you cross your heart and hope to die that you won't tell anybody else until Joe has a chance to talk to Bryan and . . . Well, will you?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die," Kathy said wearily.
"Well, I'm getting married."
"Elly! You're not!" Kathy screamed.
"Shut up!" Elly said, "Do you want to blab it to the whole house? Nobody knows yet, except you—and I guess Joe gave Mother a hint."
Kathy put her arms around her sister and kissed her. "Elly, I think that's just lovely. Joe's kind of a strange boy—that is, I don't know him very well—but he'll be perfect for you and you'll be perfect for him. And I'll give you lots of recipes and menus—easy ones at first—so you can fool him into thinking you always did know how to cook and . . . and . . . oh, Elly, I really have to tell you. I'm getting married, too. He asked me last night."
/> "You mean," Elly said slowly, "that you're going to marry Manning Stone?"
"Yes! Oh, Elly, I've wanted this for so long and now . . ."
"Yeah, I had a pretty tough fight myself."
"Well, Elly, aren't you going to say anything?"
"Well, sure. Yeah. Gee, congratulations. I-I hope you'll be very . . ."
"What's the matter? Don't you like Manning, either?"
"Well, well sure I do—what I've seen of him. He's just kind of high falutin' for my . . ."
"Oh," Kathy said coldly. "So you're in on the big conspiracy too. You can go out and pick up some hayseed from . . ."
"Now listen!" Elly roared. "I haven't said a mumbling word about your Manning Stone. I just said he was kind of fancy for me, and that's no reason why you have to go and . . ."
"Oh, indeed? You're just like Mother. Popular little Elly can marry anybody. But when poor, plain old Katherine finds the most polished man in New York . . ."
"That's just the trouble with him."
The door flew open and Nanny burst in. "Children! Miss Kathy, Miss Elly, thank the good Lord you're awake! Them dirty savages has deserted your poor mother and here I am running me legs off with Miss Felicia's little ones and . . ."
"What are you talking about?" Elly said.
"It's them blackamoors—Lutie and Jonas. They've gone and I'm left to care for Miss Felicia's kiddies and the gentlemen are getting up and wanting their breakfasts and . . ."
"Where's Fraulein, Nanny?" Kathy asked. "Can't she take care of . . ."
"It's her Sunday off, Miss Kathy. She went to the station last night as soon as the kiddies were tucked away. Ordinarily I wouldn't mind looking after them, but they're so bad and Mr. Pruitt wanting his . . .”
"Well," Kathy said looking coldly at her sister, "you wanted to learn how to cook. Here's your big chance."
Galvanized into action, the two sisters began dressing hurriedly. Twice they collided in the bathroom and snarled at each other. Once Elly tried to make amends. "Listen, Kath," she began, "I'm sorry if I sounded like I didn't like Manning, it's just that . . .”
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