"Well, today you'll be sitting on the ground with a praying mantis standing behind you and lucky to be getting . . ."
"Eleanor!"
"Sorry, Mother." Elly wiped her hands on her blue jeans and stomped out.
23: Picnic
The picnic was to be held in the Secret Place, a clearing in the forest at the edge of the beach about half a mile from the house. Originally planned by dear Papa as a sylvan spot for picnics, the Secret Place had been carefully created by two architects and a landscape specialist who had been engaged to make the forest look far more rustic than it naturally was. Grotesque rocks and trees had been imported from quite improbable places to surround an impossible structure that looked half like a setting for Hansel and Gretel and half like a geisha house. In its original glory it had been about as secret as Grant's tomb, widely photographed and publicized in fashionable magazines of the day. But now the salt air had withered the arboreal curios so assiduously nurtured. Scrub oak and beach plum had choked the life out of more exotic blooms and the quaint pavilion was falling rapidly into creaking decay.
"Looks like the old Charles Addams place," Joe said, setting down the hampers.
"Kathy and I used to play house in it. But it didn't work out very well because I was so much younger and whenever she'd put up curtains and doll dishes and things I'd rip 'em right down. Finally she walked out."
"I wouldn't mind playing house with you," Joe said. He put his arms around her and kissed her for a long, long time.
"Wow!” Elly said. She drew a deep breath. "Listen, Sullivan, I've been thinking about this marriage business. I've decided I don't want to wait until your book gets published, I want to do it just as soon as possible."
"Elly," he said and kissed her again.
"All we have to do is find a little hole in the wall someplace and move in. I've got a bed and a dresser and a Vic and some records and half interest in an easy chair. We can take those things from where I live now. Mother'll give us some stuff too. She's got more junk here than she can ever use and a whole lot more in storage. Shell be glad to get rid of it. We only need a place to live. The fixing we can take care of evenings and over weekends and stuff. The important thing is being married."
"Listen, Elly," he said pressing her hand, "I cant let you into this without telling you one or two facts of life."
"I think I know them. In theory, at least. It's practice I'm interested in."
"No. I mean about me. Look, I'm only making seventy-five bucks a week."
"Good for you! That's twenty more than I'm making,"
"But, Elly, we couldn't live . . ."
"We're alive now, aren't we? I'm going to keep on working until you give me an obvious reason to stop. That's two salaries and only one rent bill, one light bill, one phone bill . . ."
"But, Elly, there are things like rings and . . ."
"You can get a wedding ring for five bucks. They're advertised all over."
"But an engagement ring—a big rock . . ."
"I'd only lose it if I had one. Look here, Sullivan, you've scared the hell out of me this weekend! But now that I've hooked you I'm not giving in, see?" She wound her arms tightly around his neck and pressed her nose against his. "You try to back out of this and I’ll yell the place down. I'll tell people I'm pregnant and you did it and get Bryan after you with a shotgun!"
"Elly!" He kissed her again. When they broke apart he said: "I've kind of talked to your mother about this, but I suppose I ought to do something more formal."
"Like what?"
"Oh, like make a declaration; have a man-to-man with your Uncle Ned . . ."
"That old pantywaist?"
"Well, you know—a little talk with the head of the family; make my position clear; tell somebody I'm free from disease and unable to support you in the manner to which you're accustomed."
"I'm not accustomed to much."
"So I see," Joe said a little bitterly.
"I support myself " Elly said complacently.
"Yeah? Anyway, I still ought to have that little talk with the head of the family."
"Well, suit yourself. Talk to Bryan. I guess he's the head of the family now. Besides he's the nicest and the easiest. But I never did see why all this rigamarole was necessary when two people simply want to . . ." Joe began to kiss her again.
"Ahem," John Burgess said, grinning down at them.
Joe and Elly sprang apart.
"I'm awfully sorry. I should have knocked on a tree," John said.
"Well, you may as well be among the first to know," Elly said. "I've gone and hooked myself a husband. This is him—he."
"Congratulations!" John said, shaking Joe's hand.
"But don't say anything about it, will you?" Joe said. "Not until I talk to Bryan."
"My gentleman of the old school!" Elly said hugging him.
Through the trees they could hear the voices of the others. Violet's the loudest. "And then, darlings, what do you suppose Goldilocks saw?"
"She saw a horrid little house where three silly bears lived," Emily piped.
"W-well, yes, darling, that's just what she did see."
"Well then don't tell that old story again. Tell us something new!"
"No!' Robin screamed. "Tell about Goldilocks."
"If you tell about Goldilocks, Granny, I'll hold my breath and . . ."
"Cute kids, aren't they?" John asked as if for confirmation.
The picnic had gone quite well—far better than Mrs. Ames felt she had any reason to expect. She smiled her approval on her daughters. What nice girls they had been—Elly in her brusque, forthright way; Kathy in her competent, domesticated fashion. Today Kathy seemed more her old self. She wasn't being silly or brittle or shy or deadly gay. Instead, she had dealt out lobsters and sandwiches; seeing that everyone had enough of everything. She was relaxed. This is really Kathy's niche, Mrs. Ames thought. She's a born homemaker and if only that Mr. Stone will let her make the right kind of home, I'll do my best to love him. If only he weren't so, so indestructibly elegant.
Rising, Mrs. Ames said, "It's been a lovely picnic, children, and I can't begin to thank you enough for all the help you've been. And now," she said firmly, "Violet and Uncle Ned and Nanny and Sturgis and I are going to take all these things back and wash up."
"Oh, please don't," Kathy said.
"Hell no, Mother," Elly added, "we can do all that. You go home and relax."
"No, I want a little practice at dishwashing. And with Auntie Violet and Nanny to help it won't take any time at all. Come, Uncle Ned, you can tell Claire about your picnic with the next to the last King of Greece some other time."
Uncle Ned looked a little hurt, but with Sturgis' aid, he got up off the steamer rug, fed Fang his last bit of lobster and said: "Ah, yes, back to my quill and foolscap! My publishers will be so cross with me if my memoirs aren't finished by fall. They do drive me so! Come Fang, Sturgis. A bientôt!"
"Come with Granny, darlings " Violet called.
"No!" Emily said.
'"Wanna stay here! Wanna stay with Unca John."
"Oh, take them!" Felicia sighed.
"Let them stay, dear," John said. "They're in nobody's way.”
"They'll be good,” Kathy said. "Besides, they're wearing Nanny out."
With full measure of bustle and confusion, the picnickers separated. The old trudging back to the house, the young stretching out on the turf.
"Well, Betty," Bryan said, looking reproachfully at her, "did you change your mind?”
"Change my mind, Bryan?"
"About our appointment this morning. After I'd waited at the bath house for an hour and a half I came to the conclusion that maybe you'd thought better of the whole thing and decided to . . .”
"At the bath house? Bryan, you said the gatehouse. And I got there on the dot of . . ."
"Oh, Betty, please don't pull my leg. It's not that I'm mad or anything—just kind of hurt and . . " This was going awfully well. Even better than Br
yan had expected—bath and gate were such similar words! Here they were on the outskirts of the crowd, having this quiet little talk. In a minute she'd forgive him, he was sure of it.
"Bryan, I swear you said 'gatehouse' and I was there. I even have witnesses. Paul and Claire saw me."
"Gosh, Betty, I'm sorry. It was just one of those misunderstandings, I guess. I was terribly disappointed, but, gee, if it was just a mistake like that, well . . ." He took her hand and kissed it very gently.
Looking into those big black eyes with those lustrous lashes, Betty forgave him in an instant. She'd probably been wrong all along, so lovesick last night that she couldn't even understand English. "It's all right, Bryan," she said softly, "now that I understand why you weren't at the gatehouse. A girl just doesn't like to feel that she's been stood up, that's all. Maybe we can take a walk or go for a swim or something this afternoon. That is if you feel . . ."
"Can I mix anybody a drink?" John called. "Betty? Felicia? Claire?"
"No thanks," Betty called back.
"You can make me a good strong Scotch," Felicia said. "Oh, I'm dead!" She fell dramatically back onto her cushion.
"What do you mean you're dead, Muvver?" Robin whimpered.
"She doesn't mean that she's really dead, dear," Kathy explained hurriedly. "She just means that she's very tired."
"Absolutely exhausted!" Felicia sighed.
Elly stopped chopping ice and glared up at her cousin. "Well, I'd like to know exactly what the hell you're exhausted from, Felicia. You haven't turned a hand all day. Breakfast in bed at half-after ten and then the whole morning on the beach. And you, too, Manning! And you, Bryan, of all people! The idea, lolling around in the sack and then ringing for your breakfast to be brought up when Kathy and John and Joe and I are sweating away in the kitchen. Paul and Betty were the only ones of the whole lot of you who . . ."
Betty withdrew her hand from Bryan's very quickly. She got up. "Excuse me," she said and ran toward the house.
"Hey, Betty!" Bryan shouted and started after her. Then he stopped. Better wait. Give her a little time to cool off. He glared at Elly but she stuck her tongue out at him. He grinned. Well, it was just one of those things. He'd make it up to Betty later. Now, with great purpose, he set about helping his sisters to tidy up from the picnic.
Felicia, choosing not to dignify Elly's pointed remarks with comment, lay back with her eyes closed. "Thank you, darling,” she said as John handed her a drink. She sipped languidly and then made a face. "John! I said Scotch. You know I can't bear this cheap rye!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," John said, "I just reached for the first old bottle I could find and . . ."
"There isn't any more Scotch," Elly began, "it's all been . . ."
"Here, Muvver," Robin screamed, "you kin have my lemonade! You kin have it all if you don't like that." He loped across the clearing. "Here, Muvver! Here!" One of his toes caught at the edge of Felicia's cushion. He tripped and fell flat across her supine body. "Ooooof!" Felicia said. There was a sharp, cracking sound of a slap and Felicia sat up, her eyes blazing, the whole of a glass of lemonade spreading obscenely across the front of her white sharkskin dress.
Manning, attuned to scenes by habit, felt that he had never heard a silence last quite so long.
Robin, a crybaby by the most charitable of definitions, was too stunned to do anything but sit where he had fallen. Gradually two huge tears formed in his blue eyes and slid down his face.
Emily broke the stillness by bursting loudly into tears.
"Robin!" Kathy said, and swept him up into her arms.
"Oh, come off it, Em," Elly said, digging a soiled handkerchief out of her blue jeans. "The world isn't coming to an end just because your brother took a pratfall."
"Really, Felicia " John said quietly. "He was only trying to . . ."
"Oh, shut up!" Felicia screamed, leaping to her feet.
"Oh, Felicia," Claire said. "Your lovely dress! It was a Mainbocher wasn't it? And I . . ."
"And you too, you little whore!" Felicia stomped away, teetering on her heels.
Robin began to weep, trying his best to out-do his sister. Except for that and the cooing, clucking sounds made by Kathy and Elly there was a thundering quietude.
At length John said: "I think we all might have a swim and—and sort of cool off. How about it?"
24: Interviews
The picnickers straggled silently back to the house just as Betty was getting into her raddled old car. Mrs. Ames stood at the doorway, incongruous in a denim apron, absent-mindedly stroking a platter with a dishtowel, and urging Betty to stay, while Betty, aching to leave, tossed off a running flow of insincere platitudes in the manner of well-bred people everywhere.
"But you will be back for dinner, won't you, dear?" Mrs. Ames called. "And with your father, too. I believe Violet has asked him to see her fireworks display."
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Ames," Betty said, quickly brushing away a tear. "We're both looking forward to it. And thank you so much, again. It was a—it was a lovely picnic."
"Thank you, dear. Good-bye." Mrs. Ames returned to the pantry.
Betty was trying for the third time to start the car when Bryan rushed up to her. "Betty, please don't go—not without giving me a chance to . . ."
"Detach yourself from the car, please, Bryan. I'd hate to knock you down here in the driveway."
"But, Betty, won't you let me explain about this morning?"
"There isn't anything to explain, Bryan. You overslept and then gallantly made up a perfectly ridiculous lie to cover yourself. That is the explanation, isn't it?"
"Betty, I . . "
"If you'd told me the truth to begin with, Bryan, I promise you I wouldn't have minded. It would have struck me as pretty funny. It still does. You can almost see it as a headline in the Mirror—'Cinderella Taps Tiny Tootsie While Prince Charming Pounds Pillow.' It's too typical of what usually happens to me for me to be very surprised."
"Betty, can't you ever forgive me?"
"Certainly I can."
Bryan brightened. "Then you're willing to forgive and forget?"
"That's right, Bryan. Forgive you and forget you."
"Betty!”
"Sorry, Bryan, but you're just too rich a dish after army rations. I've got to be getting home." The motor roared and Betty was gone.
Bryan was depressed. Not only did he feel like a heel, but he felt like a fool. And not only did he feel like a fool and a heel, but he felt like a fool and a heel who has been rejected. Bryan had never been rejected before. He kicked at an outsized piece of gravel in the driveway and stumped into the house.
"Bryan," a voice said. He turned and saw Claire standing tragically in the doorway of the library.
Bryan could think of about a dozen things he'd rather do at the moment than talk to Claire. He would have liked to have gone upstairs, packed, and driven back to town. He would have liked to have gone to his room to be by himself. He would have liked to have got mildly drunk. He would have liked . . . well no matter what he might have preferred, this was his house and Claire was a guest in it. Claire was also a guest who had just been mortally and needlessly insulted by his cousin.
"Claire,I—I want to apologize for—for what Felicia said. You know she didn't mean it. She's just—well, she's had an awfully hard time and she gets upset easily—and . . ."
"Please," Claire said holding up a thin hand. "It doesn't matter. One has to get accustomed to being treated like a shopgirl when one is a shopgirl." Claire was rather glad she was wearing the prim little gray chambray instead of the vivid green she had considered. It lent a sort of pathetic institutional air to her in this dim room—the poor little orphan. Together they sat on the big leather sofa.
"D-don't be silly," Bryan said. "Everyone works nowadays. Felicia would probably be better off if she had a job like yours, but of course she's got the children to take care of."
"But that would hardly be the same thing, would it, Bryan? You see, I have to wor
k. I've had to work ever since I was a little girl. Ever since we lost Daddy and I had to leave the convent in Paris and move to a horrid, dark little apartment in Chicago. Mom—Mother had to go to work just to feed us and I had to go to a terrible public school—and—and, well, Bryan I never had the chance to come out or go to college or do all the things that most girls do, and so when . . ."
"Yes?" Bryan said. He wondered what all this was leading up to. A touch?
Claire had told variations of this story before. She told it well and with confidence. Because every word of it was true! Claire and Mom had indeed lost Daddy; lost him to the bottle, the bookie, and a redheaded widow named Doris. They had left Paris, Illinois, for a very nasty little flat in Chicago and Mom, tickled pink to be shed of Pop, had gone to work for the very reason Claire had outlined.
Chicago's social seasons had indeed come and gone without celebrating Claire's debut and no seat of higher learning had ever matriculated Miss Devine. But it was a touching story in what it left unsaid and it placed Claire immediately in that chaste sisterhood of gentlewoman who, but for lack of lucre, might yet be leading the very best society.
Claire went on, a little more surely, a little more daringly, "I'm not a little whore, Bryan. I've never slept with any . . .”
"I know you're not," Bryan said, blushing. "It was unpardonable of Felicia to say . . ."
Claire held up a wan hand. "But, Bryan, I've had to work! Had to work to keep alive. And, Bryan, I hope you won't think I'm being conceited when I say I've been a success. You understand success, Bryan, and I can tell that you respect it. Well, I am a success. I've risen high in a difficult field and I've done it by using my brains and not my body." Claire allowed her voice a bitter tinge.
"Claire, Felicia didn't know what she was . . .”
"Then when I met Paul I was certain that at last my life was going to work out; come to its logical conclusion. Oh, Bryan, you don't know what it's like to go from having everything to having nothing and then having to work yourself back up over the years to just the barest sort of . . . And I hope you never will know." Bryan squirmed and lighted a cigarette.
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