House Party

by Patrick Dennis

  ''Well, as I said, I met Paul and I knew—Bryan, I knew when I saw him—that we were right for each other. He was a boy of talent and taste and breeding. He was a success and he was going farther—further. I admire success, Bryan. I have to! I could see us married. What a team we'd be! Paul going higher in architecture, I going higher and higher in fashion. I could visualize the rich, happy, creative life we could share together—knowing the people who are important, doing the things that are important. Each of us building."

  "Mm-hmm," Bryan said. He was profoundly bored, and although he had a certain admiration for Claire, he would have preferred brooding over his own troubles for a while. Still Felicia had obligated him to endure this interview. And he was faintly curious about what Claire was leading up to and a little more than faintly intrigued by the perfume Claire was wearing.

  "His firm wants to give him a partnership, you know," Claire was saying.

  "Really?" Bryan found it difficult to believe that anybody could have much faith in Paul—an architectural firm or a smart woman.

  "Yes. Not only because of his talent, but because of his name, his connections, his position—things that really matter." Bryan lowered his eyes. He was not displeased. "And, as I guess you already know, Paul and I hope to get married."

  "Yes," Bryan said. "We're all very pleased about it." Bryan might have wished for a sister-in-law more obviously from the Ames milieu, and perhaps with something of a dowry in case crazy Paul pulled one of his usual harebrained stunts. But Bryan knew that Paul could do a lot worse than a smart girl like Claire—a whole lot worse—and it was reassuring to find out that Claire was really a lady.

  "Well, Bryan, you can imagine how I felt, after the life I've led, when Paul blithely announced that he was quitting his job . . ."

  "Oh, Paul's nuts! He'll change his mind tomorrow,"

  "And expecting me to quit mine. And moving out here to live in your gatehouse . . ."

  "Gatehouse?" Bryan said with a shudder. This was a painful subject.

  "And instead of moving up and up with the most successful architectural firm in New York, Paul is planning to start a housing project right here."

  "What do you mean, 'right here'?"

  "Just what I said. He's throwing everything away to make millions and millions of houses for a lot of . . ."

  "In Pruitt's Landing?"

  "In Pruitt's Landing."

  "But that's impossible, Claire. Where would he find the land?"

  "Right across the road. There are thousands of acres. One house to an acre. Build at five thousand, sell at six thousand to a lot of vulgar Army privates and . . ."

  "Do you mean to tell me that that crazy Paul is planning to start a housing development across the road from our home?"

  "Yes, and he expects your bank to finance it and he expects me to throw away everything I've achieved and come out here with a lot of mice and rats and . . ."

  "Paul wants my bank to give him the money to ruin the property I'm going to inherit? Property that's been in our family for more than . . ."

  "Yes, Bryan, yes! And you've got to stop him! My career, my whole life, everything that's important to me is . . ."

  "You mean he expects me to pay for . . ."

  "Yes! He wants to throw away everything we've . . .”

  "Well! I'll tell that crazy. . ."

  "My, what a cozy little chat!" a voice said. Claire and Bryan wheeled about and saw Paul standing in the doorway.

  "Paul!" Claire whispered. "How long have you . . ."

  "I came in just as you were leaving the convent in Paris, Claire. The story of your meteoric rise in the rag business was so touching that I didn't have the heart to interrupt. I'm glad, now, that I . . .”

  "Paul, listen kid," Bryan said with a grin. Really, it was embarrassing being caught quite so redhanded, but now that the facts were more or less out in the open, this little defeat might very easily be turned into something of a triumph. Bryan was a good talker. Unlike Paul, he was able to keep calm, be objective, mar-shall his facts.

  "Shut up!" Paul said. He wheeled on Claire. "Of all the Goddamned, underhanded tricks, sneaking in here to . . ."

  "Paul," Bryan said sternly, "there's a lady present."

  "Is there? As I was saying, of all the God-damned, underhanded tricks, sneaking in here behind my back to sabotage me . . ."

  "Paul," Claire began. "That's not true. I was talking to Bryan for your own good—for our own good. I should have preferred to have you in the room during our little chat, but . . ."

  "Lucky girl. I was in the room. And I heard your little chat. You rigged it just fine, didn't you?"

  "But, Paul, darling," Claire said, "can't you understand that Bryan and I are the two people in the world who care about you most? We both have reason to be deeply concerned about your future. We . . ."

  "My future, Claire? It seems to me that you were doing your level best to protect your own future and to louse mine up good and proper. It doesn't really matter, though, because from now on they're going to be completely separate futures, anyhow."

  "Paul!" Claire cried, "you can't . . ."

  "Paul, kid," Bryan said. "Don't you think you're being a little hasty? Claire was only trying to protect you from making a costly and terrible mistake."

  "And she's succeeded splendidly. I've just been saved from the costly and terrible mistake of being tied down to a shallow, deceitful little clothes horse with the intellect of a window dummy and the integrity of . . ."

  "Paul," Claire wailed, "darling, won't you see that we were only discussing your career because we . . ."

  "It seems to me," Paul said, "that the logical person to discuss my career with would be me. We could have worked something out if you'd had the honesty and the decency to come to me and give it to me straight. But instead you go slinking around to Bryan like an assassin in a grade B movie to louse up my work before . . .”

  "Louse up your work indeed!" Claire shouted. "Louse up a ratty little housing project for a pack of common factory hands and their cheap, vulgar wives and a lot of ill-bred brats!”

  "Nothing common or cheap or vulgar or ill-bred about you, is there Claire?"

  "You ought to be knocked down!" Bryan boomed.

  "Would you like to try to do it?"

  "Let's not forget that we're gentlemen, Paul."

  "Oh, no. Let's never forget that. Claire. There's just one thing I want you to do for me."

  "What is it?" Claire said, a little too anxiously.

  "Please give me back my ring." Snatching his ring from her, he stomped out of the library and drove off in the station wagon, straight to Betty Cannon's.

  Claire went sedately to her room. She felt that she might cry, but she kept clinging to Bryan's embarrassed, but optimistic, words of comfort. Just a lovers' quarrel. Yes. It would be all right soon. Her index finger, briefly the site of the Pruitt signet ring felt cold and naked. The rest of her felt hot and overdressed. Claire closed the door of her room. It's bound to work out, she kept telling herself. Paul would apologize. Paul had a sense of honor. I'll take a good hot bath, she thought, then I’ll put on the pink orlon with the pleats and a choker of jets and my . . .

  While Bryan had once wanted to be alone, he now wanted not to be alone. He wanted to be with Elly, with Aunt Violet—with noisy people. He wanted to be free from thinking. He wished Uncle Ned would pop in and tell him that hilarious story about King Edward in Marienbad, or being with Crown Prince Somebody on the Somebodys' yacht. He also wanted a drink and someone to talk to. He was not disappointed for long.

  "Uh, Bryan," Joe said, "I wondered if I could have a word with you?"

  "Surest thing you know," Bryan said with a smile. This would be relaxing. No problems here. He and Joe could talk about literature or tennis. "And why don't we pick up a couple of bottles of the foamy on our way out? It's too nice a day to sit indoors and it's too hot a day to sit outside without a beer. Come on!"

  Feeling that the interview was off
to a promising beginning, Joe followed Bryan to the kitchen.

  25: More Interviews

  John Burgess' swim hadn't done much for him. The tide had been depressingly low, the water much too warm. Back in his room, he wrapped himself in his dressing gown and lay on the bed smoking. He felt old and lonely and depressed. He wanted to be alone here in this big room, and yet he was so sick of being alone.

  There was a tap on his door.

  "Yes?" John called.

  The door opened and there stood Felicia. "John, may I come in?" Without waiting for an answer, Felicia stepped into the room, closed the door and leaned back against it.

  "I'm not dressed for callers," John said, leaping off the bed and gathering his robe around him. "And you're not dressed to go calling," he added. Felicia was wearing a red negligee, very sheer and cut very low. She was powdered until her skin looked unnaturally white and her lips and nails were like drops of blood.

  "What's the matter," she asked huskily, "don't you like the way I look?"

  For the first time John realized that he didn't. "It's a very pretty kimono—whatever you call ‘em.”

  "John, that's what I love about you! You're so quaint. Here I go out and spend a fortune on a negligee for my trousseau and then you call it a 'pretty kimono.'"

  "I guess I'm just a home boy after all," he said, sulkily.

  "Would you give me one of your cigarettes, darling?" Felicia undulated across the room and sat provocatively on the edge of his bed, conscious that a good bit of her skirt had fallen open.

  "Sure. Here."

  "Thank you, darling." Felicia looked languidly up at him as he lighted her cigarette. "John. I'm frightfully sorry about this afternoon."

  "So am I, Felicia."

  "It was just that I was so hot and so hideously bored and Fraulein was off and that old maniac, Nanny, was being so upsetting with the children . . ."

  "Really, I thought she was kind of nice to take care of them for you."

  "Oh she doesn't matter. She's nothing but an old English biddy they should have put out to pasture years ago. And then when Robin spilled that awful lemonade all over me—really, the dress will just have to be thrown out—well I—I suppose I shouldn't have slapped him."

  "No, I don't think you should have."

  "Oh, of course I shouldn't. But, darling, when you have two children crawling over you twenty-four hours a day . . ."

  "Which day was this, Felicia?"

  "Oh, John, you'll simply never know what it means to be a mother."

  "You're right. It's a pretty safe bet that I won't."

  "I have to give them constant attention."

  "Yes, I've noticed."

  "And, John, I've been through so much this summer that I . . .”

  "Been through what, Felicia?"

  "Well, you know, having to close the house in town and pack everything and drag Robin and Emily and Fraulein out here and put up with Mother and Aunt Lily."

  "That must have been hell!"

  "Well, it has been. And then playing hostess to a whole house full of the dreariest people imaginable . . .”

  "And you certainly were the great little hostess today, Felicia. Real Southern hospitality—a kind word for everyone, put all the guests at their ease . . "

  "Oh, John, go on. Scold me! I deserve it. I never should have called that tiresome little Claire a . . .”

  "No, you never should have."

  "It's probably true, though," she said with a sly smile.

  "Then, of course, that makes it perfectly all right?"

  "No, of course not. But she's such an irritating creature."

  "What don't you like about her?"

  "Well, she's so fancy! Always mincing around in a lot of glad rags. Her clothes are nice, but really awfully extreme."

  "I see," Burgess said, staring at Felicia's negligee. "What else?"

  "Well, and she's always sucking up to people . . ."

  "I see. Anything more?"

  "Oh, she's stupid. You couldn't get an hour's intelligent conversation out of her if you tried."

  "And what else has she done to win your disfavor?"

  "Well, she's a nobody who's constantly on the make."

  "Probably hasn't any money, either?"

  "Oh! Not a nickel."

  "And you say she has no position?"

  "Really, John, Claire! Common as dirt, although I will say she . . ."

  "Then the only difference between her and you is money and position? But I'll bet that if she married Paul she'd have plenty of both and then there wouldn't be any difference at all!"

  "Honestly, John, Paul. He won't have a sou! If she thinks she's getting any world-beater there, she's sadly mis . . . What did you say?'

  "You heard me," he said getting up. "Listen, Felicia, I think that you and I had better forget about that little talk we had in the garden. I'm afraid you're not quite the wife I had in mind. Maybe you'd better find somebody with more money and more position and . . ."

  "John!” Felicia cried. Her face had turned chalky and her eyes were wide. "John," she said, throwing her arms around his neck, "you've got to marry me. You said you would. John, I'll do whatever you want! We'll live any place you like! Here, in Europe, down South—whatever you say. John, do you hear me?"

  "Yes, Felicia," he said wearily, "I hear you."

  "And John, I don't care at all about your money. I have tons. Plenty. More than I'll ever need. I have half of what my father left—it's millions—and as soon as Mother dies, I'll get all of hers. And John, I can get you in any place. I have connections all over. After all, I'm a Pruitt, and . . ."

  "What else can you do for me?"

  Felicia was gibbering. Her arms were tight and hot around his neck. He felt the lace of her gown crushing into his bare chest "John," she said, clawing at him. "If you want me you can have me now. Right here! No one would know. No one's up here. John, why didn't you say you . . ." Still speaking, she pressed her lips tight against his. Her lipstick tasted of perfume and chemicals, it felt hot and greasy. "John," she said, drawing back and looking desperately at him. I'll be just the kind of wife you want. Whatever you say you can . . ."

  "What about children?"

  "Don't worry about them, They're no trouble. I'll put them in a school someplace. Maybe their father can have custody. John . . . John!" Before she knew what was happening, Felicia found herself over John's knee, her elegant rump high in the air.

  "John! Stop it! You beast. You sadist! I'll scream the place down."

  "Nobody's up here, you said, Felicia. These Fuller hairbrushes are wonderful things."

  "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" she screamed. John began calmly and systematically applying the hairbrush.

  "Stop it! How dare you! You're hurting me!”

  "Felicia, I wish I could say that this hurts me as much as it hurts you. It doesn't."

  "Salad dressing is perfectly simple, Elly," Kathy was saying, "if you just remember the basic proportions. Three parts oil to one part vinegar."

  "Mm-hmm," Elly said anxiously. Joe and Bryan had been gone for more than an hour.

  "Now you can vary the other seasonings indefinitely—garlic, herbs, onion, anything you like but the basic proportions of oil and vinegar remain the same. You'll get the knack of it very quickly."

  "My little girls," Mrs. Ames said proudly. "If I hadn't been raised so idiotically, I suppose you wouldn't have been raised so idiotically and you would have been taught how to cook and take care of a house, when you were children. Now you'll have to teach me."

  "Oh, Mother, you'll get another cook soon. And besides this isn't so hard," Kathy said. "Now Elly, I’ll show you how to set a table. You remember. Knives on the right, forks on the left."

  "Fourteen places, darling," Mrs. Ames said. "Felicia's children will just have to eat with Nanny."

  "Okay," Elly said. With a clatter she opened the silver drawer and banged out to the dining room. A full century had gone by since she had seen Joe and Bryan strol
ling out into the garden. My God, how long did it take to ask for a girl's hand? Impatiently she started circling the table, dealing out silver. "Hey, Kathy," she yelled, "where do you put a . . ." She looked up and saw Joe standing in the hall, his back turned to her. He was dressed in his crumpled seersucker suit and his Val-Pak was on the floor beside him.

  "Gosh, Joe, I thought you two were never . . . Hey, where do you think you're going?"

  "I'm going back to town, Elly. Back to the Y." Joe looked pale and sick. Elly could hardly hear his voice he spoke so feebly.

  "Are you nuts?"

  "I hoped we wouldn't run into each other. I left a note for you on the hall table."

  "Listen, what kind of a gag is this? Where's Bryan?"

  "He's getting his car. He's going to run me to the station. There's a train at . . ."

  Elly was becoming annoyed. "See here, Joe Sullivan, fun's fun but . . ."

  "So long, Elly. Please thank your mother for me." Joe swallowed painfully and turned his head away.

  Elly felt herself growing cold. "What have you and Bryan been up to?"

  "Elly, please. It's all there in the note. Read it after I've gone."

  "Like hell I will. You're not going anyplace. Not without me, you're not." She rushed to the table and ripped open the note. " 'Dearest Elly, Bryan is right, it would never work out. I'll always love you. Good-bye, Joe.' What . . . did . . . Bryan . . . say?"

  "Nothing. He was very nice, very understanding, but he made me realize that . . ."

  Elly heard the sound of Bryan's car on the gravel and raced out of the door.

  "Elly," Bryan said. He didn't seem pleased to see her.

  "You get out of that car this minute, Bryan Ames, I want to talk to you!"

  "Can't right now, Elly. I've got to catch the five-fifteen."

  "I'm ready, Bryan," Joe said coming out with his Val-Pak.

  "You're not catching any five-fifteen, and as for you, Joe Sullivan, you're going right back upstairs and unpack that silly satchel." She leaped into the car next to Bryan.

  "Please, Elly," Joe said miserably, "can't we just call this thing off now and forget it."