Love & Mrs. Sargent (3 page)

V.

The ballroom in the Orrington fairly rocked with merriment. Sheila squinted through the smoke at the hundreds of red faces contorted with laughter, glistening with sweat. Most of the mink stoles had been thrown back. Hats had come askew. The ladies were frankly fanning themselves with their place cards.

Sheila was hot too—even hotter up on this raised platform known as the Speakers’ Table. The public address system had developed a maniacal jibbering all its own. It’s making about as much sense as I am, Sheila thought grimly. Her feet ached in their high-heeled pumps. She felt her knees beginning to buckle and wondered idly if she might not introduce a shooting stick into her act next time.

“Oh, but now look,” Sheila shouted into the angry public address system. “It’s getting late. It’s after three-thirty and I know you’re all busy.. . .”

Busy! None of these women had children under voting age. They’d been busy talking to husbands concealed behind the
Chicago Tribune
that morning. Busy enameling their nails, over
dressing and just possibly making their own beds. After the meeting they’d be busy slopping up tea or sodas at Cooley’s Cupboard and saying how adorable Sheila was. Back in their houses and apartments they’d be busy throwing a frozen meal into an oven and explaining to their husbands that they really weren’t a bit hungry.

Sheila wondered how any one of them would cope with a day like hers. She had been up since seven. She had read the
first two chapters of her son’s new novel and suggested changes.
She had gone over—for the fourth time—the guest list for her daughter’s coming out party, cut out fifty-nine names, added sixteen. (She did not believe in using a “canned” debutante list.) She had dictated answers to forty-odd letters—Mondays were light days, Tuesdays were murderous—and chosen five of them for future columns. She had stated in twenty-five well-chosen words why she was against leukemia. She had conferred about dinner, told Taylor’s wife how she wanted the table set, given
the most manly guest room a careful once over. She had dressed
herself to the teeth and spent the past three hours in this hot,
noisy room. When she got home she would have to dress herself all over again and then commence entertaining a reporter from a sinister magazine known as
Worldwide Weekly.
He was an unknown quantity and she would have to rearrange her personality for today and the next four days to suit his. He could be one of those relentlessly bullying reporters of the tough school; he could be a sly pansy who’d go through her drawers, her medicine chest in search of the Real Sheila; he could be. . . . Well, one thing she
knew
he’d be was trouble. Busy!

The public address system growled menacingly at Sheila. It was generating the heat of a blast furnace and she wasn’t entirely
certain that it wouldn’t blow up in her face, maiming her for life.

“Tell me frankly,” Sheila shouted, “wouldn’t you all like to call it a day and go home?”

“No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!” the ladies bawled back.

“Very well, then. Just
one more question. . . .
”

VI.

The white Thunderbird sped past the Sargent gateposts and screeched to a standstill.

“Damn!” Allison said. “I’m really getting ga-ga. Thinking so hard about all those pictures that I drove right past my own home.” She put the car into reverse, backed up a few feet and turned into the gravel driveway.

Unlike its more pretentious neighbors along the lake shore, the Sargent place did not advertise, did not give itself airs. It had no name such as Bellevue, Fairlawn or Monplaisir. There
were no imposing gates wrought in the manner of Jean Lamour or copied from Devonshire House—imposing barriers that said Stay Out while still affording a seductive glimpse of the Very Rich to the proletarian Sunday driver. The Sargent place had
no gate house, no sentry box, no stone walls, no towering hedges
of clipped yew. The gateposts were white brick, topped with stone pineapple finials. The property nestled inside a white rail fence and from the highway nothing but woodland could be seen.

Unlike its Lake Forest neighbors, Mrs. Sargent’s house was not militantly Georgian or Tudor, French or Spanish. And unlike the others, it was not for sale.

The house had been built by a successful architect in the nineteenth century before Lake Forest was fashionable. Weary
of creating town palazzi of brownstone, granite and marble along
Woodland and Prairie Avenues, he had put up a country house in the truest of American styles. A little reminiscent of New England, a little reminiscent of the South, the white clapboard house rambled amiably across a rise that overlooked the lake. Ells and wings and porches had been added and subtracted over the years.

Sheila, who had been quite content living in two rooms at the Drake Towers whenever she and her husband were in Chicago, had inherited the place from a bachelor great-uncle at the end of the thirties when large properties were a drug on the market. Unable to sell it, she made the best of things and determined to fill it with children. Circumstances had caused
her to stop at two, so that now everyone in the family had several
rooms to call his own. There was too much space, really. Even so, the Sargent place was comfortable and attractive and easy to live in. Sheila was forever fiddling with it—switching the furniture around, adding a bathroom, lopping off a porte-cochere. Her latest trick had been to join the house to the stables, the stables to a shed by a series of breezeways. The architect had spoken of the feat as “linking the unrelated elements into a unified mass.” Whatever it was, the effect was perfectly charming. Allison drove the car into a stall marked “Lady Lightfoot.” It harked back from the days when the garage really housed horses. She could tell by looking just who was in residence. Mrs. Flood’s little car was there, so was her brother Dick’s. The Lincoln was gone. That meant that Mother was still addressing the Daughters of Whatever. Allison switched off the ignition and walked dreamily along the breezeway leading to the house.

In the kitchen, Bertha Taylor heaved a sigh of relief, put her spectacles back on and sat down to finish off the
Chicago Sun-Times.
Her interview with Mrs. Flood had lasted only fifteen
minutes, during which Mrs. Flood, in her role as majordomo and
arbiter of taste, had learned from Bertha that the service plates were Davenport, not Derby; that the centerpiece was Derby, not Meissen; and that Beaune was a Burgundy, not a Rhone. Mrs. Flood had chirped and fluttered around the dining table, pronounced it to be perfect—”Just as I would have done it”—and now she was sloshing water all over the pantry doing her flower arrangements.

Bertha didn’t mind. Mrs. Flood may have been an ass but she was a lady, of sorts, and Bertha liked that. And, except for having to clean up after her messes, Mrs. Flood was no trouble. Bertha liked that, too. Naturally Bertha had no respect for Mrs. Flood. Bertha only respected people who were smarter than she was and Mrs. Sargent was the only one around here who filled that bill. If Bertha had been born white, had she had the benefits of an education, she might have been in the Cabinet by now. Failing that, she was perfectly happy looking after Mrs. Sargent’s place. And Bertha, with her husband Taylor, had been here just as long as Mrs. Sargent had, cooking the meals, supervising the house, deftly arranging the dismissal of any haughty nursemaid, any uppity chambermaid, any trashy secretary who threatened by so much as a word or a gesture Bertha’s supreme power in her own domain. Things had been running beautifully for some time now—just Bertha and Taylor, outside help when it was needed, and an old fool like Flood who was grateful for the roof over her head, the food in her belly, the clothes on her back.

“There’s the telephone, Mrs. Flood,” Bertha said. “The one in the office. You attend to that and I’ll finish the flowers for you.”

“Oh!
Would
you, Bertha? Thanks ever so!” Mrs. Flood minced
out of the pantry and titupped down the wide center hall toward the small sitting room that was designated as Mrs. Sargent’s
office. At the foot of the stairs she stopped to study her reflection
and wonder just how long she could get by with her current girdle. A Firm Foundation meant everything to Mrs. Flood. By the time she got to the desk, the telephone had stopped ringing.

“Oh, fudge!” Mrs. Flood said. She sat down at the typewriter, put on her glasses, stuffed an envelope into the machine—the
last letter of the day—and addressed it without a single mistake.
“There!” she said proudly.

There were times when Mrs. Flood entertained certain doubts as to her aptitude as a secretary. There were some words she couldn’t spell and couldn’t even find in the dictionary because she wasn’t sure of what letter to look under. There were occasions when she couldn’t read her own Speedwriting and had to
trust to memory and luck. Carbon paper had a weird way of going
in backwards—mostly on Tuesdays when the work was heaviest. And as for changing a typewriter ribbon!

On the other hand, Mrs. Flood felt that she had certain Advantages that the ordinary little Nobody from Bryant and
Stratton Business College could never hope to achieve. The way,
for example, she could glance at a table setting and know that
it was flawless; her flower arrangements; the way servants looked
up to her, awed by her superior wisdom; her crisp, cultivated efficiency at answering the telephone; her immediate instinct as to what was—and what was not—a Good Address; her clever
decoding of the maniacal abbreviations, the backward telephone
numbers in the Social Register—these were attributes that not Just Anyone could bring to a job.

The telephone rang again. “Hellew,” Mrs. Flood said. “Yes, this is Mrs. Flood. . . . Oh, Miss Roseberry. . . . Why, no, my dear, it didn’t ring a-tall. You must have called the wrong number. . . . Oh, re-ally? Mr. Malvern’s driving him out himself? Well, he must be a ve-ry distinguished reporter. . . . Oh, don’t
you worry, my dear,
we’ll
make a good impression. . . . I even put
copies of
Worldwide
all over the house, although, just between
us, Miss Roseberry, Mrs. Sargent wouldn’t dream of reading one.
Hahahahahahaha . . . ! Well, don’t worry your pretty head about it, Miss Roseberry. And thanks so much for warning us. Good-by, my dear.”

“Bertha! Bertha!” Mrs. Flood cried, running to the door.

“I’m right here, Mrs. Flood,” Bertha said, carrying a great urn of chrysanthemums into the room.

“Oh, Bertha, they just called from Famous Features to say that Mr. Malvern is bringing this reporter out himself. I don’t suppose Taylor told you when he’d be back with Mrs. Sargent?”

“No, Mrs. Flood. Taylor didn’t say.”

“Oh, dear! Now you’re sure you understand about dinner?”

“Yes, Mrs. Flood. Clam bisque with Scharlachberg, 1955. Filet
of beef—rare. . . .”

“Yes, Bertha, very rare. At least one thing we do have in Chicago is meat.”

“Mushrooms, asparagus,” Bertha continued automatically, “Hospices de Beaune, 1953, field salad and. . . .”

“Oh, Bertha, you’re such a help! Now I think Mrs. Sargent would like to have drinks in here—the way we always do. You know.
Au naturel.”

“I beg pardon, Mrs. Flood?”

“You know, Bertha. Just pretend it’s like any other dinner at home. Natural. Even with that man writing down ev-er-y word
we say. Oh dear, to have a reporter living right here in the house
and Mrs. Sargent not back from Evanston and. . . . What was that, Bertha?”

“That was the front door closing, Mrs. Flood.” Bertha left the room.

“Oh, thank heaven she’s here. Mrs. Sargent! Mrs. Sar-gent,” Mrs. Flood called. “Oh. Oh, Allison.”

“Yes, Floodie,” Allison Sargent said, “it’s only Allison.”

Even though Mrs. Flood’s eyesight was not as keen as it once had been, she could be forgiven for mistaking Allison Sargent for her mother. When people saw Sheila and Allison together, they could rarely forego some sodden platitude such as “More like sisters than mother and daughter.” It was true that Allison’s
physical resemblance to her mother was marked and remarkable.
Allison’s coloring, her bone structure, her rather willowy carriage were Sheila’s exactly. But it was
inside
that the similarity c
eased. Sheila’s lights were always turned on; Allison’s were
extinguished. “Like a dim carbon copy of her mother,” Mrs.
Flood had once murmured during one of her rare moments of original or lucid thinking and then Mrs. Flood had scolded herself for such treachery, had decided that she was quite wrong and thought of it no more. But now, quite unconsciously, when Mrs. Flood addressed Allison, she tried to compensate for the
girl’s lack of vivacity by being frantically animated herself. The
effect was that of talking to a sullen child, to someone rather hard of hearing or to someone not quite bright. It also made Mrs. Flood appear about twice as idiotic as she ordinarily did.
“Well, I’m glad somebody
else
is here to be on the welcoming
committee,” Mrs. Flood said loudly. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping your mother.”

“Neither can I, Floodie,” Allison said flatly, “What’s she doing
today? Autographing books? Being interviewed on television?
Sitting on a panel with Mrs. Roosevelt and Helen Keller? Being elected best dressed woman in. . . .”

“Allison! You’re simply dreadful,” Mrs. Flood giggled. Any hint of disloyalty to Mrs. Sargent shocked her deliciously, made her feel naughty and conspiratorial, like a girl smoking after lights out in boarding school, “If you must know, your mother is speaking to some Catholic women in Evanston.”

“Long live Martin Luther!”

“Allison!” Mrs. Flood gasped. Disloyalty was one thing, but downright treason was quite another. However, Mrs. Flood giggled dutifully. She liked to encourage the girl into thinking
that she had a sense of humor. Boys like a sense of humor—up to a
certain point—and Mrs. Flood wanted Allison to be popular with boys. Now she changed the subject and moved into safer territory. “Well, dear, tell me, what kind of day did you have?”

“Oh, stimulating,” Allison said, removing the little mink jacket
her mother had just given her. “I drove into town and bought a red dress. This one.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Flood murmured. “Very pretty. Didn’t they have it in another color?”

“Mother told me to buy a gay red dress. Now I have. Please don’t tell me it’s becoming, because it isn’t.”

Oh, dear, Mrs. Flood thought. The
wall
that girl builds between herself and the rest of the world. Tactfully she said, “Why, it’s not bad, Allison. The Twenty-Eight Shop?”

“Of course the Twenty-Eight Shop,” Allison said. “Then I went to Mother’s gifted, gifted little French woman for still another fitting on my beautiful, beautiful ball gown for my lovely, lovely coming out party.”

Mrs. Flood’s forehead creased. She did not care to have Impor
tant Things like expensive dresses and private debuts treated lightly. However, she was pleased to notice that Allison’s face was suddenly softening, that her eyes were almost beginning to sparkle.

“And then, Floodie, I went to the Art Institute to see the new loan exhibit,” Allison said rapidly. “And it was so wonderful, Floodie, that I just stayed and stayed. I didn’t even have lunch. Come to think of it, I’m as hungry as a. . . .”

“Oh, that’s nice, dear,” Mrs. Flood said loudly. Society People were
supposed
to have an interest in art and Mrs. Flood ap
proved whenever Allison displayed a Correct reaction. “I haven’t
been inside the Art Institute since. . . .” Then Mrs. Flood’s face went ashen. Her jaw sagged. “Didn’t have
lunch!
Allison Sargent! This was the day when
the
girls in the Debutante Cotillion were supposed to meet at. . . .”

For a moment the two stared at one another aghast. “Oh, Floodie!” Allison said. “Isn’t that dreadful? I got in there with
all those fantastic pictures and I forgot about the luncheon entirely. Don’t tell Mother. Please, Floodie.”

“Allison Sargent, you simply amaze me. Here your mother breaks her neck to get you into the Cotillion. She plans this huge party for you—new dresses, that lovely little mink jacket. And all you do is get lost in some old art gallery and forget to show up for the debutante luncheon! Why, when I came out. . . .” Mrs. Flood had come out at a tea party held in the front
and rear parlors of the Drexel Boulevard house of her father, a comfortably well-off wholesale grocer. The debutante had been
presented to Mumsie’s old friends and to her classmates at the Stefan School, all of whom had known her for some years. Twining’s Lapsang Souchong, watercress sandwiches, little iced
cakes and marzipan from Kranz’s had been served. But, owing to
Mrs. Flood’s rather myopic hindsight, this event, like many another in her past, had taken on the luster of a court ball. Mrs. Flood was even now about to expound upon the wines,
the dresses, the crowded dance programs of her Season. She did not. Once more she sensed the wall Allison had erected between
them.