Francie Comes Home (11 page)

“I'd love to, Francie,” said Mrs. Clark, and she sounded as if she meant it and was pleased.

“Wednesday?” suggested Francie. So that was fixed up. Then Mrs. Clark left, and Francie said as the door closed behind her, “Mrs. Ryan, I wouldn't have had the nerve to ask her if it hadn't been that Cousin Biddy made me so sore. Isn't Biddy terrible? Isn't she, honestly?”

“You could do worse, Frances Beatrice,” said Mrs. Ryan solemnly, and Francie laughed so hard she could hardly see the showcase key she was locking up with.

There was no sense to it, but Francie was actually nervous about Wednesday evening, though, as she admonished herself more than once, it wasn't as if they were giving a party or anything near it. The fact was that she had never, as it happened, found occasion to entertain anybody quite so definitely of the older generation, and she felt surprised at her own presumption. In this she was, for the only time in her life, in full agreement with Cousin Biddy, who rang up to say to Aunt Norah that she was completely mystified by the arrangement. Whatever possessed Frances Beatrice, she wanted to know—what could she see in Mrs. Clark anyway? If it came to that, what could Mrs. Clark see in Francie? It was all very odd. Her friend Mrs. Bean wouldn't understand at all, and Mrs. Bean's son David would probably begin to think that Frances Beatrice was a little, well,
odd
. Surely she ought to be spending more time with people her own age. Biddy heard she was with that crowd of
youngsters
rather a lot, too. It sounded strange.

“Oh goodness, you just can't win!” said poor Francie, torn between laughter and indignation. “My goodness, things are cut and dried in a town like this. But seriously, Aunt Norah, I do think Mrs. Clark is really coming more to see you than me. She often talks about you and says she's sorry you two have got out of touch. I guess she'd have been coming over to see you soon anyway, whether or not I'd asked her for tonight.”

Aunt Norah smiled rather sadly and nodded. She started to, say something, hesitated, and then went ahead with it. “I was always fond of Anne Clark, and I'm very glad you've picked up the strings for me. Dear me! When I let myself think of it: the fact is, your mother and she and I used to be very good friends indeed. Girls together; you know how girls are—we told each other everything, especially about our beaux: we would get together the day after a party and talk it all over, and goodness me, how we laughed! What a lovely thing it was to be young!”

Francie listened with great interest. “I suppose that was before Pop came along?” she asked.

“Before, and—during,” said Aunt Norah. “In fact, now I come to think of it, there was some doubt at the beginning which of the girls he was courting, your mother or Anne. They were together such a lot, I guess it would have taken a very clever boy to cut one off from the other. But Fred persevered, and after a while nobody had any more doubt which one he wanted.”

“Pop was good-looking,” said Francie. “I've got some pictures, and he
was
good-looking. And Mother, of course, looks perfectly sweet. I do wish I could remember her.”

“You just look in the mirror,” said Aunt Norah. “There's a great resemblance.”

“I'd like to think so,” said Francie. “Well … this isn't getting our plans made for supper. Want me to do the shopping on my way to work? Then Pop can come along with the car later and pick it all up.”

Aunt Norah said, “I declare, I'm looking forward to tonight. Anne Clark! If I hadn't got into such a rut—if I hadn't had this trouble with my eyes … Oh well, never mind; she'll understand and forgive my neglect, I'm sure.”

Though Cousin Biddy seldom approved of anything, she could have had little to sniff at in Francie's social evening with Mrs. Clark. As things turned out, the age groups were properly recognized and segregated after all. Mrs. Clark brought a book with her, a collection of one-act plays that, as she told Francie, she happened to have among her things; she had noticed it just as she was coming out and remembered what the girl had told her about the plans for the Jefferson Dramatic Society. (Inevitably the club was now known locally as the J.D.S.) As soon as supper was over they all settled down to a game of Scrabble, but then there came a knock that interrupted them. When Francie opened the front door, there was Lucky Munson carrying another book under his arm. It was the first time he had ever come to the house. Francie said, “Oh!” and wondered if she had sounded too pleased and excited.

“Anything going on in there?” he asked. “I didn't mean to butt in. I guess I ought to have called you up first, but there wasn't any chance: I was driving home from Chicago in the rush hour and couldn't park anywhere where there was a telephone.” A burst of conversation and laughter came from the living room. He made as if to go back down the steps. “Never mind,” he said. “You're busy. I'll get in touch with you about this tomorrow.” He tapped the book.

“But it's quite all right. Do come in,” said Francie. “It's just Pop and some of his friends in there, and I'd like them to meet you anyway.”

He hesitated. “It was this,” he said, holding out his book. “There are a couple of plays in it I thought were just possible. You remember how you said one-act plays would be good to start on? Well, I found these in a second-hand shop near Michigan Boulevard and I thought I'd read them before; anyway, I bought it just on the chance there was something useful. I know. You keep the book overnight and read it and—” Again Francie invited him in; without much more protest he let himself be persuaded. After introductions, the three older people went on with their game and Francie read part of the book with Bruce, and talked about the club, and made plans. She struggled to act as if Bruce were just any boy who had dropped in, and she knew she was succeeding in spite of her fast-beating heart. Bruce was casual and friendly—Francie suddenly wondered if he knew about her dates with Glenn. Maybe he'd even inquired about her—was that possible? And at the back of her mind was a nagging little thought: did Chadbourne know that Lucky had meant to drop in like this? Would she resent it, and did she have any
right
to resent it? Since the night he drove her home, Francie had been asking herself this sort of question, and it was a hard one to answer. There wasn't much to go on.

Nobody had ever told her definitely that they were engaged. Chadbourne did have a rather proprietory manner regarding Lucky, but she also had it about her other particularly intimate acquaintances; it might not mean much except that she was used to being looked up to because her mother was rich. And Lucky himself, Francie recalled, didn't talk as if there were any “understanding” between them: he seemed to go out of his way to speak of Chadbourne, when he had occasion to mention her, in a detached manner.

Yet there was a general impression around town that they belonged together. It was Chadbourne who had introduced him to her crowd; Chadbourne took him everywhere; he belonged to Fredericks & Worpels, and that made it somehow likely that he belonged to Chadbourne too. And Francie felt bound to notice that he hadn't come from his own apartment to see her this evening. He had dropped in on his way from Chicago, the one time out of a hundred when Chadbourne would assume he was getting home late. Probably she just didn't know he was in town, that was all.… Francie pulled herself up. She was getting awfully cynical, she thought sorrowfully, and catty, too.

The telephone rang and she went to answer it.

“Francie?” said a voice that made her feel guilty. “This is Chad.”

“Oh yes, Chadbourne—I mean, Chad,” said Francie, her mind racing. “How are you?” To herself she sounded much too hearty, but that is the trouble with tones of voice; you never know how they sound until you have tried them out.

Chadbourne said that she was fine, and how was Francie? Without waiting for a reply she went on, “Is Bruce there?” Perhaps Chadbourne, too, wasn't always satisfied with her own tone of voice; as if she didn't like the sound of that question, she added, “I mean, has he arrived yet? He told me he might be dropping in on you tonight.”

Francie said that Bruce had arrived and went to call him. She should have been relieved. Instead, she was really very much annoyed.

She and Aunt Norah were belatedly putting the dishes in the machine and cleaning up the kitchen. They had of course assured Mrs. Clark that they would just stack the dishes and leave them until morning, but it seemed easier and pleasanter to wash everything that night, after all, while they waited for Pop to return from taking the guest home. They were having a comfortable post-mortem when they heard the front door being closed and locked. Pop came into the kitchen.

“We were just saying how nice Anne still is,” said Aunt Norah. “Don't you agree?”

“Very nice. Got a lot of common sense, that woman,” said Pop.

“And she must have been awfully attractive,” said Francie, “when she was young.”

Aunt Norah snorted indignantly. “I'll have you know she's
still
an attractive woman, Francie Nelson. Whatever do you mean, ‘must have been'?”

It surprised Francie. She looked toward Pop for support; it just hadn't occurred to her that people of Aunt Norah's age were capable of feeling vanity, either for themselves or others of the aged brigade. But Pop made no comment at all.

CHAPTER 9

The crowd had assembled again in the Fredericks's rumpus room for a meeting of the new dramatic society. It was the fourth meeting in the fourth week, and the intervening time had brought many changes in Francie's attitude.
She
now sat in the front row and giggled with the others of the elect. Unlucky newcomers still paused uncertainly on the threshold before making their timid way to inconspicuous seats, and they looked resentfully at the gay young people in front, but Francie didn't notice all that any more. She was practically a part of the zoo, though she had stopped calling it that. Chadbourne's friends weren't so bad when you got to know them as she did, she had decided; light, of course, and idle—all except Lucky Munson—but good company. Lucky saved the record. He was a working man and he had more sense than the others. In spite of looking the way he did, he had a lot of solid qualities; Francie was sure of it. They had become more than just casual acquaintances, she felt, though he still did behave very casually toward her, especially—she could not help this much suspicion of his attentions—when Chadbourne happened to be looking their way. He paid a sort of court to her, though, even in Chadbourne's house: he was sitting next to her now.

“… and I nearly died this morning, choked with rage,” she was saying to him in confidential tones while they waited for the meeting to open. “You know my Cousin Biddy. That is, you don't, and I would simply hate you to. But today she—”

Lucky interrupted, dead-pan. “I'm longing to meet Cousin Biddy. Little by little I hope to meet the whole family.”

“Nobody, but nobody could possibly want to make Biddy's acquaintance,” said Francie. “Just listen, Lucky: this morning she was on the telephone as usual, and suddenly she said, ‘I hear such interesting things about your new society, Frances Beatrice. I understand you're going to produce one of my favorite plays,
Charley's Aunt
.' Now where in the world would she have got hold of an idea like that, do you think? Why,
Charley's Aunt
—it's some old Edwardian thing, isn't it? I mean to say, nobody in this generation would dream of putting on an old thing like that. She must be mad. I mean it, she must be.”

“Probably lives in a world of her own,” said Bruce.

“Oh, she lives in her own world all right,” said Francie. “I can imagine what amateur societies were like when she was a girl. I guess they acted
Charley's Aunt
every season, when they weren't performing in
Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines.”
Francie giggled. “It's so typical of Biddy. She's proud of always knowing everything, and the point is, she always gets her information slightly cock-eyed.”

Bruce said sadly, “Well, if she does know everything I only wish she'd let me have a look in her crystal ball. I'd give a lot to know what in the world we
are
going to select for the first J.D.S. number. I'm the director and I'd naturally like a little advance information before I die of old age, stalling around waiting for the go-ahead signal. The way things look, we'll be another four weeks making up our minds.”

“Oh, at least four weeks!” Francie sighed, thinking about the arguments that were besetting the Play Choice Committee, and it wasn't only the committee that kept running into trouble. The minute a newcomer joined up—and the recruits were surprisingly numerous now that the society was well under way—he seemed to arrive with a pet project, a play that simply had to be put on immediately. The selection was large and all-embracing. Francie, Bruce, and a few others of the more knowledgeable charter members argued their way deftly out of suggestions for pageants, for example; pageants in celebration of (
a
) their state, (
b
) their America, and (
c
) their new local nursery school. The society had discussed at length and then discarded ambitious plans for
Pinafore
or
The Mikado. A
few experiments proved beyond a doubt that they didn't have enough good voices in the club to render such a production anything but painful. Then there was the intellectual young man; he argued passionately in favor of Shaw. Anything would do, evidently, as long as Shaw had written it. He brought in his entire set of Shaw's works and read out bits in order to prove his point. They had samples of
Man and Superman, Captain Brasshound's Conversion, Fanny's First Play
, and
St. Joan
. They were not convinced.

“I thought you said we were to do something worth while!” he cried. “I thought our intention was to elevate the public taste!”