Guestward Ho! (31 page)

"Of course, Barbara," Connie said. Then she looked at
her watch. "Ooops, it's time, for my cha-cha lesson. Call
me back at the apartment if anything big happens."

It was sleeting outside when I left the restaurant. I
hailed a cab and was just about to step in when two im
perious fur-bearing women brushed in ahead of me and
slammed the door in my face. Somewhat stunned, I
stepped back and landed squarely on a miniature poodle. "Can't you look where you're going, stupid?" a woman snapped at me. She picked up her poodle and marched
indignantly into the restaurant.

Too discouraged to attempt landing another cab, I de
cided to walk back to our hotel. It was twice as cold and
damp and penetrating as it had been before lunch and
it seemed as if everybody on Fifth Avenue had got up that
morning with a redwood log on his shoulder. They all looked pale, ill, exasperated, and in a dreadful hurry to get to noplace. There was a religious fanatic in front of
St. Patrick's Cathedral haranguing anyone who cared to
listen. (Nobody did.) At the corner of Fiftieth Street
there was a hideous and profane traffic jam involving a crosstown bus, a United Parcel truck hell-bent for Saks,
three taxicabs, and a sight-seeing bus. Across the Avenue, one of the Rockefeller Center shops was putting up Christ
mas decorations, although Thanksgiving was still a good way off. The Yuletide finery did nothing to cheer me. If
didn't look Christmassy at all, but commercial and cheap
and gaudy and vulgar.

I was jostled good and proper by three hard-bitten old
viragoes leaving McCutcheon's and talking at the tops
of their lungs about an absent friend named Frieda, who
seemed to embody—if their observations were
accurate
—
all
the most vicious traits in the world.

When I got back to our hotel I was wet and unhappy
and chilled through to the bone. Feeling just as gloomy as
possible, I took a hot bath and stretched out for a nap. Sleep seemed out of the question. I was dog tired, but the noises around me were too much. Not having ever
tried a siesta in the middle of the day in the middle of
Manhattan, I had never fully appreciated Cole Porter's
lyric, "in the roaring traffic's boom." But the traffic was
there all right, just seven floors beneath me, roaring and
booming for all it was worth. Whenever there was a lull
in the roaring traffic's boom the couple in the adjoining
room gave vent to a series of the most violent differences
of opinion.

"I had to be polite to a customer's wife, didn't I?"

"Polite? That's a hot one! You couldn't keep your eyes
off her. It was disgusting! That's what it was. I was never
so mortified in my life."

"Aw, honey—"

"Don't you honey me! And another thing; if I have to be
pawed by a dirty old man like Mr. Wentworth in any
more New York night clubs, I think they ought to put
me
on the payroll. He was absolutely—"

"Aw, listen, sweetie—"

Boom, boom! Honk, honk! Crash, crash! Whistle, whistle!

"—and
another
thing; if you're so high and mighty that you can take customers to the Stork Club and toss around money like a king, I don't know why
I
can't have a simple thing like a Persian lamb coat when that common Mrs.
Wentworth had a—"

"Aw, baby, for the love of . . ."

In spite of everything, I dozed off eventually. But I
couldn't have been asleep for an hour when I was awakened by Bill's arrival. His eyes had that sparkling, starry
look inevitably brought on by happiness, a new adventure, or liquor—or a combination of all.

"Well, your wish has come true!" Bill said. "We're go
ing to move back to New York and I'm going to be the
rich young executive. Stick with me and you'll be wearing
let-out sheepskin. Didn't I always say that?"

"What in the world are you talking about, William
Hooton?" I asked blankly.

"I've taken a job. I'll be working for Connie's family as a kind of bright young man."

"You're drunk," I said.

"Perhaps. But I'm also employed. Now all we have to
do is go back and clear our things out of the ranch. Maybe
spend Christmas out there—or here, if you prefer—and starting in on the first of January I'll be . . ."

The telephone rang. It was Connie. "I've already
heard," she said. "Pericles telephoned me. I'm just so thrilled I can hardly talk. Imagine! Rancho del Monte is going to be mine!"

Of course we had to celebrate. Cousin Pericles and his
beautiful wife threw a party that very night for Bill and to meet all the
other
executives and
their
beautiful wives. It was an elegant party but just every once in a while I couldn't help thinking back to the shrew in the
hotel room next to ours. There was that feeling of com
pulsory gaiety and good fellowship that didn't quite ring true and I felt they were being gay and friendly because
they were being paid fat annual salaries to be gay and
friendly and that this party was just a matter of overtime
without extra pay.

The next night Connie gave a party for us, and the night after that we gave a party for her. In fact, I was
getting just a wee bit sick of parties when the time came
for us to go back to New Mexico, pack up our chattels,
and more or less turn things over to Connie. Connie had already shown me what treasures of hers Bill and I were going to fall heir to, along with her apartment, and her
generosity was almost embarrassing. Her linen, silver,
china, and paintings were scheduled to go out West with
her. Everything else was to be given to us. "Because," she
said airily, "this stuff would look all wrong out there."
She was right about that, but she might have collected a
small fortune by selling to an antique dealer.

So we whiled away our final week as amiably as pos
sible and had one last celebration the night before we
were to set off. It was just one party too many. Bill awoke
with a heavy cold, swollen eyes, and a thundering sinus
headache. In the time away from New York I had forgotten how he used to suffer from the damp and the cold. I urged him to stay on in bed for another day, but like a true martyr he wanted to head westward and get
things moving. It even crossed my mind that
I
didn't feel
very well in the New York humidity, but we were too busy
packing to go into lengthy medical dissertations.

As we were threading our way through New York's
incredible traffic, Bill said, "Are you sorry to be leaving
New York?"

"No, Bill," I said. "I'm glad." Then I was absolutely
stunned by what I had said.

So was Bill.
"What?
But I thought you
liked
New York."

"Oh, I
do!"
I said in a fluster of embarrassment. "I love it. It's a nice place to live, but I hate to visit there."

"Oh," he said as the station wagon disappeared in the
Holland Tunnel. We didn't say anything until the car came out on the other side of the Hudson River.

“Look!” Bill said, pointing to a pale little splotch of anemic sunshine. “The sun!”

“What do you know!” I said. “It’s the first we’ve seen in two whole weeks.”

Then Bill concentrated on the hazardous traffic while I concentrated on taking a little snooze and nothing more was said about New York.

Our second westbound motor trip was unusual only in that it was so strained. While Bill was gay and chatty and kept talking about all of his New York plans—the
new suits he was going to order, the athletic club in which
he was going to swim every day, the plays we were going
to see—I found myself almost unable to join into any of
his ebullience. This time, instead of becoming more miser
able at every westward inch, I felt happier to be getting
back, but even more miserable, since I knew it would only be for a matter of five or six weeks. Then I'd get hold of myself and think, "Barbara, you're going off
your rocker. Your one aim ever since you came West was
to go back East. Now the mission is accomplished." But I just didn't believe it.

I couldn't quite believe Bill, either. Mother always told me men were fickle, but I was completely at a loss to
understand that my particular man could be so fickle as to carry on a love affair with a dude ranch for two years and then suddenly be seduced by a rich desk job back in the city he had always tried to escape.

As we approached the familiar territory around Santa Fe I wanted to reach out and touch everything, it all
looked so fresh and clean and beautiful. And when we
turned off the state highway and I saw Rancho del Monte
sprawled out asleep in the sunlight I was so moved just by the sight of it that I had to fight back the tears.

And I did cry when dirty, shaggy, silly Sandy—grinning
just like Michael Wilding—came bounding out to greet
us and when The Girls yowled savagely and rubbed them
selves against our legs.

The house was spotless, but before I'd done so much
as take off my gloves I was busily plumping pillows,
moving this chair an inch to the left, and that one an inch
to the right.

"Just look at all this mail, would you," Bill said, jug
gling two drinks and three dozen letters.

"Oh, do let me see!" I said. I sat down, still wearing
my coat, and started to read. "Could Rancho del Monte
accommodate Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So and two teen-age
children for Christmas Week?" one letter began.

"The Such-and-Such Ski Club is interested in rooms
for six couples for every snowy week end during January, at rates no higher than twelve dollars per day per person,"
was the beginning of the second.

"Dear Barbara, Can you and Bill take Harry and Mary
Jane and me for a couple of weeks in January? We had
such a good time with you last year that little Mary Jane can talk of nothing else. Of course, if you're too full . . ."

"Bill," I said, "just look at all these reservations! Why,
it's more business than we could handle at the height of
summer."

"Well, happily that's not our problem, Barbara. But it's
nice that Connie can start her new life with a bang," Bill
said with the most extravagant unconcern.

I was stunned back into reality. Of course Bill was
right. This sudden influx of guests would all be staying
with Connie and not with us. But somehow I felt hurt and rather envious of Connie.

"Thank God we'll never have to spend another winter
here again," Bill said, studying the light through his glass.
"Remember how lonely it was last year, with James B.
and Lee hitting the bottle every time you turned around?"

"Doesn't look like it's going to be so lonely for Connie this
winter," I said, riffling through the stack of reservations. "I'd say she'll have more guests than she can
handle."

"That's her lookout, not ours,” Bill said. "Well, I guess I’ll go out and see how the horses are. I want to leave everything in good shape for Connie."

Well, I was just shocked by the change in Bill. Absolutely shaken.

Snow came and the skiing was marvelous—not that you
could get me out in the cold on those barrel staves for or money, but those who liked to ski
said
it was
marvelous. Every week end the ranch was rilled with
groups of skiers and wonderful, easy people they were.

Bill and I were doing all the work in the house and for
the first time in my life cooking and dishwashing and bed-
making became a real pleasure, especially for people as
jolly and appreciative as the ski groups. And tired as I was, sitting around and talking to them at the fireside
every night was a great source of satisfaction. But one
Monday, when the last of them drove away, Bill said, "Well, I'm glad
they're
gone! Now we can spend a few
quiet days getting the ranch ready to hand over. Maybe
while I'm in town you can start on the inventory."

"Inventory?'

"Why, certainly. We'll have to repay Bess Huntinghouse for anything that we lost or broke after we took
over from her. And we don't want to give Connie short
shrift after all she's done for us. Remember, she's put
us not only on Easy Street but on East Fifty-fifth Street."

"That
is
true," I said a little wistfully.

Inventory is such an easy-sounding word, but just try
to list every sheet, towel, chair, and spoon in a one-room-
and-sink apartment and you'll see what
I
was up against.
I decided to tackle the hardest part first—the kitchen. The
Girls and Sandy were lying in a large, sunny patch on the
floor and Sandy's fluffy tail thumped on the linoleum as I began to tally the glasses.

"Oh, Sandy," I said, scratching him behind the ears,
"whatever can we do with you in New York? You know
you'd hate it. You'd be miserable on a leash. But you'll
like Connie—I know you will. You can stay here with her
and her new husband and soon you'll forget all about Bill and me."

Somehow, I was vain enough to be sure that Sandy
wouldn't,
especially when he gave me his wide, Prince
Charming grin.

Then I turned to The Girls, who were washing them
selves with some care in the warm kitchen sunlight. "As
for you, you're accustomed to New York apartments. You
were
born
in one. There may not be any lizards to catch,
but I'll try to scare up a mouse or two. At least I'm
afraid
there are mice in all those old New York town
houses. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" They ignored me
as elaborately as always.

Then I got hold of myself. "Barbara," I said to nobody, "you're getting so sloppy that it's making
me
sick. Now to the inventory:

Soup plates 36

Bouillon cups 21—oh oh!—

Dinner plates 34

Luncheon plates 32, plus two in the refrigerator, 34 Breakfast plates . . ."

That was how Bill found me when he returned.

All that day, as we traveled at a glacier's pace from room to room cataloguing all our belongings—both
owned and rented—I got delicately sentimental over each
item. A dusty tin candlestick, a terrible souvenir ashtray,
a long-forgotten bedspread. Bill, on the other hand, was
maddeningly brisk. "Come along, Barbara, stop mooning. We've still got the outside houses to do when we
finish the bedrooms and it's beginning to get dark."

Well, I just didn’t see how
any
male could be so hard
hearted.

That night, as we were finishing up our dinner dishes, the wrangler came in to announce that one of our mares
was about to foal and that he might need our help. Other
than Ginger's false alarm, I'd never been in on any equine
obstetrics.

"You don't have to come out," Bill said to me. "Get some sleep. You look tired."

"But I
want
to," I said. "After all, I'm a woman, too."

Bundled up against the cold, Bill and I went out to the
corral and into the warm box stall which had been re
served for the accouchement. The mother in question was
one of our gentlest riding horses, and as I looked into her liquid brown eyes my heart simply melted. I won't try to describe the horse's labor. It was comparatively quick and the foal was dropped just after midnight. But it was, if anything, a far greater experience for me than
for the horse. Once the colt was born and both mother and
son had been cared for, there was nothing to keep us in
the stable. But I couldn't tear myself away. I stared fas
cinated at the two horses lying in the warm straw—the ex
hausted, panting mother and the timorous, leggy, mystified
colt Something came over me right then and there—some
thing that didn't have anything to do with horses or colts
or motherhood or anything specifically connected with the
corral, but a feeling that I had just experienced something
I wouldn't trade for every apartment on Fifty-fifth Street
from the East River to the Hudson.

"Well, that's that," Bill said. "Come on in, Barbara. You must be tired."

"All right," I said "but I'm not tired. I'm not a bit tired."

We said good night to the wrangler and to the proud
mother and son and started back to the ranch house. It had been snowing while we were in the stable and the drifts were deep and white and dry and clean. Powdery
little eddies of snow swirled around our legs as we made
our way to the house. It was then that I knew what I wanted to do once and for all.

Inside the ranch house, Bill yawned and stretched.
"Well, there's a nice little colt for Connie. Kind of a divi
dend, wouldn't you say?"

"Listen, Bill—” I began.

"Would you like a nightcap before we turn in?"

"No, Bill, but I've decided that—"

"Isn't it odd that everybody wants to make a movie of
War and Peace
all of a sudden?"

"Terribly, Bill," I said. "But about—"

"It'll probably be a perfect dud. I saw
Anna Karenina
twice—once with Garbo (at least I
think
it was Garbo)
and once with Vivian Leigh. They were both stinkers."

"Bill, I—"

"When we get to New York, I really
must
do a lot
more reading. I haven't read
War and Peace
since I was
on shipboard going overseas." He was talking a lot, but it
was the kind of noisy, irrelevant chatter that Bill can al
ways make up when he doesn't want to say what's on his mind.

"Bill, do you think that we—"

"By the way, Barbara," Bill said, "you haven't told me
what you want for Christmas this year. What with things
as they are—or as they're going to be—I can afford some
thing pretty nice, so think it over and let me know."

This was my chance. "I already know," I said.

"Oh, really?" Bill said with that maddening social insincerity. "What?"

""I want Rancho del Monte," I said.

"Oh, fine. Well, I'll . . .
What did you say?”

"I said, 'I want Rancho del Monte.' I like it here. I love
it. I never loved anything so much in my life, except
maybe you. I don't want to be an idle gentlewoman in New
York. I don't want a mink coat or a beautiful apartment
or a fistful of theater tickets. I don't want you to be a rich,
rising young executive—"

"Wait a minute, Barbara. Not so fast. You always
said
—"

"I don't care what I always said. I was wrong and I
apologize. But all I want for Christmas is what I have at the moment—you, the ranch, the animals, the bills, your crooked bookkeeping, that stove. It's what I want. I know it now."

"You really mean that, Barbara?"

"I really mean it."

There was a long pause. Then Bill said, "Good. It's all I want, too."

"But, Bill," I said, "when you accepted that job in
New York, I was convinced that you actually were anxious
to take it. Why didn't you say you wanted to stick it out
here?"

"I took it because I thought you wanted to go back to
New York. And I didn't really mind. It was a good job.
It still is. A great job. But I didn't think it was fair to you
to keep hanging on out here, never knowing where the
next guest is coming from. I wanted you to be happy, too.
That's only fair, isn't it?"

"But, Bill," I said, "I
was
happy out here. I didn't think
so all the time, but I know it now. I'm much happier in New Mexico than I ever was in New York . . ."

"You didn't want to come out here," Bill said. "I made
you do it. Remember? Then I had to trick you to make you stay a second year."

"Yes," I said guiltily, "I remember. And now I don't want to go back. Do you?"

"Not really."

"Well, then?"

'Well, then," Bill said, "I'll telephone Connie and tell
her that I'm sorry, but the deal's off. It probably wouldn't
have worked out for any of us anyway."

"Poor Connie," I said with a sudden pang of conscience.

"There are other ranches she can buy," Bill said. "Big
ger and better ranches."

"Maybe bigger," I said, "but not better. Call her
now."

"Barbara," Bill said, "it's three o'clock in the morning
New York time."