Love & Mrs. Sargent (14 page)

Confused as to exactly where he was, Christopher paused. His nostrils quivered, A faint scent of Arpege wafted to him through
the moonlit night. Then before him stood a lovely lady of the
evening. “
Bonsoir, monsieur
,” she said in a mellifluous voice. “You
are, how-you-say, lone-lee?”

In his actual flight Dicky had stumbled and fallen. Getting to his feet he had said, “This is ridiculous,” and slowed down to
a walk. And there, standing just beyond the bright lights shining from the corner of the rue St Honore, had been his lovely lady
of the evening. “Alio, ‘oney,” she had cawed. “You like to make
date?”

“I—I beg your pardon? Uh, I mean
comment.”

It had taken the lovely lady of the evening some time to make her intentions absolutely clear and it had taken Dicky a moment to believe that such a thing was really happening, although he’d
read
about Paris. After that the discussion had been purely fiscal and her favors had come high—better than the equivalent
of thirty-five bucks. A dollar for every year Dicky figured in
retrospect.

The rest of it had been agony: Dicky’s first good look at her in the light; her sluttish dress; the writhing embarrassment of leading her past the sniggering row of brown-liveried page boys at his hotel; his feigned appreciation of her feigned squeals and
giggles, bumps and wriggles served up as an aphrodisiac accom
paniment to disrobing; the horror at seeing her flattened old paps
fall from their hammock of a brassiere; the black and blue mark
dancing on her thigh; and, finally, his hasty, inept performance on top of the creaking brass bed to her cries of “Oh, ‘oney! Oh baby!” and, for some still mystifying reason, “Cha-cha-cha!”

At long last—about five minutes later—when it had all been
over, when she had conned him out of a ten-dollar tip, scrambled
back into her sleazy dress, thrust her dirty bare feet into the
crystal mules, when she had kissed him in simulated ecstasy and
fled, Dicky had watched her hustle back to her post across the street like a trained nurse called to duty. Then he had been good and sick.

That had been
amour
in Paris. Today he was having a little trouble making it—or the girl—sound very attractive.

“Hell,” Dicky said, “it’s Wednesday, Maybe I’ll go out and have a talk with Shirley and Almeda. What I need now is a little drink.” He put down his pad and went to the bar. “Just a
one l
ittle . . .”

V.

“You complain,” Sheila said briskly, “about your wife’s new
friends and yet you say that you attend a lodge meeting every Tuesday night, that you bowl every Thursday night, visit your mother every Saturday night and go alone to evening services every Sunday night. Can you wonder that your wife is lonely? If I were you I would drop several of my activities and try to spend more time at home. If you gave your wife the pleasure
of
your
company—underscore your, please, Floodie—she would
not want to seek companionship elsewhere. Remember, the wife
you save may be your own. Sincerely, Sheila Sargent. Got that, Floodie?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Sargent. Really I don’t know
how
you think of all these original things to say, do you, Mr. Christensen?”

“Except it isn’t original,” Mr. Christensen said. “You’ve moved
again, Mrs. Sargent. A little to the left, please. There. There. No, hold it there. That’s it.”

It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Sheila was wearing a velvet ball gown, diamond earrings and—most of the time—her sincere look. She sat on a little bamboo ballroom chair in the
sun-flooded office facing the lanky, dour old Dane who was paint
ing her portrait. Mrs. Flood was at the desk going through the
daily agony mail and Peter wandered about taking random shots
with a Leica.

“Anything else, Floodie?”

“Just one more, Mrs. Sargent.”

“Only one? How marvelous! It’s almost like having a day off.
Are you working on my mouth now, Mr. Christensen, or may I dictate one more letter?”

“Working on
your
mouth is like trying to paint a humming bird’s wing. Go right ahead and blabber. I’m just enlarging
the
family diamonds.”

“Isn’t he charming!” Sheila said acidly. “No wonder you never married, Mr. Christensen. All right, Floodie, let’s have it.”

“It’s very short. It says: ‘Dear Mrs. Sargent: Last year my husband passed away leaving me a well-off widow woman in my fifties. We own a very successful laundry business that my poor husband built up from nothing. But now our twenty-two-year-old son don’t want to have anything to do with it. It seems like the laundry isn’t good enough for him. Oh no! He is graduating from college (that the laundry business paid for) and wants to be a certified public accountant. When I ask him what about the business his father worked and scraped for (so his family would want for nothing) Mr. College Boy just says we can always sell the laundry for more than it is worth. Maybe so, but I think my boy owes it to the memory of his dad to carry on the family business. Please print this in your column so I can show him how wrong he is. Yours truly, Mrs. D. McGregor, Council Bluffs, Iowa.’”

“Talk about washing your dirty linen in public,” Mr. Chris-tensen said, “Stop squirming.”

“Floodie, do mark that one for the column. I’m planning a kind of unofficial Mother’s Day next week.”

“In honor of your new title, Mother of the Year?” Mr. Christensen said drily.

“Shhhhh. Please. The children don’t know a thing about it yet. They think this portrait is just for the sake of vanity.”

“Aren’t they all?” Christensen grunted. “Sit still.”

“Well, anyhow, Floodie, let’s try this: I agree that your son owes his parents love and respect. I do
not
agree that he owes you the rest of his life as a square peg in a round hole. If all
sons followed in their father’s footsteps would we have a Bee
thoven, a Shakespeare, an Edison. . . .”

“A Christine Jorgensen?”

“Oh! Mr. Christensen!” Mrs. Flood trilled. “You’re just
dread-
ful!”

“Be still, Floodie. New paragraph. . . .”

“
I’ll bet this is going to be profound,” Christensen said.

“New paragraph: You and your husband gave your son life. Now, as one mother to another, I beg of you to let him
live
it. Period.”

“
Oi weh!
”

“Just what did
your
father before
you
do, Mr. Christensen?” Sheila asked venomously.

“He worked in a brewery. And if I had known that I’d end up painting dames in diamonds, I’d have gone right along with him.
Will
you sit quietly!”

“So
sorry! And, if I may ask a vulgar question, just what do these dames in diamonds pay you to insult them during five or six sittings?”

“Five thousand dollars and a thousand bucks extra if the hands
show. And I earn every penny of it. As if the ladies weren’t bad
enough, then I get the relatives—’That’s just not Gertrude’s nose. . . . What happened to the wart. . .? Where’s Gertrude s other chin? It’s awfully pretty, but it just isn’t Gertrude.’ Well, if I
really
painted Gertrude I’d starve in the gutter before any of these broads commissioned me.”

“Well, try to remember, Mr. Christensen, that
this
broad did
not
commission you.”

“I remember it well. That’s why I’m charging these Mother of the Year people double. God, but I wish you had
six
hands.”

“You mean
ten thousand dollars?’

“Twelve. I’m showing your hands, star sapphires and all. And it’s worth it. At least the others came to my studio and I didn’t have to make house calls like a veterinarian with a pregnant
cow.”

“Now listen, Christensen,” Peter said, moving toward him.

“Peter, please,” Sheila said. “This is just Mr. Christensen’s way of wooing a woman. We understand each other perfectly.”

“I understand
you,”
Christensen said, applying a green mustache to the canvas in front of him.

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Uh, Mr. Christensen,” Sheila said, “why don’t we have a short recess? I’m rather tired and. . . .”

“A recess is all we’ve had since ten this morning with you talking, smoking, squirming, dictating letters. If I didn’t have photographs to go by, you’d look like
Nude Descending the Stairs.
Okay. Break for a minute,” Deftly he wiped the sweeping green mustache from the portrait.

“Mind if I come ‘round and look?” Sheila said.

“Come ahead. That’s what it’s for.”

Sheila circled the easel and studied her likeness. “Well! I must say that it’s really
very
nice. Flatters me, doesn’t it?”

“Yup!” Christensen said, lighting his pipe.

“You may be an impossible person, Mr. Christensen, but you
are
a good painter.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, mum.”

“I was wondering, Mr. Christensen. . . . Well, you’ve met my daughter Allison.”

“I have indeed. Very pretty girl. Good shoulders.”

“Well, you know over the mantel in the drawing room there’s that sort of drab seascape. . . .”

“Just a simple Winslow Homer,” Christensen said.

“Yes, but the wrong size and shape and all the wrong colors.
Well, I was wondering if I might not commission you—at your
usual
price, of course—to paint Allison in a white bro—”

“In a white brocade ball gown with one strand of pearls and a bouquet to match the room. No thanks.”

“But Allison is coming out this year.”

“So are two Swifts, three Armours, a couple of McCormicks, a Carson, a Pirie, a Scott. The answer to all of them has been No. I’m going out with a bang and not with a whimper. You’re my last portrait. I’m fifty and I’ve made my pile. Next week I’m getting out of this God-forsaken town and moving to Mexico where I can paint anything I God-damned well please. And that won’t be slaughter-house society in pig’s-blood rubies.”

“Well, really, Mr. Christensen!
My
daughter happens to be named Allison Sargent and her father’s family. . . .”

“I wouldn’t do it if she were named John Singer Sargent.” He put down his pipe, picked up a brush and made a slight alteration on his canvas. Then he stared intently at Sheila. “And you know, all joking aside, some day that girl might have almost as big a name.”

“Well, I hope so,” Sheila said. “As long as she’s
happily
married. But then wouldn’t it be rather a feather in your cap to have painted. . . .”

“My cap already looks like Sitting Bull’s. Feathers don’t do much for me. Sorry.”

“Perhaps you feel that your regular price is too low. In that case I might be able to go to. . . .”

“
Thanks, but I’d only be taking your money. Allison could paint a better portrait of herself than I could. She’s young and eager and she’s got a lot of talent. I’ve seen her work.”

“Oh, yes, she does very pretty things. I’ve always encouraged her to keep up her painting so that she’ll have some outlet. I think every married woman
should
have a hobby that’s. . . .”

“That’s
stimulating.
I can just see Allison a few years from now painting her own salad plates, matching chamber pots, daisy chains on the door panels, flowered place cards. Poor bitch.”

“I’ve heard about enough,” Peter shouted.

“Peter!” Sheila said. “If
I’m
not annoyed I can see no reason for
you
to be. Now come and tell me how you like the portrait.” Sheila was extremely annoyed but she was holding out for peace at any price. This man seemed to do nothing but make sport of her.

“Say! That’s great! Really great! You’ve certainly caught Sh—
Mrs. Sargent. But is it finished? I mean the. . . .”

“You mean the background? I can do that without Mrs. Sargent At least the background won’t move. Friday night there it will be, hanging over the speakers’ table at the Hilton Hotel-sopping wet but still a tribute to perfect motherhood. There Mrs.
Sargent will be, graciously accepting a ten-dollar bronze plaque
and Mr. Christensen will be packing his paints for Yucatan. Two ships that pass in the night.”

“Isn’t
that romantic,” Mrs. Flood sighed. “Could I take just
one tiny last peek? Of course I’ll be at the banquet on Friday night with Dicky and Allison, but just a sort of sneak preview. . . .”

“Go ahead. It isn’t obscene—especially.”

Mrs. Flood tripped around to the easel. “Oh!
Isn’t
it lovely!
So
aristocratic. So intellectual. And so
glamorous!
It’s—ah. . . . Well, it’s just that Mrs. Sargent’s eyes seem sort of. . . .”

“Scat!” Christensen hissed. Mrs. Flood jumped backward, nearly tipping over the typewriter table.

“Oh! I only meant . . .”

“I know what you meant And the answer to that is No, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me—and I’m sure you will—I’ll go out to my car and get the candy box I had built for this confection. No sense in smearing the frosting.”

“Would you mind if I took a picture of Sheila with the portrait? I mean sort of two Mrs. Sargents?” Peter asked.

“Fire away! Why should I care?” Mr. Christensen put on his rusty old tweed jacket and marched out.

“Impossible boor!” Sheila said.

“Now stand right there, next to the portrait,” Peter said, squinting through the finder. “A little closer. Like that Damn! I’ve shot all my film. Wait, I’ve got some more in my room. I’ll be right back.” With that he was gone.

“I still think the eyes. . . .” Mrs. Flood commenced.

“Floodie,” Sheila said urgently, “has the mail come?”

“Why, of course, Mrs. Sargent. You answered it all while you were posing. . . .”

“I don’t mean
that
mail. I mean
our
mail. Personal things.”

“Oh, that! It didn’t amount to much. Some bills, circulars, magazines, oh, and a letter from your cousin in. . . .”

“The magazines. Which ones?”

“Oh, the usual
Time, Newsweek, The Saturday Review
.
. . . They’re right here.”

Sheila darted to the desk and riffled through the magazines to the book reviews. “Beasts! Damned smug, sadistic beasts! Poor Dicky.”

“Is something the matter, my dear?”

“No, Floodie. Nothing at all.” Then very calmly she added, “This is Wednesday. Did you make out Dicky’s check?”

“Yes . . . I . . . did. Now
what
could I have. . . . Oh, yes, I left it in the pantry when I was doing the flowers. I’ll get it right away.”

“Please. Oh, and Floodie?”

“Y-yes?” Mrs. Flood said from the doorway.

“If anyone asks you about these magazines, just say you don’t
know. Say that they didn’t come and you’ve put a tracer through the post office.”

“W-why, certainly. They didn’t come and I put a tracer. . . . What’s a tracer, Mrs. Sargent?”

“Never
mind!
Just say you don’t know anything about them.”

“Yes, Mrs. Sargent,” and Mrs. Flood was off.

Sheila gripped the three magazines so tightly that her knuckles
turned white. “The monsters!” she said. “How can they
do
this
to poor Dicky!” Hearing footsteps in the hall outside, she quickly
opened the desk drawer, threw the magazines in and slammed it shut. She lit a cigarette and perched on the edge of the desk, smoking casually. “Who’s there?” she called.

“It’s only Allison. I hear you’re finished.”

“Oh, darling, I hope not. At least not until I bring you out properly.”

“No, silly, I meant your portrait. May I look?” Allison gazed
at the picture almost reverently. “Oh, Mother! It’s divine! Really it is. Where are you going to put it? The drawing room?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. The attic, maybe, where it can mellow into an old gargoyle—like
The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

“No fear of that. It’s a wonderful job. I like Mr. Christensen. He’s nice.”

“About as nice as lung cancer.”

“Of
both
lungs,” Mr. Christensen said, struggling in with a large crate. “Hello, Allison, how’s the work coming?”