Love & Mrs. Sargent (17 page)

VIII.

Sheila turned the car into the driveway, rounded the curve and glided flawlessly into the stable. She noticed that the stall for Dicky’s car was empty.

“Hmmm, Dicky still gone. Have you any idea what he does with himself every Wednesday, Allison?”

“No, I haven’t, Mother.”

“It really shouldn’t take more than half an hour to
get his
hair cut and here it is nearly six. Heavens! I’ve got to rush. Howard Malvern’s coming around tonight. As usual. Come along, Allison, stop mooning.”

Getting out of the car, Sheila wished that she had never allowed Howard to get into this nearly-every-Wednesday-evening routine. It wasn’t exactly a standing date but then it almost was. And this was one Wednesday she could have happily done without Mr. Malvern.

“I like what Mario did to your hair today, darling. It’s very
smart. Really it is. You can wear extreme styles, Allison. I never
could. When I was your age and everyone was putting their hair up I looked like somebody’s laundress all set for a heavy wash. And when they were doing pompadours—well, I looked just like a snow plow. And as for all those page boy things and glamor bobs, well. . . . Really, Allison,” Sheila said, staring at her by the light of the big lantern hanging over the doorway,
“you’re such a pretty girl and you look so glum. Yes, just plain Sorrowing Sonia. Too Slavic for words. I wish you’d try to smile
once in a while.”

“About what?” Allison said.

“About
what?
Well, I could suggest a reason or two. You’re young, you’re pretty, you’re popular, you’re coming out at a great big party, you’re meeting all the right young men, you’re. . . .”

“Big deal.”

“Now see here, Allison Sargent, all of this isn’t happening just because your hair is curly. I’ve broken an arm and a leg to see to it that you come out and you come out right. It isn’t enough in this day and age that your father was Richard Sargent and I was Sheila Forester. But the debutante season isn’t what it was when I was your age. Money talks and everybody with
two one-thousand-dollar bills to rub together is trying to
scream.
Thank God I saw it coming the day we brought you home from the hospital. Why, I’ve been charm itself to a pack of old dragons I wouldn’t spit at if you hadn’t been my daughter. But getting you into the Cotillion, making sure you’d be invited to. . . . Do you have your latch key? I seem to have left mine in. . . .”

“Here, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear. But I mean today there are really only three ways to come out. You can sneak out like a rectory rat at some grim tea party. You can wobble through your curtsy with a dozen other girls at some charity do. Or you can have a
really proper party—nothing showy, but no cheese paring, either—
with good food, good champagne and a good orchestra. I mean,
if you can’t do it right, why do it at all. . . .”

“Exactly.”

“What, darling?”

“I said, if it’s so much trouble, why bother about it? I didn’t ask to come out. I don’t even want to. It’s all your idea.”

“Really, Allison, if you could just listen to yourself you’d laugh. Every time you’re around that impossible portrait painter and those art school beatniks you begin to sound just as silly as they do.” Then in a more kindly tone she said, “Where do you think I met your father? Right at my own coming out party, that’s where. And it’s undoubtedly where you’ll meet the man you’re going to marry.”

“Like Billy Kennedy?”

“Well,
yes,
like Billy Kennedy, You could do a lot worse. I’ve
known his mother since we were in Roycemore together. He’s good looking, pleasant
and
a gentleman. Dozens of girls would gi
ve their eye teeth to catch Billy. And speaking of Billy, you’d
better hurry and dress.”

“What would you like me to wear?”

“Oh, Allison! Don’t be such a goose. What do I care what you wear? Put on the blue I bought Monday. And while you’re bathing, you might just wash your mouth out with soap. What is it, Taylor?”

“Mr. Dicky ask me to tell you he won’t be in for dinner tonight, Miz Sargent.”

“Thank you, Taylor,” she said wearily. Sheila trudged up the stairs feeling suddenly old and wondering why she had been cursed with such difficult children.

On the tick of six, J. Howard Malvern braked his new car
smartly in front of the house, turned off the ignition and climbed
stiffly out. Mr. Malvern was tired. He would have liked to beg off this Wednesday night with Sheila. It had been a hectic week and every day of it involved, one way or another, with some member of the Sargent family. Monday he had had to deal with that character assassin, Peter Johnson, who was even now writing God only knew what about Sheila. Tuesday had been spent not only in learning the worst about Dicky’s novel, but—even worse—in having to read it. Today, according to instructions, he had killed the morning on the long distance
calls bullying the Famous Features syndicated society columnists
into doing lead articles describing the true importance of debutantes from the old guard of New York, Philadelphia, Boston
and Chicago—such as Allison Sargent—in an age of false values
and tawdry glitter. Since one of the society columnists specialized in
naming names involved in the racier divorce cases and the other felt that true aristocracy consisted only of the patrons of El Morocco, they hadn’t been any too happy to stumble into the alien land of Van Rensselaers and Biddies and Lodges. On the other hand, they knew where their bread was buttered. The rest of the day had been spent attending to the manifold details of the Mother of the Year Banquet for the coming Friday.

Mr. Malvern would far rather have gone home and worried. Only his love for Sheila and his pity for her, having this nosy reporter right under the same roof, had brought him all the way out here tonight. But he was determined about one thing: Sheila would not be allowed to coax him into staying until all hours.

“Well, Mis-ter Malvern!” Mrs. Flood said, opening the front
door. “It looks like
we’re
the early birds. Everyone else is upstairs
dressing. Do come in and I’ll fix you a little drinkie.” She had spread purple into her hair until it was the color of amaranth, jazzed up an old black dress with a Nefertiti collar of multicolored spangles and endeavored to carry the glittering effect to her eyelids by use of a silver lining pencil that made her look rather as though she suffered from cataracts. “Here,” she said, “we’ll just have a nice little visit until the others come down.”

Over excellent bourbon, Mr. Malvern was hearing all about what Mrs. Flood had eaten for dinner the night before at the home of her dear friends, the McGraws, who lived in a Norman house in a ravine in Hubbard Woods when the recital was halted, mid-endive, by Peter’s entrance.

Malvern was gladder to see Peter than Peter was to see him. And Mr. Malvern noticed that Peter seemed a good deal more relaxed, neater looking than he had on Monday. “A good sign,” Malvern told himself. “At least he and Sheila are getting along together.” While Mrs. Flood twittered over the ice bucket, Malvern cleared his throat and said, “Well, Johnson, and how is the
story coming along?” The conversation continued in a strained, pseudo-relaxed fashion until Allison appeared.

“Allison!” Mrs. Flood cried. “How lovely you look! Oh! That
heavenly blue! And I
love
what Mr. Mario’s done to your hair. Oh, but
won’t
she be the belle of the hall tonight, Mr. Malvern?”

“Did Mother tell you to say that?” Allison asked. Mrs. Flood’s
jaw dropped. “Good evening, Uncle Howard.”

“Great Scott, Allison!” Malvern said with heavy jocularity. “You very nearly gave me heart failure. When you came into the room I thought you were your own mother. Doesn’t she look exactly the way Sheila did as a bride, Floodie?”

“Oh, she does, she does! The living
image!
My, I remember
that wedding as though it were yesterday!” Mrs. Flood had good
reason to do so. As the relict of a distant Sargent relative, she had been invited to both ceremony and reception. In order to attend, she had borrowed a cartwheel hat from the woman in the next room at the Hotel Villa d’Este, a pair of fox furs from the whore across the hall and, without consulting her employers at the Thelma Shoppe, a Wallis blue dress, carfare from the
cash register and the afternoon off. A photograph in the following
day’s
Tribune
showing Mrs. Flood, decidedly not suffering from cramps, but going through the reception line in the Thelma Shoppe’s newest and costliest creation ($16.95), had brought about her immediate dismissal.

“You look very pretty, Allison,” Peter said.

“Thanks,” Allison said. She sensed that Peter was at least not in league with her mother, whereas Mrs. Flood. . . .

“Oh, and Mr. Malvern,
do
you remember the lovely going-
away costume Mrs. Sargent wore coming down that lovely old
staircase in Evanston! It was almost precisely the same shade Allison has on tonight with accessories in the very palest. . . .”

“Uncle Howard,” Allison said, interrupting Mrs. Flood’s 1937 fashion commentary, “do you keep any kind of art department
down at Famous Features?”

“Art department, dear?”

“Yes, you know. People who are paid to sit around and draw
things.”

“Oh, well, there’s sort of a bull pen—ten or twelve youngsters
who do cartoons, maps, fashion sketches, diagrams, whatever we
happen to need. It’s not very interesting work and they’re always
coming and going.”

“Could I take my samples down there someday and show them to—well, to whoever does the hiring. I mean no inside track or anything like that. Just like anyone else looking for a job. I’m pretty good.”

“Allison!” Mrs. Flood squealed. “Why on earth would anybody want a job when they don’t
have
to work? I swear, this Communist bug has got young people even here in Lake Forest. Don’t listen to her, M. . . .”

“Floodie, please try not to be quite such an ass.”

“Oh!”

“No, I mean it, Uncle Howard. I really want a job.”

“Oh, Allison, you wouldn’t want that. It’s very dull work, I believe, and not very well paid. Besides, you have your work all cut out for you.”

“And what’s that?” Allison said.

“Why, to come out this year. Make us all proud of you. Meet some nice man. Marry. Settle down. Have children. In other words be just as much like your lovely mother as you can be. After all, you look alike, why shouldn’t you act alike?”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Flood said nervously, “and the class of people one meets going to business. . . .”

“Mother has a job,” Allison said.

“
Well, that’s rather different,” Malvern said. “Uh, circumstances. But you don’t think she’d be down in my stable if your father hadn’t. . . uh . . . well, you see what I mean.”

“No, Uncle Howard, I don’t see what you mean. If I’m good enough to get a job, why shouldn’t I take it? I’d
like
to have something to do.”

“That’s just marking time until the day when I give you away to some fine young buck here on the North Shore. No, Allison, the best thing you can do is be just like your mother was when she was your age.”

“That’s right, dear,” Mrs. Flood gushed. “You a popular leader of the Younger Set, just like your mother. And Dicky writing important books, just like his father.” There was a silence. Malvern and Johnson pointedly avoided looking at one another. Flustered, Mrs. Flood went on, ‘Well, I mean, you know the saying: ‘Like father like. . .”

“Dicky isn’t in the least like Daddy,” Allison said flatly.

“Oh, come, child,” Malvern said, “how would you know? You were just a baby when your father died. I’ll bet you can’t even remember him.”

“No, but I can read. I’ve read all of Daddy’s books and I’ve also read Dicky’s. That’s why I say that Dicky isn’t a bit like my father.”

“
What’s all this?” Sheila said, bursting into the room. “Howard! How good to see you.” The chaste kiss was exchanged.

“Eugenics hour,” Peter said. “Allison was saying that she doesn’t think Dick is much like his father.”

“What nonsense!” Sheila laughed. “Heavens, Allison, you were barely out of diapers when your poor father was shot down.
Dicky’s exactly like Dick. He’s still wearing some of his father’s old clothes. That Scotch tweed jacket for. . . .”

“I didn’t say he didn’t look like Daddy or didn’t act like Daddy or wasn’t the same size. I meant he didn’t
write
like Daddy.”

“
Well, Allison,” Sheila said pleasantly, “before you set yourself up as a literary critic. . . .” Noticing that both Peter and Malvern were staring at her, she broke off. “I mean would you fix your poor old mother a drink? That dress does do a lot for you, I knew it would.”

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Mrs. Flood said. “When I think of the millions of girls who
have
to work for a living and here Allison goes and begs for a dull old job.
. . .”

“I’m
sorry,” Sheila said. “I missed the first reel. What is all this?”

“I told Uncle Howard I’d like to apply for a job in the art department at Famous Features.”

“
Well, if you really want it, Allison. . . .” Malvern began.

“Allison,” Sheila said, “Howard is a guest in our house. We don’t invite people here and then hit them for jobs.”

“Isn’t that how you got yours?” Allison said.

“Allison!” Mrs. Flood said.

Sheila took a sip of her drink. “Allison, I don’t know exactly what’s ailing you today, but I suggest that you get over it ve-ry
quickly. The dining room isn’t large enough for separate tables.”

“I won’t be eating here tonight,” Allison said. “It’s a gay dinner
dance. Don’t you remember? I’m just waiting for Billy Kennedy.”