Love & Mrs. Sargent (20 page)

“Just some crank. Anything else?”

“No. That’s all.”

“Aren’t you going to ask about Dicky?” Peter said.

“Oh, yes. Is Dicky back yet?” Sheila asked guiltily.

“Why, no-o-o-o-o,” Mrs. Flood said.

“Don’t you think you might call the police again, Sheila?”

“Why? They know the number. I’ve lived here for twenty years. If anything had happened,
they’d
call
me.
Don’t worry so.”

“I see,” Peter said.

“Oh, don’t think I’m not going to have some fairly forceful things to say to him when he does get back. I mean really, a big boy almost twenty-one years old drinking on the job, out all night like a torn cat, worrying me half to death, never so much as a by your leave or a ten-cent telephone call. Oh, I’ll have plenty to say. Not that I want to be
too
hard on him just now.
Well, Peter, we might as well take our little walk before it blows up a storm or something dire like that.”

“I guess we might as well,” he said listlessly.

“And the rest of the dictation?” Mrs. Flood asked.

“Didn’t I
say
it could wait? Come along, Peter.”

The sylvan stroll hadn’t been going well at all. Sheila sensed that Peter was never quite at her side but, like a page boy or duenna, just a pace or so behind her. The copper beeches, the silver birches, the oaks and elms and maples had all been doing their best, but somehow things just hadn’t gone right. Made uneasy again by the loud silences from Peter, Sheila had begun to chatter once more. To brighten things, she gave her burlesque Learned Lecture on the fall flowers, employing their scientific
names in the purest Latin—
Callistephus chinensis, Aster novae-
angliae, Matricaria japonica maxima, Chrysanthemum leucanthemum
and
azaleamum.
She made up impossible genuses like
Prophylaxis rosicrucian
and
Gaseous ad nauseum.
She tried the flower show and seed catalogue names: the Major Bonaffon, the
Miss Ruth C. Twombly, the Mrs. H. S. Firestone, And then she invented some of
those—
the Off-key Margaret Truman, the Ailing Mary Baker Eddy, the Blushing Virginia McManus, the Gilded Lady Docker. Notoriously bad with flowers, Sheila had done this routine before and had never failed to have her guests weak with laughter. But today her act was being played to a dead audience. Peter rewarded her efforts with little more than a mirthless half-smile. Agony in the Garden, Sheila thought. She began to feel old and misunderstood and unloved and she wanted terribly to be loved.

After what seemed an interminable time, they reached the stand of trees that marked the southern boundary of the Sargent Place. “Well, this is the end of my stately estate,” Sheila said.

“Oh,” he said absently, “then shall we start back?”

“If you like,” she said. Then she added, “Do you realize that you haven’t kissed me once today?”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“I hadn’t thought about it very much one way or the other.”

“Well, you can start thinking about it right now and make up for lost time.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. And then she wished she hadn’t. Except for his embrace, the kiss packed all the passion of a merry Christmas greeting from her great-grandmother. It made Howard Malvern look like Casanova. “Thank you very much,” she said. She was hurt and mystified and angry but she was determined not to show it. “Shall we go back by way of the beach?” she asked brightly.

“Yes, if you want to,” he said. “Here, I’ll help you down the
bank.”

“How very gallant of you,” Sheila said pointedly. Then she
stopped herself from saying more. Peter was moody, that was it.
He hadn’t been getting enough sleep for one thing. He was a little out of his class, that was another thing. And then all this mess that Dicky had created had undoubtedly unnerved him. Idealistic young men were so
easily
disturbed. Instead, she’d go
right on talking—casually—as though nothing had happened and
gradually she’d bring him out of his depression.

“I love the lake at this time of year,” Sheila said briskly. “I
love it always, of course, but especially now when it’s no longer
summer and not quite yet winter and the water looks ominous and angry.” Peter looked a bit of each, too, but she went right on. “Here are some nice flat stones. Can you skip stones?”

“No.”

“Go on! Do you mean to tell me that when you were a little
boy you never stood at the edge of a great big lake and skipped stones?”

“There wasn’t a great big lake in Purviance, Kansas. Only a kind of a river—a creek, really.”

“
Well? Didn’t you skip stones in that?”

“I didn’t have much time to. There wasn’t much water, either. Purviance was in the Dust Bowl.”

“Oh, yes. Those awful dust storms. I remember. Even in Evanston it was terrible.”

“Evanston must have suffered severely,” he said.

“Well, of course nothing like the
real
dust bowl states but. . . .” Sheila decided that she’d better stop while the stopping was good. “Oh, but I do love the lake, anyhow. The children used
to have a Labrador retriever, the biggest, blackest, dumbest crea
ture you ever saw. Naturally after the novelty of owning a dog wore off they didn’t pay any attention to him. But I’d bring him down here sometimes and toss sticks into the water for him to
fetch. You know they have webbed toes? And this brute was so
stupid that if ever a dead fish was washed ashore he’d
roll
in it! Oh! The way that dog smelled after a good storm on the lake!” She realized that she was beginning to sound just like Mrs. Flood and that he was paying no attention. Still she would not give up, “Darling, you’ve never seen my folly, have you?”

“Your what?”

“My
folly.
”

“What’s that?”

“There it is, Right there. It’s a beach house. Oh, not a house really, it’s just a place to dress and to sit around in. I got this totally unexpected check when the
Readers Digest
people condensed my last book. . . . Well, as a matter of fact, I was lying on the beach and had to hike all the way back to the house
when Mr. Berdell called from New York with the glad tidings. So I thought right then and there, Why don’t I just blow it all on a little kind of cabana right down here by the water so that
every time you want a drink or the phone rings it’s right at hand? It has a fireplace and an ice box and a little bar and. . . . Of course
it’s all shut up for the winter, but I’ll show it to you if you like. I have the keys. It’s quite cute, really.”

“Whatever you say, Sheila.”

“Oh, well then, come along. There may even be a bottle of scotch around. The door is right over. . . . That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“The padlock’s off. Just a minute.”

Wearily, Peter watched Sheila hurry to the side door of the beach house, saw her open it and then heard her scream.

III.

Following Sheila and Allison back to the house, Peter couldn’t
quite believe what had just taken place. Hearing Sheila’s scream he had rushed to the beach house in time to witness the oddest of scenes. Allison, wearing only her slip, was cowering on one
of the sailcloth divans while Sheila, shouting abuse, was ham
mering away at that smart Billy Kennedy kid. The boy, half in and half out of a pair of trousers, was trying for both manly
modesty and self defense and losing badly on both fronts.
“Ouch! Hey, cut it. . . . I can explain, Mrs. S. . . .”

“You vile, filthy, depraved little beast, Billy Kennedy! I swear
to God, I’ll
kill
you!” Sheila screamed, beating him with both fists. “How dare you come here and. . . .”

“Hey!” His trousers hobbling him at the knees, Billy lost his balance and fell headlong across the floor of the beach house.

“There, you evil little satyr!” Sheila shouted, kicking him in the ribs.

“Ouch! For God’s sake, I didn’t even. . . .”

“Don’t speak to me, you little swine,” Sheila said, kicking him
again and again.

“Sheila!” Peter called. He crossed the small room and pinioned
her arms to her sides. “That’s enough. I’ll take care of this.” He thrust Sheila onto the divan next to Allison and then stood over Billy Kennedy’s supine form. “Get up!
Now!”

Grappling with his waistband, Billy struggled painfully to his feet, adjusting his clothing as best he could. He was more scared than hurt and Peter allowed himself a moment’s cruel satisfaction at seeing this suave, arrogant young bantam cock so reduced.

“Get him out of here, Peter!” Sheila cried, struggling to rise. “For God’s sake get him out before I kill him!”

“You heard Mrs. Sargent,” Peter said. “Now get out.”

“My coat. . . my shoes. . . .”

“Out!” Peter said. He propelled him to the door and, planting
a foot squarely in the center of Billy’s Saxony tweed, sent him
sprawling into the sand. “Here,” he shouted, throwing the jacket and the loafers after him. He was not displeased to notice that the jacket enveloped Billy’s head and shoulders and that one of the shoes struck him hard in the small of the back.

“Get that devil off my property,” Sheila screamed, “All the way off! Do you hear?” She was standing in the doorway, blind with fury.

Billy needed no further urging. Gathering up his belongings, he scrambled to his feet and ran down the beach.

Mortified and sickened, Peter held the house door open for Allison and Sheila. “If I may be excused. . .” he began.

“You may
not
be excused,” Sheila said. “I want you in here with me. Now, young lady, march into that office.”

“Why, Allison,” Mrs. Flood said, putting down an issue of
Connaissance des Arts,
“what a stunning coat, dear.”

“Thank you,” Allison said mechanically.

“Floodie,” Sheila said, “would you mind awfully getting the hell out of here for a little while?”

The office doors were closed and there was a majestic, agoniz
ing silence. Peter wished that he were dead. The big French cartel clock with
un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq
lettered on its face instead of numerals ticked loudly away. It was just
cinq
minutes after
trois.
Peter had never before noticed what a rackety,
irritating thing the clock was. He wanted now to tear the damned thing down from the wall and trample it to death and then take
his own life. Allison, he noticed, sat on the sofa looking terrified and defiant and fearful, if such an unlikely combination of facial expressions could be possible. Except for the clock, the stillness
was eloquent.

“Give me a light, Peter,” Sheila said. Just like that—no “would you,” no “could you,” no “please,” and no “thank you” when the
deed was done. Of course she must be almost out of her mind with shock and grief, Peter thought, with a kind of grudging charity.

But when Sheila began to speak it was as though she were standing orals for a degree in elocution.

“I’m not going to scold you, Allison,” Sheila said, “nor am I going to bother to remind you that you have been brought up—
and at considerable expenditure of time, effort, love and money—
with a certain set of standards and values, which you seem to
have overlooked entirely. I can only assume that you have some sort of conscience and that it might torment you from time to time enough so that you may suffer just about one tenth of what you have made me suffer this afternoon. I had thought that with the background, the breeding, the name and the environment
that have always been yours, you might have conducted yourself
like a lady of taste, intelligence and discrimination and not like some sluttish little servant girl. . . .”

“Mother. . . .” Allison said.

“I’m speaking!” she snapped. She paused, took a deep breath and continued in her logical fashion. “And so it will be quite unnecessary to go into the question of your behavior, or, if you like, morality. Instead, I think that for the present we will deal with more practical matters. Since I’ve always given you com
plete freedom to come and go as you please and since you have repaid my confidence and trust in this manner, I can only assume
that your affair with Billy Kennedy is a long-standing one and that there have probably been others. . . .”

“Mother, that’s not. . . .”

“Please do not interrupt. I’m quite miserable enough without having to shout down a room full of people who can know nothing of what I feel. As long as you have felt competent to carry on in this fashion, I hope that you have had the wit to
take some sort of precautions, I have always dreamed of the day
when you and Dicky would each marry and present me with
some grandchildren. But I must confess to feeling a little squeam
ish about—well, about an illegitimate child, Allison. And so I suggest that the first thing we do is to get around to Dr. Cahan—just to make sure. If anything has gone wrong, I know of a refugee doctor on Irving Park Road who can take care of things. It’s a simple procedure, I believe.”

“My God, Sheila. . . .” Peter said.

“Mother, I am not . . .”

“Will the two of you
stop
chiming in every time I pause for
breath! After the not inconsiderable detail of your physical condition is looked after, Allison, we can go right ahead as though
nothing had happened—difficult as that will be. You will come out on Christmas Night, just as scheduled. You and Billy can announce your engagement some time during the winter and you can be married here next spring—in the garden perhaps.”

“Marry Billy Kennedy?”
Allison gasped.

“I could have asked for a more mature son-in-law, Allison, but at least you have had the consideration—if that’s quite the word I want—to have chosen a paramour whom we
know.
I don’t think I’m quite up to calling his mother just yet, but I suppose that Kitty will be as pleased as possible-under the circumstances.”

“Mother, I
. . .”

“Allison, I have a frightful headache—understandably, I think. Since you seem to have flown in the face of everything I’ve tried to teach you, it’s probably foolhardy of me to expect you to have
the manners to listen to what I am saying quietly and politely. I am very nearly through if you’ll only have the goodness to hear me out. When I am
quite
finished, I am going to ask you to go to your room and stay there. That will give me a little time to think. But before you go upstairs, Allison, I would like you
to answer just one question: Before you entered into this sordid relationship,
why
didn’t you come to me—your own mother—to
ask any advice?”

“Do I have the floor now?” Allison asked quietly.

“If you can refrain from flippancy.”

“I will try.”

But she hates Sheila’s guts, Peter thought. She really
despises
her mother.

“To begin with, I’m not pregnant.”

“That is a relief, darling.”

“If
you
don’t mind not interrupting.”

“Well, really, Allison!”

“I did go to your room to talk to you, Mother. I went late last night.” She paused for an uncomfortable moment. “And when I got there, I found the two of you doing just what you think I’ve been doing.”

“Allison!
How dare you!” Sheila’s voice was sharp and tense.

“It was a touching sight. There was the goddess, the splendid example to young womanhood, the perfect post-debutante, the expert on love, the lone, respectable widow wallowing around in bed like a . . . didn’t you say servant girl? Yes, like a sluttish servant girl with a man young enough to be. . . .”

“Allison!”
Sheila screamed.

There was a rattling at the doors. From the hall Mrs. Flood could be heard talking loudly and excitedly. “But I tell you, young woman, Mrs. Sargent is
not
in!”

“That’s a lie. There’s her car right out in front. I know it is. I seen it a hunnerd times. And I’m gonna see her
if it takes me all night.”

Sheila went to the doors and flung them open angrily. “Mrs. Flood, didn’t I say that I was not to be disturbed?”

“So she’s out, is she?” the woman cried. “Well, whaddayuh know? So you’re the famous Sheila Sarjint!”

“Who is this, Mrs. Flood, and what does she want?”

“I’m Pearl Pulaski and I wanna see
you!”

And then it happened all over again. Sheila was once more on stage. She grew taller, willowy. Her face became a mask of
dignity, the cheeks slightly sucked in, the brows two questioning
sable arches, her voice dramatically husky with broadening A’s. My God, Peter thought numbly, it’s Lynne Fontanne and Rosalind Russell and Margaret Leighton all rolled into the Archduchess Tatiana. She only needs long gloves and three feathers.

“I’m sorry, Miss, uh . . . I’m frightfully sorry, but I’m ra-ther
busy at the moment,” Sheila said. “If you will tell my secretary
exactly what it is you’d like to see me about, perhaps she can arrange an appointment for sometime next week.”

“The idea!” Mrs. Flood said indignantly. “She came barging in here right past Taylor, past me. . . . I couldn’t do a thing with. . . .”

“I got all the appointment I need, lady,” the girl said, insinuating herself into the room. Looking at her, Peter was unable to guess her. age—somewhere between twenty and thirty, he supposed. Her rather porcine face was blotched and swollen, the eyes red and puffy. Her inexpertly bleached hair was not quite
concealed by a scarf. She wore a soiled, shapeless coat cut along
the unbecoming barrel lines that had been considered high fashion a couple of years ago and she carried a large purse made of some kind of cheap fabric that was supposed to look like fur.

“The impudence!” Mrs. Flood said.

“Now, please try to understand this,” Sheila said. “I would be delighted to see you at almost any other time. But at the moment I am trying to deal with a problem that concerns my own family and I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask you to. . . .”

“Ooooo, of cawse I’ll unnerstan’, yer majesty,” the young woman mimicked horridly. “I unnerstan’ all kindsa family problems. Now maybe you can try to unnerstan’ what it’s like to see yer mother layin’ on
the
kitchen floor with her brains all over the place.”

Mrs. Flood gasped.

“Not a very pretty picture for you society dames, is it?” the
girl screamed. “Maybe you’d like to see photos.” From her bulg
ing purse she pulled out a tattered newspaper photograph. “That’s my mom. Howdyah like it?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Flood cried, hands fluttering to her eyes. “That awful murder in Waukegan.”

“Right!” the girl said.

“My dear,” Sheila said. The voice was now dulcet, kindly, mellow. “I’m so sorry. And if there’s anything I can do. . . . Well, if you’d simply write a letter. . . .”

“Oh, that’s great!” the girl shouted. “That’s rich. It really is. Because, lady, that’s just what I done. An’ here’s yer answer.” From her bag she pulled a crumpled sheet of paper, pale blue engraved with an imposing S.S. in the upper left-hand corner. “Oh, no, Sheila Sarjint sez, don’t tell your mom to leave her crazy, drunk of a husband. Don’t take her away to California where she won’t get beat up every day. Remember, Sheila Sarjint sez, yer not any psychiatrist or no marriage counselor. An’ then—oh this is the payoff—an’ then ‘God giveth the shoulder according to the burden.’ That’s a hot one! I could of saved my mom’s life is it wasn’t fer you, but no, I had to go an’ write a letter to. . . .”

“Oh, my dear,” Sheila said, “I had no idea, believe me. I’m so frightfully sorry.”

“Yer damn right yer sorry, sister. An’ yer gonna be a lot sorrier.” From the pocket of her coat the girl pulled out an old service revolver.

Mrs. Flood gasped.

“Shut up,” the girl said. She leveled the gun and pointed it waveringly at Sheila. She did it very badly as though she had
never held a gun before in her life. “An’ now, Mrs. Sheila Sarjint. . . .” She said no more. Peter sprang at her, grabbed her arm and forced it upward. The gun went off, the bullet im
bedding itself in the cornice high above Sheila’s head. Mrs. Flood
screamed. There was a second’s stillness and then the girl dropped the gun and collapsed into silent, hysterical weeping.

“Th-thank you, Peter,” Sheila said faintly.

“Oh, Mrs. Sargent!” Mrs. Flood squeaked,
“are
you all right?”

“Perfectly, thank you, Floodie.”

“I’ll call the police! The girl’s a dangerous maniac. I knew it the minute she. . . .”

“No! You will
not
call the police. I don’t want this to get in
the newspapers.” Sheila stooped, picked up the revolver, emptied
it expertly, dropped the shells in the wastebasket and handed the empty gun back to the girl. “Here is your gun.”