The Dinner Party (29 page)

“It is.”

“I wish you could have said it without all the name calling. We're both in the same party. You gave a cool million dollars to the president's campaign. We're not enemies.”

“We're not friends,” Augustus replied. “I enjoy life, and I don't delude myself into thinking there's anything else. You and your mirror image in the Kremlin could have stopped this lunacy years ago, but neither of you had the brains or the guts. There's no way to rectify it now. You've doomed this lovely little planet of ours. Sure we're enemies. You damn fool, it's not communism that's going to destroy us—it's plain, old-fashioned ignorance and stupidity.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

W
inifred Justin was drunk. She confided to Dolly that in Washington she was never drunk in public. “Once,” she said, “once, and that little bastard beat the shit out of me.” Frances was horrified and Jenny was disgusted.

“He really beat you? Oh, no. Our set doesn't.”

“Under the rock, where his set lives, they do.”

Jenny could not face drunken women. To her, a drunken woman was in violation of every tradition she believed in, and she reacted with unbearable tension. “I have a dreadful headache,” she said to Dolly. “You will excuse me, won't you—and you too, Frances?”

“I'll excuse you,” Winifred said. “You want to pee, go outside and turn left. You're excused.”

Dolly went to her mother and kissed her cheek. Even though she wore heels, she still had to push up to reach Jenny's cheek.

“Beat you—you mean with his fists?” Frances asked eagerly.

“Go upstairs, Mother, and lie down,” Dolly said.

Jenny bent to kiss Frances, who was an inch or so shorter than Dolly. Each time Dolly saw Webster Heller, six feet, three inches tall, along with his small fat wife, she felt that they were both unreal, a cartoon come to life.

“I do hope your headache goes away. Headaches are dreadful. Webster gets headaches, I don't.”

“You need a head for headaches,” Winifred muttered.

“Good night, Winifred,” Jenny said.

Sprawled on the couch, Winifred clucked at her, “Nighty, night, Mrs. Levi.”

Dolly suggested some freshly brewed strong coffee, to which Winifred replied, “Shit, no. Get me a drink.” Elizabeth, curled in a chair and watching and listening now got to her feet and embraced her grandmother. They were of a height. “Lovely people,” Elizabeth whispered into her grandmother's ear. “Don't let them get to you, Granny.”

“Never.” Jenny tossed her head, and then swept out of the room. Her passage in or out of a room always filled Dolly with envy, yet Dolly knew no one else of whom it could be said that she swept in or out of anywhere. Dolly adored her, a sort of icon out of a long-ago, forever-lost era.

“That drink,” Winifred reminded her.

“What would you like, Mrs. Justin?” Elizabeth asked her.

“Mrs. Justin. Sweet. I think a brandy. One little stirrup-cup for the road.” Elizabeth buzzed for MacKenzie. “Do you remember,” Winifred went on, “that congressman's wife who took off her clothes and went skinny-dipping in the fountain. That's for me.”

MacKenzie came in, and Dolly said, “Mac, please bring Mrs. Justin a brandy.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.” She glanced at Frances, who shook her head. “Just a brandy.”

When MacKenzie returned with the brandy, Winifred had fallen into a deep, drunken slumber. “And you know, you can't wake her,” Frances complained. When she complained, her high-pitched voice turned into a whine. “I've seen this before. Webster and Bill will have to carry her out to the car. Do you think he really beats her?”

“It's been done.”

“But not by civilized people,” Frances protested. “I do suppose it happens among working classes, coal miners and such, but not civilized people. I think Webster would perish before he raised a hand to me. Of course, you don't have to worry because you're Jewish. Jews don't beat their wives—or is that just something I heard?”

“Daddy's not Jewish,” Elizabeth said. “His name is Cromwell, unless he's changed it from something. In our family, they only allow the women to be Jewish. That's why Daddy can't beat Mother.”

“Elizabeth!” Dolly exclaimed. “How can you say such things! Forgive me, Frances. She's making a silly joke.”

“I'm sorry, Mother,” Elizabeth said dutifully.

“How strange,” Frances persisted. “I mean, why would they only allow the women to be Jewish?—Oh, you're teasing,” she said to Elizabeth.

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“Shouldn't we let Mr. Justin know about his wife?” Dolly asked, desperate to change the subject.

“It's happened before,” Frances said, pleased to find a moment of superiority.

“Do you suppose they'll be much longer?” Elizabeth asked.

Dolly had no idea. “It's twenty to eleven.”

“Then it won't last much longer,” Frances decided. “Webster always tries to be in bed before midnight.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

A
t the terrace beside the swimming pool, the senator sat with his son, sometimes silent, sometimes talking. Richard Cromwell realized that this was the first time he had talked to his son, not to ask or instruct or order, but simply to talk and allow each flow of words to set another into motion. And then to allow the silence to stay instead of rejecting it or fleeing from it. They talked about the senator's plea for the Sanctuary workers, and Leonard asked him whether he had expected any more than what actually happened.

“No, not really. Gus told me it was hopeless. It's hard to believe that everything is so damn hopeless.”

“Is that the way you feel—about everything?”

“Sometimes. I was just a kid when we fought against the Nazis, but I can remember. We saved the world from the worst horror it had ever known, and then I grew up and all I ever wanted to be was a member of the United States Congress. That's all I ever wanted.” The senator covered his son's hand with his, thinking, And to have a son. But he left that unsaid.

A gentle wind began to stir the leaves of the trees around them. After a while, the senator said, “We were poor when I was a kid. I was born into the Depression.”

“You always feel like a stranger here.”

“How do you know that.”

“I feel that way.”

It surprised him. How could Leonard feel that way? The night was becoming colder.

Leonard pointed to the house. The front door had opened and sounds reached them. A flood of light splashed over the driveway. “Shouldn't we go down there, Dad? Say good night to them?”

“No!”

“Then Mom takes the brunt of it.”

“All right, we'll say good night to them.”

Elizabeth was calling them. “Dad! Lenny!”

As Richard and his son approached the house, they saw Webster Heller and William Justin come through the open doorway. Winifred was a limp sack, dangling from their arms. The two Secret Service men rescued her, lifting her and placing her in the car. Augustus stood outside the door and said, “Will you shake hands, Web? I don't want to see you go off like a frustrated fox in a chicken house.”

Webster Heller held out his hand and said softly, as Augustus took it, “We're going to make it very hot for you, Gus.”

“I got that impression.”

Justin walked past and into the car without saying a word.

Frances was almost ready to grant Dolly and Elizabeth good night kisses, but Dolly's set, uninviting expression broke her resolve. She squeaked her thanks and good night, and darted into the car.

“Good night,” Richard Cromwell said, shortly and with no apologies.

The car door slammed, and the big stretch Cadillac drove off down the driveway. The group at the open door stood in silence for a moment or two, and then Dolly said, “How could you do that, Richard?”

“He had good reason,” Augustus said.

And Elizabeth said, “Well, Grandpa, did you give them the road?”

“Like hell I did! Where's Jenny?”

“She lied about a headache and went to bed, leaving Liz and me with those two creatures.”

“Then I guess I'll join her. Good night, children.” He stalked through the door into the house without another word.

Dolly turned to Richard. “I will say it again. How could you do it and leave me to wind up this dreadful evening?”

“There are other things to talk about.”

“What other things?”

“Dad,” Leonard pleaded.

“No, Leonard,” the senator said. “This can't wait. We're a family, we're together. Your mother's angry at me now and she's been angry at me before, but I love her very much, more than she'll ever understand.”

“What on God's earth are you talking about?” Dolly demanded.

“Come into the library. We can't stand here outside and talk about this.”

“About what?”

Ignoring her insistence, Cromwell led the way into the library. They passed through the dining room, where Mac-Kenzie was removing the brandy glasses and the dirty ashtrays. “Will you want anything else?” he asked the senator.

“Thank you, Mac, but I don't think so. Finish up and go to sleep. You and Ellen have had a day.” In the library, Richard closed the doors. Leonard went to Dolly and stood beside her. Elizabeth crossed the room, turned to Dolly and watched, her face tight.

“You are terrifying me, all of you,” Dolly said. “Please tell me what has happened. Is it Webster Heller?”

“No,” the senator said. “When our guests came, I was late. When they left, I was late. I was with Lenny both times. A few minutes before the guests came, his effort to keep a secret collapsed, and he told me that he had Aids.”

Dolly shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about. Are you crazy?”

Leonard put his arms around her and said, “Mommy, listen. Don't be frightened. I'm not frightened. I have Aids.”

“No!” she screamed. “No! No! No!”

“I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm sorry.” Dolly clung to him, and now he was crying, like a small boy who had done something terribly wrong and wept as a defense against his punishment. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” he sobbed, his own fear gone and replaced by a new anguish for the hurt he had inflicted on his mother.

“It's not his fault,” Elizabeth cried. “Mother, tell him it's not his fault.”

In Dolly's mind and body there was only pain. She heard nothing, and made sense of nothing. Richard went to her. “Baby,” he said, “poor baby.” She was clinging to Leonard. “Let me take her,” Richard said. Leonard let go of her, and Richard moved her around so that her tearful face was turned up toward him, her mascara and make-up smudged, her lips trembling.

“Where's Leonard?” she cried.

“Here, here, Mommy.”

“You won't leave me?”

“No, never.”

Her body began to slacken, and before she could collapse, the senator cradled her in his arms and lifted her, whispering, “All right, Darling. We'll work it out.”

“How? How?”

“We'll work it out.” And to Leonard and Elizabeth, “I'll take her upstairs to her room. We'll talk. She's stronger than you imagine. Better if the two of us are alone.”

She felt light in the senator's arms. Leonard opened the door, and Richard left the room, Dolly cradled in his arms like a child.