The Joys of Love, page 11
“No matter what anybody said, no matter what she did, she was a wonderful person, a mother to be proud of. Don’t ever forget that,” Ben said fiercely.
“No … Ben—this is the second time in my life I’ve ever been able to talk about my mother to anybody.”
“When was the first?”
“Just after she died, when I went to the funeral. The woman who ran the boardinghouse where she died talked to me … That was the only other time … and then, of course, it was all too much like a bad dream … and Mother had been ill the whole time she was there.”
“We’ll talk about her as much as you like,” Ben said.
“After Father died I found a newspaper picture of Mother in with his papers. I have it in a frame on my bureau now. Haven’t you ever noticed it, Ben?”
“What a blind fool I am,” Ben said. “You and Jane have your bureau so littered with pictures and there’s always such a gang in there … Let’s go look at it now.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Elizabeth said. “If I stay out here in the dark with you, I shall cry.”
“Well, why don’t you, Liz? Might be a good idea.”
Elizabeth shook her head violently and stood up. “No. I don’t want to cry.”
“I know,” Ben said. “It’s okay.”
“Most of the time it’s as though I’d never had a mother at all.” Elizabeth pretended to be very busy slapping a mosquito. “We ought to have some citronella,” she said in a quivering voice. “We used to call it Cinderella when I was a kid. Mosquitoes don’t usually bother me much, but they’re certainly after me tonight. Let’s go in, Ben.”
Ben followed her into the Cottage, letting the screen door slam behind them. The lights were all on and a group from the company was sitting around one of the long tables in the dining room playing poker. Mariella Hedeman in a lavender velvet gown was sitting regally at the head of the table and dealing.
Marian Hatfield looked up at Elizabeth and Ben and waved at them. “Come play,” she called. “This is Miss Hedeman’s lucky night. She’s cleaning the rest of us out.”
“What about Courtmont’s party at Irving’s?” Ben said.
“We left about an hour ago, but there are still people there.”
“Want to play, Liz?” Ben asked.
“No, thanks. I’m no good at cards. You go ahead.”
“I don’t want to leave you if you’re going to be lonely,” Ben said in a low voice.
“I want to work on my part, anyhow. You go on and play, Ben. I don’t think I could talk any more tonight. It’s silly to get so emotional, but I can’t seem to help it. But can we talk about her again?”
“Anytime,” Ben said. “Now you get some sleep, Liz. You’ve got a hard day ahead of you tomorrow with dress rehearsal and everything, and you know you need plenty of sleep.”
“I’m going to bed in just a few minutes,” Elizabeth promised. “Have a good time and win lots.”
Elizabeth climbed the two flights of stairs to the third floor. The hall lights were on but all the rooms seemed to be dark; almost everybody went out on Saturday nights. Elizabeth switched on the bedroom light, went over to the bureau, and stared for a long time at her mother. All of a sudden the woman in the newspaper picture seemed to be a real person instead of an unhappy shadow constantly in the background of her life. It couldn’t have been easy for you, either, she thought. And I’m glad Ben liked you.
Elizabeth flung herself down on her bed and concentrated on going over her lines. Later she would think about her mother; not now. After she had worked on her sides for a few minutes she undressed, took a shower, and pulled on her pajamas and a flannel bathrobe. She heard the sound of recorders coming up the stairs and John Peter and Jane entered.
“Hi,” John Peter said. “Where’s Ben?”
“Downstairs playing poker, I think.”
“He wasn’t just a minute ago.”
“He’s probably gone to the party at Irving’s then. I hope he behaves himself. He’s too young to drink too much.”
“It’s unattractive no matter how you slice it,” John Peter said. He sprawled out on Jane’s bed and began to play Plaisir d’ Amour.
“Don’t play that again, John Peter, please,” Elizabeth said.
“Why not? I thought you were so crazy about it.”
“I am. It—I’ve just heard it enough tonight.”
“Listen, Liz,” John Peter said, suddenly putting down his recorder. “Why don’t you give Ben a break?”
Elizabeth grew rigid. “What do you mean?”
“Are you such a dope you can’t see he’s in love with you?” John Peter asked.
“I think you’re the dope,” Elizabeth said. “Of course he isn’t in love with me.” She added faintly, “Is he, Jane?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Sure,” John Peter said, “as though we hadn’t been talking about it half the evening. For heaven’s sake, Liz, your feelings are your own business, but either give Ben a break or don’t keep him hanging around. I don’t care what you do to that bastard Canitz, but I don’t want to see Ben hurt.”
Elizabeth was trembling with rage and with horror. “John Peter Toller—” she started, her voice shaking. Then, “I haven’t any words to say to you. What you’ve said is so—so—”
“I’m sorry,” John Peter said, the beakiness of his nose seeming to sharpen as it did when he was being stubborn, “but it’s been on my mind and I had to get it out.”
“Ben knows how I feel. We’re wonderful friends and that’s all and that’s that.” Elizabeth hoped she sounded more convincing to John Peter and to Jane than she did to herself. She was sure Ben knew that she loved Kurt; that was something she couldn’t seem to hide from anybody, no matter how much she wanted to.
“Okay,” John Peter said. “If Ben really knows how you feel, then it’s his own business, I guess.” He did not sound happy or convinced.
Jane dropped her hand lightly on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Don’t be angry, Liz. I begged John Peter not to say anything. It’s only because we’re so fond of you and Ben, both of you—”
“I don’t think I’m angry anymore,” Elizabeth said. “I’m just appalled.”
“Well, forget it, will you? As long as everything’s clear with you and Ben, that’s all that matters.”
“Ben knows about Kurt,” Elizabeth said flatly.
“Knows what about Kurt?” John Peter asked.
“About how I feel about him.”
“Ben’s been in the theatre a long time,” John Peter said. “He’s known a lot of Kurts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I shouldn’t have brought it up. Jane was absolutely right. Forgive me and forget it. Please, Liz.”
“Okay.”
“And, Liz, honey,” Jane said. “One other thing.”
“What?”
“It was sweet of you this afternoon to say I was a better actress than you are and try to give me the part, but you shouldn’t do things like that.”
“Why not? You are.”
“In the first place, I’m not; and in the second place it was entirely my own fault for staying out on the beach and being late for rehearsal.”
“Oh, piffle,” Elizabeth said.
John Peter clapped his hand over one of his cheeks and groaned.
“What’s the matter?” Jane asked anxiously.
“My tooth,” John Peter said gloomily. “It still hurts.”
“You’d better go to a dentist on Monday, darling.”
“I’ll have to if it isn’t any better. But I hate to go here to someone I don’t know. I’d much rather wait till I get back to New York. I don’t know what makes my teeth so lousy. Every six months it’s just as though a gremlin got in my mouth with a small but very effective machine gun.” He looked up as there was a sharp knock on the door. “Oh, come in, come in, if you fool you must,” he said.
Valborg Andersen stepped into the room and all three of them jumped up in confusion. Elizabeth backed up to the bureau to stand in front of the large picture of the actress herself.
“Miss Jerrold,” Valborg Andersen said.
“Yes, Miss Andersen?” Elizabeth reached behind her and put the picture down on its face. The actress saw and smiled slightly.
She looked around her. “Four of you in here? Seems like pretty close quarters. I’m sorry to come calling so very late. Miss Jerrold, might I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said, and followed her out into the hall.
Jane and John Peter looked at each other. “What do you suppose she wants?” John Peter asked.
Jane shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m afraid I can guess.”
“Dottie?”
“I’d bet my bottom button.”
John Peter looked at Elizabeth’s picture of Miss Andersen lying flat on the bureau. “Now why on earth did Liz move the picture?”
“Oh, you know, sweet. I can’t explain.” Jane gesticulated vaguely. “It looks like asking for something. Oh, drat that Dottie for slitching things up for Liz.”
“Maybe it isn’t that.”
“What else?” Jane asked.
“Why don’t you tell Liz?”
“Tell her what?”
“About Miss Andersen.”
“Why, John Peter?”
“I don’t know. It might make her feel better or something.”
Jane shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t see why it would. And I said I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I think I’d rather not. Not even Liz.”
“Okay,” John Peter said. “You do however you feel best about it.” Then he took advantage of the moment of privacy by kissing Jane. They drew apart as the door opened and Elizabeth came in quietly, crossed to her bed, and picked up the Gentlewoman’s sides. Valborg Andersen stood in the doorway.
“I’m extremely sorry, Miss Jerrold. I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything.”
“Of course. I know,” Elizabeth said. “Here are the sides, Miss Andersen.”
“Thank you, Miss Jerrold. Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Andersen.”
“I was afraid of that,” Jane said as the door closed behind the actress.
“What did she say?” John Peter demanded.
“Dottie raised a stink with Mr. Price. Threatened to quit.”
“Aw, honey,” Jane said. “What a shame.”
Elizabeth reached up, took off her glasses, blew on them, and put them on again. “Miss Andersen said she’d make Price use me if I wanted to, but of course I couldn’t.”
“It was decent of her to come tell you herself,” John Peter said.
“Yes, it was. It was wonderful of her. It wasn’t necessary at all. But she said she wanted me to hear it from her. That’s why she came so late. And she said she wanted to have me sit in on dress rehearsal if I wanted to, but I was afraid Dottie would object to that, too, and make it uncomfortable for everyone, so I won’t. But she was wonderful to bother to think of it.”
The door burst open, so violently that it banged against the foot of Elizabeth’s bed, and Bibi dashed in. “Miss Courtmont’s going!” she shouted. “Are you coming down to say goodbye?”
“We are not,” John Peter said. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t bang that door again. It kills my tooth.”
“Isn’t she just the most glamorous person you’ve ever seen! I want to look just like that when I’m middle-aged!” Bibi cried with enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you tell her, Bibi,” John Peter suggested with a grin at Jane and Elizabeth. “I’m sure she’d be touched. I just know Sarah Courtmont would appreciate being called middle-aged.”
“Go say goodbye, Bibi,” Jane said. “Say goodbye for all of us.”
“Aren’t you excited about being in Macbeth and doing the Gentlewoman, Liz?” Bibi squealed, paying no attention to Jane. “Gosh, you’re lucky.”
“I’m not doing the Gentlewoman,” Elizabeth said.
“Why not? Who is?”
“Marian Hatfield, same as before.”
“You mean Dottie’s playing Lady Macduff after all?”
“Exactly.”
“If you want Courtmont to say goodbye to you, you’d better hurry downstairs.” Jane’s pleasant voice sounded unusually impatient.
“Aren’t you coming?” Bibi asked.
“No,” Elizabeth said. “We’re not. Goodbye.”
“Ben’s downstairs saying goodbye.”
“He can stay there.”
“You needn’t be so rude, Elizabeth.” Bibi’s reedy voice was aggrieved.
“Sorry.”
Bibi started for the door. “Jack and I are going back to Irving’s after Courtmont goes, so I won’t be back until late.”
Jane looked at her with distaste. “It’s late already.”
“If you value your life, don’t wake us up when you come in,” Elizabeth added.
“I’ll be quiet if you don’t wake me up tomorrow morning,” Bibi bargained.
John Peter took Bibi by the shoulders and propelled her out the door. “If you make any noise when you come in, you’ll answer to me.” He shut the door and brushed his hands off. “There.”
“Liz,” Jane said.
“Mm-hm?”
“Now that you aren’t doing the Gentlewoman—well, look, I know how much you want to be here just to watch Miss Andersen next week, and if you’d let me I’d love to lend it to you …”
Elizabeth looked at her awkwardly. “Jane, bless you, you’re an angel, but Soapie’s already paid room and board through next week and I managed to argue Price into letting me stay on that.”
“Oh, good, that’s all right, then,” Jane said, equally awkwardly. “Have you told your aunt yet?”
“No, I should have called her tonight, but I’ll do it in the morning so she won’t expect me on the train.”
Just then a voice called, “Everybody decent?” And without waiting for an answer, Huntley Haskell opened the door a crack and pushed his head in.
“Come on in,” John Peter said. “Anything we can do for you?”
“Have you seen Dottie?” Huntley’s speech was a little slurred, his gait a little unsteady.
“Didn’t she go to Irving’s with you?” Jane asked.
“I lost track of her,” Huntley said. “She hasn’t been there in a coupla hours.”
“Did you see Kurt?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not there either,” Huntley said. “Darn little bastard. Listen, Jerrold, you might’ve known you couldn’t edge Dottie out of the play.”
“That wasn’t really my idea, Huntley,” Elizabeth said.
“Didn’t say it was. Just said you ought to have known you couldn’t’ve done it. Dottie doesn’t give. She takes.”
Huntley stood swaying in the doorway for a moment. Then he waved at them, a limp, heavy hand. “So long, kids.” He wavered out.
“What a fool,” John Peter said.
“John Peter, darling, I want some more coffee before I go to bed.”
“Come on, then,” he said. “It’s late. It’s almost three. And I want to go to bed. My tooth hurts.”
“I can’t go to sleep unless I’ve had coffee. It’s getting to be practically a neurosis.” Jane sighed. “Want some, Liz?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to sleep.”
John Peter put his arm around Jane. “Come on, darling.”
Before Elizabeth could get into bed, Ben bounced into the room, his face white with fatigue, but his dark eyes sparkling as usual. “Courtmont’s gone. Thank everything. And congratulate me for being a good boy, Liz. I went to Irving’s but I had a pineapple malted milk and a maple nut sundae and a banana split.”
Elizabeth groaned. “I don’t know which is more lethal, that goo or gin.”
“Gin was mother’s milk to me,” Ben elegantly misquoted from Pygmalion. “And tomorrow our little Bibi will be down at the station to meet Mr. Mervyn Melrose, heart-throbbing star of cinema and stage. And what a frappy comedy Price has picked for him. The gags in it were hoary in Minsky’s day.”
“Bibi will love him. It’s a pity Soapie’s gone.”
“Oh, Soapie wouldn’t like him. He lives with a dame.”
“Well!”15
“He’s married to her, but she’s still a dame. Caramel?”
“No, thanks. Ben, we’re awful to be so mean to Bibi and Soapie. We shouldn’t have teased Soapie. It’s partly our fault she left.”
“And good riddance, too,” Ben said with finality. “Soapie didn’t have looks and she certainly didn’t have talent. The sooner she retires from the theatre, the better. And the same goes for Bibi. Only Bibi has looks, if you go for that type, which I don’t, and she’s a lot surer of herself than Soapie was, so she’ll be a lot harder to dislodge.”
Elizabeth lay back on the lumpy bed and stared up at the ceiling. “We’re so darned sure of ourselves. We simply assume that we’re good and then feel we’ve a perfect right to criticize and condemn other people wholesale. Sooner or later we’re going to get a boot in the behind that’ll knock us off our high horses—my metaphor’s mixed but you know what I mean—and we’ll deserve it, after the way we carry on about ourselves.”
“You just got a boot on your high horse from Aunt Harriet and you still feel fairly sure of yourself,” Ben said.
“Yes. And Macbeth. Sure, but that didn’t have anything to do with me. Miss Andersen still wanted me, that’s what’s important. Losing the part was just politics. Kurt was right this afternoon. We just aren’t as good as we think we are. Nobody’s that good.”
Ben laughed, then asked, “What brought that on?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Aunt Harriet’s always drummed it into me about pride going before a fall—though she’s got the same kind of pride most Southerners have—oh, I don’t know. I guess knowing I have to go back to Jordan the end of next week. I was so sure of the summer and everything being so wonderful, and now all of a sudden a whole half of the summer’s just vanishing into thin air.”
