Sisters and Strangers, page 11
He returned and they took the escalator down to the street level. They were on their way to the Brown Palace for lunch. Spencer, needless to say, had wangled guest privileges at the hotel’s private club. It seemed odd to be going to lunch with him. They never did that, unless they were away and there was nowhere more interesting for Spencer to go. Today he’d have gone anywhere to avoid the family. Bad enough, he said, that he’d have to face them tonight.
In the cab he handed her a letter. “Something for you.” Surprised, she opened it. There was a note in Aunt Charlotte’s spidery handwriting.
My dear Alice,
I do hope you and Spencer have a pleasant visit. I feel quite sad about missing my sister’s anniversary and hope you will give her and your father my fond regards. I am enclosing a little clipping from the paper about the dinner party you gave before you left. It sounds most original. I’ve not been feeling very well the past few days and I’ve heard nothing from Janice or Christopher since you left. Not surprising. Still, you would think they might call, if only to see if I’m alive. I daresay I’ll hear from none of you until you return, but I trust you enjoy your visit.
Devotedly,
Aunt Charlotte
Allie sighed. She’d asked Chris to check on his great-aunt, knowing Janice couldn’t be depended upon. Apparently Chris hadn’t bothered either. It wasn’t surprising, this cold yet self-pitying complaint from Charlotte. I’ll call her tomorrow evening after the party, Alice thought, and she and Mother can talk.
She read the clipping, shuddering. It was so vulgar. It had been Spencer’s idea, this fatuous fawning over the senior member of his firm. Her protests that a simple, elegant dinner would be in better taste had provoked nothing but anger and a terrible black-and-blue mark on her upper arm where he’d grabbed her to make his point.
“Damn it, don’t tell me about taste! J.B. will be impressed that we’ve gone to special trouble to lay on a party that isn’t just run-of-the-mill, and it will give the papers something to write about, since they think you’re such an ‘imaginative’ hostess! If it weren’t for me, they’d never know you were alive! I have to think up all the ideas. You don’t know how to give a party you can’t copy out of an etiquette book!”
So she’d done all that terrible, corny stuff with the courtroom atmosphere. And of course he’d been vindicated. As usual.
Alice handed over the clipping. “You were right. J.B.’s party got quite a write-up.”
He read it, pleased.
“Who sent it? J.B.’s secretary?”
“No. Aunt Charlotte. Along with a note complaining that the children haven’t called her.”
He gave a derisive laugh. “What in hell made you think they would?”
Chapter 10
He’d had kind of a “funny feeling,” as Laura would describe it, all day. Several times while he was raking the leaves, he’d had to stop to catch his breath. And his stomach felt queasy. I hope I’m not coming down with flu, Sam thought. Can’t afford to get sick this week, not with the party tonight and all the out-of-town visitors here. He realized he lumped his daughters in with the “visitors,” along with Laura’s brother and sister-in-law. Well, why not? That’s what his children were: Visitors. And rare ones at that.
It was wrong of him to reproach them for not coming home more often. There’s nothing here for them, he reflected. They find it dull. The city. The house. Laura and me and our daily routine that becomes more proscribed with each passing year. Like now. He glanced at his watch. Twelve twenty-five. In exactly five minutes Laura would come to the door and summon him to lunch. Just as at five fifty-five she summoned him for dinner. At six-thirty we watch the news followed by our regular programs. And at ten o’clock we’re in bed. You could set the clock by us, day in, day out.
He hadn’t realized how monotonous life was nor how much he resented certain things. Other people of his and Laura’s age had their children nearby, had grandchildren and even great-grandchildren to enjoy. But his daughters hadn’t given him that. Quite the contrary. They’d gotten as far away as possible. And only one of them had produced children of her own, kids the Daltons never saw growing up, young people too remote and disinterested to even come to their grandparents’ golden wedding anniversary.
“Sam! Lunch!”
He put down the rake and slowly went into the house. She’d made ham and cheese sandwiches. The sight of food made him nauseous. He knew he couldn’t swallow a bite. He stood at the kitchen table looking at his plate.
“I think I’ll skip lunch if you don’t mind, my dear. I’m not really hungry.”
If he’d said he was running off with another woman, Laura couldn’t have looked more shocked.
“Skip lunch? Sam, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“No, no. Just a little off my feed. In fact, I think I’ll go up and rest a bit.”
Second shock. “Rest? At this time of day?” Her face clouded with concern. “You are sick!” She felt his forehead. “I think you’re running a temperature. Sam, you’re not coming down with something, are you? I’d better call Dr. Jacoby. You must have picked up a bug. Oh, dear, what an awful time, with the girls here and the party …” She stopped abruptly. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. None of that’s important. It’s you I’m concerned about. You never get sick! If you want to go to bed in the middle of the day, you must feel terrible!”
“Now, Laura, stop making such a fuss! I’m probably catching cold, that’s all. Good Lord, I don’t have a terminal illness! You know Jacoby gave me a thorough physical two months ago and said I was sound as a dollar.” He managed to smile. “I’ll just go up and lie down for an hour or so. I’ll feel fine by this evening.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“I still think….”
“I think you have enough on your hands getting ready for tonight. I told you: Stop worrying about nothing. I’ll take a couple of aspirin and be okay.”
“Can I fix you something? A cup of soup? Maybe some toast and tea?”
“Not a thing, dear. You just go about your business.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. She supposed she was silly, making such a to-do over nothing. Except it was unheard of for Sam to admit he didn’t feel well. In all the years at the phone company he’d never taken one “sick day.” Maybe I should call the doctor, she thought. No. Sam would be furious. And he’s probably just tired, as I am, from the strain of all this. It was more emotional than physical, this fatigue she felt. She didn’t know why, but she’d been having a bad case of nerves ever since the girls arrived. As though she had to be on her good behavior, make them happy, try to keep them from being restless. How silly that was. They were her daughters, not acquaintances for whom one had to put on “party manners.” Yet the tension was real and communicable. Perhaps Sam felt it, too. She never thought of him or, for that matter, any man, being nervous, but it could be he felt the same inexplicable anxiety.
A thought she did not wish to entertain came into her head: It’s really much more peaceful without them. What an awful thing to think! To find one’s own children upsetting, when she and Sam had been looking forward for months to their return! What had gotten into her these past couple of days? She was feeling the stress of these disparate personalities, making too much of an effort to recapture the “old days” when they really were a family. Yes, that was all that was wrong. And, yes, she faced the fact, she’d be relieved when everybody went home. You’re a terrible mother, Laura Dalton, she scolded herself. No, I’m not, she answered the silent voice. I’m just realizing that we’re too old to put up with “house guests” and even the minimum of entertaining. We’re not parents any more, except in the legal sense. We’re simply two quiet people unused to adjusting to our children’s needs. We’ve not had to for so many years.
And yet they were good daughters in their way, she thought, smiling at the wedding cake Child’s had delivered earlier. Barbara was right. It really was a “production.” Three tiers of it, with pink icing—roses and the years 1926–1976 in gold letters at the base. There was even the inevitable, vapid bride and groom on top. It was a hideous cake and exactly right for the occasion. We never had anything this elaborate at our wedding. Only fitting we should have it now. She willed herself to be cheerful. It would be a nice party. It would be good to see Fred and Mamie again, and celebrate with all the friends and relatives. Childishly, she looked forward to the gifts too. Not that she expected anything grand. She simply loved presents. She hoped Sam would like his gold tie-clip. She’d saved for it out of the household money he gave her. I wonder if he bought something for me? Laura wondered. We agreed we wouldn’t give each other anything, but I hope he broke his promise, as I did. I’d like him to be a little more sentimental than usual on this day. There’s so little romance in my life.
The idea of still craving romance almost made her laugh aloud. She’d never grow up. She’d never stop anticipating the kind of euphoria enjoyed by the leading ladies of soap operas and the heroines of Gothic novels. You fool! In your heart, you’re still young and vain. Well, why not? No matter what the mirror said, she could still fantasize. She did a little waltz step around the kitchen, pretending she was a nineteen-year-old Laura Burrows, engaged to be married to a man who would smother her with love and shower her with gifts. And he had. Not the kind of dashing love she’d hoped for or the extravagant gestures she’d have liked. But Sam had been devoted. She lacked for none of the modest creature comforts.
And tonight would be the highlight of her life.
They began arriving a little after six.
Barbara, looking lovely in a blue chiffon tunic and wide-legged silk pants, went over to pick up Fred and Mamie and Mildred and Martha from the house where she’d dropped off the Chicago pair a few hours earlier. Alice, in black velvet, came by cab with Spencer, a big, interesting-looking, gift-wrapped box in her hands. Fran drifted down in a shockingly low-cut white crepe dress, slit up one side. Laura saw Sam look disapprovingly at his eldest daughter’s décolletage. Thank goodness he seemed much better after his rest. He’d gotten up feeling perfectly okay, he’d said, much to Laura’s relief. She hoped he wouldn’t chide Frances for her revealing neckline or the expanse of leg. It was quite unsuitable, of course, but so like her. She was used to being the center of attention, and the arresting gown, not to mention the diamonds and emeralds at her ears and on her fingers, were designed to assure that.
Laura had bought a new, long, pale-pink dress for the party and knew she looked well in it. The color contrasted with her white hair and emphasized her still youthful complexion, and she was pleased when everyone complimented Sam on his “young and beautiful bride,” and told her how lovely she was this evening.
They came in a steady stream. The neighbors deposited the “assigned” food where Laura directed—the clam dip and potato chips, the tuna casseroles and green salad, the rolls and biscuits. She’d baked a ham and filled the big cut-crystal bowl with fruit punch. Her table looked pretty, with the old lace cloth used only on special occasions, the china that had been her mother’s, the silver she and Sam had received as their wedding gift from his family, and the wedding cake occupying a place of honor in the center.
There was a babble of greetings, of introductions and reunions, of kissing and hugging and exclamations of delight, particularly over seeing “the girls,” most especially Fran, whom some had never met and others had not seen in thirty years. It was an atmosphere of warmth and affection. Even Spencer unbent enough to be polite to his wife’s relatives and her parents’ friends. Unlike Sam, however, who had enough control not to mention it, Spencer couldn’t resist commenting on Fran’s spectacular outfit.
“You’re certainly stealing the show.” It was a quiet aside, but his eyes went to her half-exposed bosom. “Is that the outfit Vogue recommends for black sheep?”
Frances looked at him with open dislike. “Naturally. Black and white. Isn’t that the way everything is to you, Spencer?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She glanced at Alice in her conservative black velvet dress with the almost prim neckline and the strand of good pearls. “I’d think it was obvious. ‘Nice’ women wear careful clothes. ‘Loose’ ones wear flamboyant ones. That way everybody knows where they stand. It’s all black and white. No gray areas. I’m sure there are none in your life, Spencer.”
“Gray’s an indecisive color.”
“Exactly. And you’re a decisive man, aren’t you?”
“I hope so. A man should be decisive. And disciplined.”
“And a woman? What should she be? Obedient and subservient? Above reproach?”
Spencer flushed. He suspected she was testing him to find out whether he knew about Alice’s “past.” He hadn’t known when he married her. She’d deceived him. She and that damned old woman she lived with. If he’d had any idea that quiet little twenty-three-year-old girl had borne a baby out of wedlock he’d never even have taken her out, much less made her his wife. It had all come out during an angry quarrel. He remembered that night well. She’d been defiant, brazen about it. And he’d given her a beating she’d never forgotten. But Fran, he was sure, didn’t know that. She knew about the baby, of course, but probably not that Alice had confessed. She didn’t know about his violence either, he guessed. Alice would be too proud to tell anyone in her family about that. Too stubborn to admit she deserved it. He smiled coolly at Fran.
“Alice is all those things. I’ve taught her how to be a lady.”
“Really? I thought she already knew.” She saw Allie watching them even while she was making polite conversation with Aunt Mamie. She’s wondering what Spencer and I have to talk about, Fran thought. She knows we despise each other.
At that moment she saw him come in. She recognized him immediately, even after all these years. Buzz Paige. Older, heavier, but surprisingly unchanged. Still handsome, still possessed of the smile that could melt icebergs, the smile he bestowed on Laura as he leaned down to kiss her gently on the cheek. Gentle. Buzz had always been gentle with women. Too gentle. That’s why I didn’t marry him, Fran thought. He wasn’t tough enough to handle me. I knew I could always get my way, and that’s always been the last thing I wanted. I need a man to dominate me. I’ve never found one. They’ve all turned out to be such miserable excuses for men.
She looked back at Spencer, so sure of himself, so egomaniacal. The cruelty showed in his eyes. You bastard, Fran thought. I should have married you. You wouldn’t scare me the way you obviously do Allie. I would have served you right. And you’re just about what I deserve.
“Excuse me,” Fran said. “I just saw an old friend come in.”
She approached Buzz and the attractive but rather faded-looking woman who stood with him. So that’s his wife. Just about what one would expect. A dim bulb. A washed-out watercolor. Yes, that’s what Buzz would have gone to after me: someone peaceful and placid and safe.
He hadn’t seen her yet. She was at his elbow before he noticed her. Then he turned and looked into her eyes with an expression she couldn’t read.
“Hello, Buzz. Long time.”
He took both her hands. “Fran! You look wonderful!”
“Thanks. So do you. What’s your secret?”
He laughed. “Clean living and tender loving care. Fran, you remember Dottie. She was Dottie Kravett when you knew her.” He put his arm around his wife.
“Hello, Frances,” Dorothy said.
“Dottie! My God, Dottie Kravett! Of course!” Fran kissed her, French-style on both cheeks. “How marvelous! And you’re married to Buzz! Imagine! All these years!”
“Twenty-nine, to be exact.”
Fran pretended to shudder. “Don’t say that. I can’t bear to think how long ago it was when we were a gang of young lunatics tearing up this town!”
“I was never one of your crowd. We just knew each other from school.” The voice was strained, taut.
“Fran means we all grew up together, honey,” Buzz said. “And by God we did, though I’ll never know how we didn’t kill ourselves in the process. Remember that crazy old Ford convertible I had, Fran? It’s a miracle it didn’t turn us all into statistics!”
“Only because you drove it like you were Barney Oldfield!” Fran clapped a jeweled hand over her mouth. “I mustn’t say things like that. Barney Oldfield! My God, that gives away my age!”
‘“It’s no secret,” Dottie said. “What are you now, Fran? Fifty? Fifty-one?”
The other two looked at her in surprise. The hostility was undisguised. Buzz reddened, embarrassed by his wife’s rudeness.
“Darling,” he said, “you know a lady never tells her age.”
Dorothy smirked. “No. A lady doesn’t.”
Jesus! Fran thought. She’s crazy. Crazy with jealousy, I suppose. That’s crazy in itself. How could she be jealous of somebody from so far in the past? Poor Buzz. He really picked a loser. She decided to make light of the petty barb.
“That was no lady I saw you with,” she said. “That was my high school girlfriend.” Fran smiled. “We have no secrets, Dottie, have we? Fifty my next birthday. How about that?”
“You must tell us all about yourself,” Buzz said quickly. “Are you still living in Paris?”
“Yes. I travel a lot, but that’s officially home. I think Mother’s looking for me. See you later.”
