“She can have a bite at my house,” Swallow said. “The children will fix her something.”
“We’ll have to catch her,” Appleyard said, for Sweetie had again glided from view.
That rang a bell.
For many years local artists had seen in her romantic possibilities as the Goose Girl or the Milkmaid, and thus it was that painters and illustrators, themselves representing versions of dishevelment, were often seen gesticulating down to the river shouting offers of employment, only to see her dive into the water and reappear, all Nereid, on the opposite bank to taunt them. Or clamber up the maple into the treehouse.
“Let’s just forget it,” Charles said. “We can call the agency and get another—”
“No,” said Appleyard, whose idea it had been that she try a bit of sitting. But it was not he who brought matters to a resolution.
Mme. Piquepuss marched into the vestibule. Taking a position at the foot of the staircase up which Sweetie had whisked, she began flailing the newelpost with her stick in a manner that chilled Charles’s blood. She looked at the post she beat, as though it were a head out of which she were bashing the brains. It was clearly a tested means of bringing the girl round, for here she came down the stairs like a summoned child, pouting and smelling yet another rose.
“She’s an Emily Dickinson without talent,” Appleyard declared. He grasped Swallow by the arm again and wheeled him back into the living room for a last word while the grandmother got Sweetie into some sort of sartorial shape.
“Now don’t stay out too late,” he told Swallow, with the first show of authority the latter had seen him make. “Get back by eleven, or twelve at the latest.”
“Yes, sir. And don’t worry, because the boys are reliable. They’ll get her out of the house in case of fire or anything.”
“Good. And one more thing. Don’t let her make you pay her in things of the spirit, like books or flowers. Make her take money.”
They stood watching the scene in the vestibule. Sweetie was seated on a Shaker chest while Mme. Piquepuss wedged high-heeled shoes on her feet. The elder stood with her back to Sweetie and Sweetie’s foot between her legs, like a blacksmith shoeing a horse, tugging and grunting in a determined fashion.
“I’m most anxious to see how this sitting thing works out,” Appleyard said. “We must all work together to get Sweetie out of her shell.”
“She needs some responsibility, is what she needs.”
Appleyard suddenly transferred his scrutiny from the hall to Charles.
“Say, this advice column you run in the Picayune Blade—what’s the name of it again?”
“The Lamplighter. They won’t hear of changing the name, though of course the old-fashioned banalities are a thing of the past. We use the psychological attack today, and I’m trying to get subtlety O.K.’d by the front office—”
“That’s just what I was thinking—the psychological. By George, you may be just the man to get Sweetie straightened around. I never thought till just now—helping people with their problems is your job.” He squeezed Charles’s arm in an access of optimism. “We’ll keep in touch.”
Sweetie wobbled uncertainly on the high heels as, snatching up a beaded bag, she started for the door. Was it the same old beaded bag as always? Very possibly. A normal-looking flannel coat muffled the note of romanticism struck by the dress, though her unsteady legs—which necessitated Swallow taking her arm like a more experienced ice skater supporting a beginner with weak ankles—restored to their passage across the porch and down the stairs the element of the unusual. Sweetie looked more than ever like a girl playing grownup. A family watching from a porch across the street gave him the momentary feeling of “doing a fine thing,” though where they imagined he was taking her God only knew. They crossed the lawn and climbed into the car to additional shouts of encouragement from the elders. As they shut the doors he heard, in the depths of the house, a telephone begin insistently to ring.
“Tell Mrs. Swallow we’re on our way!” he called as, slipping the car into gear, he shot off down the street like a madman.
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About the Author
Peter De Vries (1910–1993) was born in Chicago to Dutch immigrant parents. His father wanted him to join the clergy, but after attending Calvin College and Northwestern University, De Vries found work as a vending-machine operator, a toffee-apple salesman, a radio actor, and an editor at Poetry magazine. His friend and mentor James Thurber brought him to the attention of the New Yorker, and in 1944 De Vries moved to New York to become a regular staff contributor to the magazine, where he worked for the next forty years.
A prolific author of novels, short stories, parodies, poetry, and essays, he published twenty-seven books during his lifetime and was heralded by Kingsley Amis as the “funniest serious writer to be found either side of the Atlantic.” De Vries was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters in 1983, taking his place alongside Mark Twain, Dorothy Parker, and S. J. Perelman as one of the nation’s greatest wits.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1952, 1953, 1956 by Peter De Vries
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6955-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10038
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