Guestward Ho!

by Patrick Dennis

  During the few days she was with us we had chicken salad, chicken pot pie, chicken fricassee, chicken croquettes, roast chicken, fried chicken, smothered chicken, coq au vin, chicken stew, broiled chicken, and every other form of chicken you care to mention until the men were growing wan and pale for lack of red meat.

  Delphine was also a saint in the Happiness Church—a sect I had never heard of before or, happily, since—and she took that far more seriously than her cooking. She even brought along a tinny phonograph with a remarkably limited collection of Happiness Church hymns, which she played steadily and loudly from six in the morning until eleven at night. My Bill has a mechanical bent of sorts in that he can break almost any motor-driven device permanently in less time than it takes to tell about it. On the third day of nonstop hymn playing, Delphine's phonograph developed an added squeak that made every note sound like fingernails on a blackboard and I spent the day in perpetual goose flesh until Delphine prevailed upon Bill to do a little deep surgery.

  "Mistah Bill," she whined, "my grammyphone is bust. Maybe you'd take a look at it for me?"

  "Well, Delphine," Bill began, "I'm not sure that I can . . ."

  "Of course he'll fix it, Delphine," I said, anticipating the blessed silence that would be mine as soon as our boy mechanic got to work. "Go ahead, Bill."

  Tongue between his teeth, Bill got seriously to work on the phonograph and, as I had expected, the evil machine was rendered utterly soundless within fifteen minutes.

  Delphine felt terrible. The rest of us felt wonderful. I sat down with a good book and looked forward to a long, lovely day of peace and quiet. But did I get it? I did not. Within half an hour Delphine had triumphed over tragedy and the air was thick with Delphine's unbeautiful voice singing the dismal repertoire of hymns and the odor of chicken frying.

  Nor were hymns and chicken Delphine's only shortcomings. Not being a student of comparative religions, I don't know the exact precepts of the Happiness Church, but Saint Delphine had some notions about the sexual relationships of unmarried boys and girls that seemed awfully advanced to one of my simple Presbyterian upbringing.

  Delphine felt that young people were put on earth to pleasure one another, with or without benefit of clergy. And so every morning while she fed Nan and Sue and Dick and Curly in the kitchen, she urged the girls to play up to the boys, to wait on them hand and foot, all to the accompaniment of some of Delphine's more aphrodisiac Happiness Church hymns. Curly loved it, naturally. Dick was embarrassed, naturally. And the girls were perfectly furious—even more naturally.

  Finally Nan and Sue came to me and complained. In any other circumstances I might have been amused by the ludicrous incongruity of the situation. But since I functioned not only as employer but also as chaperone to Nan and Sue and Dick, the news came to me as something of a shock. If there was one duty I did not plan to undertake, it was writing a polite note to some genteel mother beginning:

  Dear Madam:

  It may interest you to know that your daughter was married to our imbecilic wrangler, Curly, Wednesday last at a quiet Happiness Church ceremony. The bride—radiant in shades of blue—was attended by our cook, Saint Delphine, etc.

  And besides being responsible for the well-being of the kids, I wasn't in the least anxious for either of my nice young girls to get involved with—or even interested in—a dope like Curly. So I told Delphine in no uncertain terms to stop her advice to the unlovelorn and to start cooking a ham, a steak, a haunch of venison—anything except chicken—for dinner.

  Delphine was unable to follow either of my instructions and, armed with phonograph, records, hymn book, and religious tracts, she left us, admitting that she didn't do our kind of cooking so well, but she sure could cook chicken. She sure could. The minute she was gone I tucked up my sleeves, tossed a rib roast into the oven, and served it almost bleeding raw. We all loved it.

  Saint Delphine was replaced by another couple who actually lasted out the whole summer! He did the cooking, she helped out generally, they had two children, two dogs, and one cat. That meant that there were ten of us—not counting livestock—to feed at each meal, and still not a single paying guest! But we were booked solidly for the remainder of June and all of July and August, so I felt that Bill and I could endure the idleness and the loneliness and the expense for a few more days if only the staff could behave its collective self.

  But do you think such a miracle could possibly come to pass? Not on your tintype!

  Curly cracked.

  We had all gone to the local drive-in movie one night, leaving Curly and Dick in charge of the ranch. When we returned the place was in darkness and everything seemed in order. So far so good. Since it was after eleven, we naturally assumed that both Curly and Dick had gone to bed, which was just what we were dying to do.

  I was brushing my teeth as noisily as ever when Bill rapped on the bathroom door.

  "Globble, globble?" I said through the foam and bristles.

  "Barbara, don't you hear horses galloping?" Bill said. I couldn't have been more irritated. Taking the toothbrush out of my mouth and sending a fine spray into the washbasin, I glared at the closed door and said: "Of course I do. It's the Headless Horseman, Ichabod Crane. Now go to bed and I promise to call the psychiatrist first thing in the morning."

  "No, Barbara," Bill said. "Turn off the water and listen."

  Well, anything for peace. "Very well," I said, twisting the handle of the faucet. "Just to show you that you're fancying things I'll . . ." Then I stopped. There it was, just as plain and as eerie as a radio sound effect-hoofs on the driveway. I snapped off the bathroom light and peered through the window. Two horses galloped up the driveway and headed off toward the corral. From the flamboyant, overly-showy style of one of the riders—which was even more flamboyant and more overly-showy that night—I was certain one of them was Curly.

  "It's only Curly and Dick, probably," I said to Bill.

  "Damn that Curly," Bill growled, "I told him he was in charge, but that doesn't mean galloping over the countryside in the dead of night and . . ."

  "Oh, well, don't worry," I said, getting into bed. "Nothing's missing."

  How wrong I was. In less than five minutes it was painfully evident that a great deal was missing—and all of it liquor.

  The two boys lurched and staggered toward the bunk-house in such a fashion as to leave little question, in even the most charitably disposed, as to what the true trouble was. They were higher than kites, and Bill, feeling not in the least charitable at the moment, was out for blood.

  "Barbara," he stormed, "I'm not only going out there and fire those two, I'm going to throw them off the property with my own hands—even if I get beat up doing it."

  "But, Bill, Dick is such a nice, clean-cut boy. I'm sure . . ."

  "Nice, clean-cut boy my ear! He's too young to drink, but he's not too young to get fired, and that's just what I'm going to do now!" Bill roared, reaching for his shirt.

  But the female of the species is always deadlier than the male and I felt certain I could cure Dick. "You're going to do nothing of the kind," I said firmly. "You come to bed right now. I'll take care of them both tomorrow. I don't honestly care what happens to Curly, but I promise you that Dick will be reformed forever." For once Bill listened to me. Still boiling, he got into bed. I set the alarm clock a full hour ahead and followed.

  The next morning I got up at five, bathed, dressed rather elaborately, and made for the kitchen. A quick inventory of the liquor supply showed me that large quantities were missing from a large assortment of bottles—even the cooking sherry. Just thinking of the bizarre combination of drinks the two culprits had consumed while on duty made even me feel a little sick, and I didn't like to think of the way they'd be feeling.

  But I went to the kitchen and got to work at the stove. I cooked for two hours without stopping until there wasn't a clean pan left. I made a whole pot of black coffee—eighteen cups—and what I couldn't drink myself I poured down the d
rain. A little after seven the two of them came groaning in, looking like death on a cracker.

  Here goes Barbara's Hangover Cure, I said grimly to. myself; then I turned my most radiant smile on the boys. "Good morning!" I squealed, so shrilly that their hair stood on end. "Do sit down. I've made the biggest, bestest old breakfast for you. I just woke up early and I said to myself, 'Now what would Barbara's boys like this morning any better than a big, hearty he-man's breakfast.' So I just crept out of bed and started cooking and cooking. And here it is!" With a sweeping gesture, I indicated the huge kitchen table, every square inch of which was covered with the nastiest, most indigestible dishes possible—heavy, greasy, sweet, or all three, and every speck of it stone cold.

  "Now sit right down, boys, and eat a big, big breakfast, because I have lots of work for you both today. You, Curly, are to clean up the whole corral, since we have a lot of Texas people coming tomorrow. It's to be spotless. And then the manure is to be carried over the hill and spread very thinly over Joe Vigil's berry beds. Curly! What's the matter with you? Do eat your nice mush! And then I have one of your favorite dishes over on that corner of the table—rare pork chops and garlic bread." Curly looked as though he were going to faint, but he was too smart to say anything. "Now the corral should take you at least until lunchtime. Lunch, by the way, is going to be an experiment: sauerkraut, creamed hog's lungs, Bavarian cream, and cherry pop."

  "Oh, Miz Barbara," he moaned, half rising from the table.

  "Curly, do sit down! You know how Barbara loves to see her boys eat. Here, try a little maple syrup over your pumpernickel. They say that's delicious. And as for you, Richard," I said, keeping up a running flow of screeching brittle chitchat, "there's all this garbage that has to go to the dump. Here, Dickie, eat," I said, plopping a couple of cold greasy fried eggs on top of a wedge of leftover pecan pie I'd put on his plate. "Maybe you boys would like some dill pickles and peaches?"

  Curly got up and left the room on the double. He didn’t come back, but I saw him out in the corral, painfully cleaning the place in the broiling sun.

  However, I still had my younger victim, Dick, to torture, and I showed no mercy. "Now I'm just going to sit here and see that you eat everything on the table, Dick. I wouldn't want your mother to think I was starving you to death out here."

  "Really, I just can't," he moaned, holding his head.

  "Why, Dickie-bird," I screamed in my gay coloratura soprano, "if I didn't know you better, I'd swear you were suffering from a severe hangover. But that isn't true, is it?" I said with a shark's smile.

  "No, Barbara," he groaned. "All I had was some beer."

  "Beeeeeeer?" I shrilled, as though it were a newly coined word. "Where in the world did you ever get beer? We haven't had any in the icebox for a week."

  "Uh, Curly bought some and offered me a little," Dick said miserably.

  "Yes?" I asked pregnantly, knowing Curly would never spend a nickel of his own on beer when there was better to be swiped for free.

  "Well, I just had a couple of sips of beer and it tasted so terrible that I had to drink some milk to kill the taste and then I was as sick as a dog all night."

  "Just fancy," I chirped. "As sick as that on just 'a couple of sips of beer.' Well, don't worry about that. Finish your nice breakfast, then off to the dump, then you can curry all the horses and then wash the station wagon and then . . ."

  Poor Dick. He worked like a slave all day, each chore hotter and more unpleasant than the one before. Bill and the rest of the staff joined me in my charade of sweetness and light, asking him oversolicitously how he was feeling and offering him sticky bits of cake and candy throughout the day. Not a word was mentioned about the night before and the poor kid looked as though he were going to drop. Curly looked even worse, but then, nobody cared about him. The final indignity came at five o'clock when the two of them had performed at least a week's work and were panting for a cool swim. At that point, Bill drained the pool.

  After dinner, however, Bill—in the role of the heavy father—gave them both what-for. Dick hadn't the strength left to repeat his lie of the morning about those few sips of beer. Naturally, Curly had put him up to the whole escapade, but Dick was too decent to tattle. Curly, on the other hand, started to say it had all been Dick's idea, but Bill gave him such a glare midway in the first sentence of this pretty fiction that he thought better of it and clammed up.

  Dick was dying to get between the sheets and forget he'd ever been born, but Bill didn't let him go until he swore he'd never touch another drop again. And I'm as sure as I am of my own name that he never ever did.

  As for that Curly, he was put on the strictest probation, after a display of tears that would put the fountains of Versailles to shame. But of course we should have known him well enough by then not to have given him another chance.

  A week later Curly didn't just crack again, he split wide open, and I began the season not only with a houseful of guests, but also with a second splash, and this one a lot more serious than the first.

  The guests were solidly Texan, and I don't mind telling you that the prospect of Texans made me more than a little nervous. In New York City, at least, Texans were reputed to be difficult customers. I'd had no personal experience with any of them before, but the oil-rich or mutation-mink Texas dames I'd seen you-alling their way through Bergdorf Goodman's had certainly been difficult customers and so I naturally deduced that all Texans had more money than taste and more oil than sense. But Texans made up a large proportion of New Mexico's visitors because New Mexico is not only handy to Texas, but also because New Mexico has cool summers while Texas summers are unbearably hot.

  The first wave of Texans consisted of Dr. and Mrs. Gale Collins and their little girl, Mikie, from Midland—a boom town in oil and cattle millions. I was scared witless at the very prospect of them, and when Gale stepped—or, rather, unfolded himself—from his car, I was quite speechless. He stood about six feet five in his heels. He had wavy blond hair and when he smiled his teeth were so bright that I reached for my sunglasses. But at least he had smiled. Still, it was like being visited by a silent screen star, because he hardly spoke at all. Instead, he just looked the place over, selected one of the houses for his wife and his daughter, almost entirely in pantomime, and disappeared into it.

  The second Texas family was even more scarifying because they had been coming to Rancho del Monte for years while Bess Huntinghouse was running it. Thinking back to our dismal failure with the two women who were seemingly inconsolable over the absence of Bess earlier in the season, I was afraid the same thing would happen with the Boyer family—personality problems and all that sort of thing. The Boyers had booked a whole house for two months and they were preceded by quite an array of personal effects. They sent ahead their own saddles, Mrs. Boyer's painting equipment, a collection of books that would have done justice to a small library, and, of all things, a Hammond electric organ! Finally the Boyers themselves arrived, accompanied by their college-age daughter, Henrietta, and two cocker spaniels. Since they knew the place much better than I did, it seemed rather pointless to show them around. So that influx of Texans also disappeared into a house, and all I heard from them was the organ. It made me feel a little like the Phantom of the Opera, except that Mrs. Boyer was playing "Tea For Two." All in all, the Texans had been a most unsettling experience and I was sure they were going to be more than difficult—they'd be impossible.

  And so, naturally, it was just at this time that Curly chose to act up again. He'd been becoming more and more difficult to get along with. He worked poor Dick like a stevedore and did nothing himself. He had taken to bossing the whole staff around as though he, and not Bill and I, were running the place, and he'd driven Nan and Sue to tears more than once. On top of that, Curly was getting increasingly fresh with Bill. He seemed to take pleasure in doing exactly the opposite of whatever Bill told him to do, considering Bill, I guess, a green city dude who was frivolous and easygoing and just in business f
or a romp.

  Well, my Bill might have been frivolous and easygoing, but he was dead serious when it came to earning and saving as many dollars as possible whenever it was possible. And just because Bill and I have placid dispositions and aren't given to melodramatic scenes of passion, rage, or despair doesn't mean we can't get just as sore and be just as serious as the next fellow. Still, Curly, whose intelligence never began to match his conceit, just wouldn't believe Bill could snarl as well as smile, or that our few rules and regulations were meant to be followed to the letter.

  One rule—and a rule, it seemed to me, that was self-evident—was that horses were not to be ridden around the grounds or anywhere near the house or pool. Riders went down the drive when they left and came back up the drive to the corral when they returned and that was as close as they ever came to the house. All riders, that is, except Curly.

  But on our second day of "difficult" Texans, Dick came panting into the house and said, "Bill, have you any idea how to get a horse out of the reservoir?"

  "Get a what out of the what?" Bill said.

  "A horse out of the reservoir," Dick repeated.

  "Of course you're kidding," Bill said.

  "No. I'm not. Black Horse is in the reservoir and we can't get him out."

  Bill and I raced up the hill to see one of the grisliest sights in the history of New Mexico. Our reservoir was almost as big as our swimming pool. It was about six feet deep and it supplied all the water—drinking, cooking, bathing, everything—for the household. And there, standing up to his belly in the reservoir, shivering with cold and frenzy, and surrounded by dirt, gravel, chips, flies, and bits of wood and tar paper, was Black Horse. Curly was in it, too.