Guestward Ho!

by Patrick Dennis

  As for Miss Ladydog, she was every bit as badly dressed as Miss Mouse, but the effect was more provocative if you happened to be a man. She came slinking in to dinner in a black lace dress so taut across her padding that the whole sleazy outfit was in imminent danger of bursting. Sporting another pair of wrap-around sandals and a ton of fake jewelry, I suppose her getup was okay for street-walking but it was wildly inappropriate for life on a ranch. She'd slapped on so much scent and make-up that the effect, while far from natural-looking or pleasing—if you happened to be a woman—stunned the average man into thinking she was Aphrodite.

  Miss Ladydog came from California and spoke of herself as "in pictures," although she never said in what capacity. She tossed around first names like Marlene and Marlon and Gary and Cary with great monotony. She also gave herself airs and graces that were as funny as they were phony—if you happened not to be a man. Unlike Miss Mouse, Miss Ladydog was not sweet or nice or genuine. But like Miss Mouse, she was also a bore and the biggest bore I've ever met in my life.

  Both of the extra ladies were booked in for two weeks, and while I had a vague feeling that neither of them would ever last it out, I was dead certain that I never could.

  Since Miss Mouse was painfully shy and since Miss Ladydog wasn't shy at all, I made it a point to keep an eagle eye out for both of them so, that Miss Mouse would have a good time and so that Miss Ladydog wouldn't have too good a time at the expense of some other woman. It only took about two days for the Hollywood bombshell to alienate every other female on the place. Even the cook's wife came to me and said, "Mrs. Hooton, Jim's a decent family man and he's a good cook, but if the rolls is tough tonight it ain't his fault and it ain't mine. It's that dyed-haired chippy from California."

  "Whatever do you mean?" I asked stupidly.

  "You know exackly what I mean," she said, turning a dull red. "All day long that fly-up-the-creek has been out in the kitchen foolin' around with my Jim. Jim's no different than no other man and I'm no different than no other woman, but let me tell you that if she don't get out of the kitchen, we're gettin' out. I got kids to raise an' I want 'em raised decent."

  "Why, I, um . . ." I faltered.

  "Excuse me for talking so blunt," she said and marched out of my room with a sob.

  Even the Collins' daughter Mikie, who was only six, despised Miss Ladydog. In front of Gale Collins, Miss Ladydog simply couldn't see enough of Mikie—"Oh, I just adore little ones, Gale!" she had cooed. But when Mikie and the seductress were alone arid Mikie tried to reciprocate this undying devotion, she got short shrift and a sharp slap that not only wounded and mystified the child but also galvanized her into action as the youngest member of the Ladies' Team.

  I knew something had to be done and so I suggested riding—after all, that's what most people come to ranches for. To my surprise, Miss Mouse rode beautifully, and in a shirt and jeans and just one cameo, plus a riding hat to cover that unfortunate coiffure, she looked a whole lot less dowdy. Even tongue-tied Harry remarked on how well she sat a horse.

  To my still greater surprise, Miss Ladydog fell in with the idea, too. I'd considered her a purely indoor sport. But when she showed up at the corral in an emerald-green riding suit with mascara to match, two horses shied and Harry turned the color of a bowl of borsch and stayed that way.

  Miss Ladydog claimed she didn't know much about riding but she thought she could do fine with some nice man like my Bill or Gale Collins to teach her. It didn't take me long to catch on. "What a shame," I crooned, "they're already out. But I know you can catch up with them as soon as Harry, here, teaches you the fundamentals." Harry got even redder when Miss Ladydog turned her dazzling porcelain caps in his direction, and I was about to suggest she do up the top seven or eight buttons of her shirt so as to avoid getting her stomach too sunburned when I was summoned to the telephone. When I got back, they were gone.

  But two of the gladiators were soon retired from the fray. That very afternoon Gale Collins was thrown from a horse and ended up with an arm in a sling—cracked elbow, terribly painful but not terribly serious.

  The same day Bill, while busily loading the car, somehow rammed a case of Coca-Cola into his middle and then, with a vile oath, dropped it onto his foot, conveniently breaking one rib and one big toe.

  Maxine Collins and I were of two minds about how lucky or unlucky we were to have husbands on the sick list. On one hand, it meant that two of Miss Ladydog's prize stallions were put to pasture, so to speak. And although we loved our husbands, we were just as glad to have them out of the running while the menace stalked the ranch. On the other hand, it also meant that Bill and Gale were immobile and had no means of either escape or self-defense if Miss Ladydog decided to turn into Florence Nightingale. Which is exactly what she did.

  Yet, a fortunate thing happened. Unable to do anything strenuous, Bill and Gale sat in gloomy splendor in the lounge working a vast jigsaw puzzle and feeling terribly sorry for themselves. Miss Ladydog apparently felt even sorrier for them and loved nothing quite so much as hanging over Gale's shoulder and delivering motherly words of encouragement and advice as to how to put the puzzle together. But she made her fatal error when she thought she saw a piece that would go nicely into a far corner. In trying to fit it in, she leaned too far forward and fell against Gale's bad elbow. With a bellow of agony, Gale shot his foot out under the table, catching Bill's bad toe. The roaring and raging that went on for the next fifteen minutes quite discouraged Miss Ladydog from messing around with the sick and wounded any further. Maxine and I were delighted.

  Dick, who was still in high school, would probably have been her next victim, but since I didn't want a charge of contributing to the delinquency of a minor leveled against the ranch, I saw to it that he kept well out of her sight.

  So the entire burden of entertaining the two manless women fell upon me—and poor shy Harry. Since the kitchen and my cook had been put off limits to Miss Ladydog, and since all the other male guests were fifty and better, with watchful wives in tow, Harry became her target. We worked out an informal little pattern of existence whereby Harry took Miss Mouse, Miss Ladydog, and me out riding every morning. A sorrier quartette has never been seen, what with Miss Ladydog flirting, Harry blushing, Miss Mouse discussing timetables, and me yawning. Since Miss Ladydog was a perfectly abominable rider—worse than I was—Harry and Miss Mouse usually went cantering out stylishly in the lead, with the two of us bringing up the rear. But that didn't satisfy Miss Ladydog for a minute, and she nearly broke her neck trying to get alongside poor Harry. She took some terrible chances, and one day, to my delight, she got thrown. But she even managed to turn that into an advantage. She insisted that her ankle was sprained, if not broken, and made Harry carry her home on his horse. She whimpered dramatically every step of the way and put her arms around Harry's neck while he turned the color of a brick but grinned like a fool and seemed not to mind a bit Miss Mouse and I led the Ladydog's mount back to the ranch.

  Nor was Harry free of his harem after lunch. Since Bill was unable to drive, Harry had to chauffeur Miss Mouse and Miss Ladydog around the countryside every afternoon with me along as chaperone. Miss Ladydog always managed to park herself in the front seat next to Harry while Miss Mouse and I sat in the rear.

  Harry had worked around the Santa Fe area for so long that he knew all the most interesting places to see. We'd start off on lovely drives to Black Mesa or to the primitive, inbred Spanish villages up in the hills. Or we'd go to the Puye Indian Ruins or the waterfalls at Nambe or off to San Ildefonso to see the fascinating shop of Popovi Da, son of the famous Maria, the potter of San Ildefonso. These were all places I loved, but I certainly didn't love them in the company I was keeping. I'd look first at Miss Mouse and wonder just what had possessed her to wear orange lipstick with that pink flowered dress—and then I'd wonder what evil influence had been at work when she bought the dress in the first place. I finally had to sit on my hands just to keep from getting at her pretty hair and
doing something with it. Then I'd lamp Miss Ladydog with her beaded lashes, her stagey paint job, her too-short shorts, her naked blouses in vibrant greens and reds and blues, and I'd have to sit harder on my hands to keep from tearing her limb from limb.

  And the steady babble of opposing conversations would really stagger you.

  "Oh, Harry, darling, I just love the way you ride. You're so masterful with a horse. . ."

  "Now the N.C. & St. L. has a very unusual schedule on Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays, Mrs. Hooton . . ."

  "You ought to come out to the Coast and visit me, Harry. Why, with the way you ride, I could get you into pictures just like that! . , ."

  "The most terrible thing happened when the printer made a mistake about the five-oh-four on the Missouri Pacific summer timetable . . ."

  "I know just tons of really famous Western stars, Harry, and they always need doubles and stunt riders and people of your caliber . . ."

  "Instead of printing five-oh-four, he printed four-oh-five, and all the people in the station were . . ."

  "I have a darling little bungalow, Harry, and I could introduce you to . . ."

  Harry just blushed on.

  I seethed.

  Both the ladies loved shopping, too, and while it was good for Harry to be shut of Miss Ladydog's vampire act and sit solemnly out in the car, it was just twice as hard on me. Santa Fe has some heavenly shops where with taste and discretion you can find beautiful things to wear that are just as perfect for any other part of the country as they are for the Southwest. (Please let me be the first to admit you can also wind up with some duds which, while they look okay—and not much more—in New Mexico give the distinct impression of either fancy dress or eccentricity east of the Santa Fe city limits.) But Miss Mouse had no taste and Miss Ladydog had neither taste nor discretion, so that shopping with them became a terrible emotional strain on me, and my tongue was swollen from being held immobile by my teeth so that I wouldn't blurt out something true but tactless like "Oh, you can't be seen in that!"

  Kay Stephens, for example, is a New York girl who has come out West and made an enormous name for herself with her lovely blouses and sportswear. Mostly handmade, her things are expensive, but worth it because they're so lovely. But it takes caution and discernment to mix even Kay's beautiful skirts and shirts and slacks and shorts. Of course, they were too becoming for Miss Mouse to be interested. But Miss Ladydog, having no discernment whatever, threw caution to the winds and spent like a drunken sailor. She mixed and mismatched to her heart's content and I shuddered to see her couple a bold red and white striped blouse with a violet skirt, a yellow belt, and a peacock blue shawl. Even Kay's saleswoman was a little shaken, and she was used to headstrong shoppers.

  At The Shop, which is run by Elinor Bedell and which carries a little of everything, from Spanish antiques to the newest in modern furniture, Miss Mouse bought an opal brooch to add to her cameos and called it quits. Not Miss Ladydog. She went in heavily for thong sandals, Mexican shawls, lots of bright beads, and made a little scene when they didn't have a rebozo in cyclamen.

  The Thunderbird deals in jewelry, all of it beautiful and most of it extreme. But nothing was extreme enough to suit Miss Ladydog, and after a long session of saying "I'll take this and this and this and two of that," she came clanking and jangling onto the street a-bobble with exotic rings and bracelets and necklaces and drooping earrings.

  At Gan's and Santa Fe Western Wear she went out of her way to choose six of the most garish squaw dresses and fiesta dresses—and these really just do not go outside the Southwest—I've ever seen. All in all, she looked exactly like a broken-down Mexican madam, and when she forced poor Harry to escort her into Hotel La Fonda for a drink, he was speechless with embarrassment and shuffled along the sidewalk about ten paces behind her, trying in his naive way to give the impression that they had never met before. But still he grinned.

  Miss Mouse, proud as punch of her new brooch, simply sat out in the car and told me the entire schedule of the defunct Denver and Rio Grande narrow-gauge railroad.

  I was about at the end of my tether with Miss Mouse and Miss Ladydog, what with riding with them each morning, shopping with them each afternoon, and chatting with them each evening. However, as a wife, I had to protect other wives from Miss Ladydog and as a victim of boredom I had to protect everyone from the railway reminiscences of Miss Mouse. To make things worse, there wasn't a single man expected until a full week after their departure. I was about to call the USO to send around a dozen sailors or to call the state mental institution to come and get me when someone—I can't remember who it was—suggested a pack trip.

  Bill always took pack trips out for one, two, or as many as three full days and nights, but since he was immobilized it was out of the question. I've never been on a pack trip and never hope to go on one. Tents and sleeping bags and cooking over campfires have never appealed to me. I love the great outdoors, but I prefer to spend my nights on box springs under an eiderdown—just peculiar, I guess. However, Harry was on hand to shepherd the flock of hardier souls over the mountains and that suited me just fine.

  What suited me even better was that Miss Mouse was quite willing to go, while Miss Ladydog was in a perfect frenzy to get moving. Two older couples were also in the party and I foolishly thought that their presence would keep our man-chaser in check. I stayed up most of one night preparing the pack boxes. (I forgot paper napkins.) It was a terrible chore, but I loved every minute of it, because to me it meant three whole untrammeled days and nights of being myself and not having to talk about railroads or Hollywood or clothes or men.

  The party got off to a late start, owing to the extensive wardrobe of fiesta dresses and riding habits Miss Ladydog felt would be essential to the call of the wild. But finally they trotted off, and the last thing I saw was Miss Ladydog's rather prominent rear end, made all the more prominent in turquoise blue jeans, bouncing up and down in the saddle as she tried to jockey her horse up next to Harry.

  "At last!" I said, pirouetting into the lounge and collapsing on the sofa where Bill was still fitting the puzzle together. "Three glorious days without having either of les girlies around my neck. No more timetables, no more sleazy slacks and fiesta dresses dogging my footsteps from dawn till dark! Ecstasy!"

  "You're not being fair to her, Barbara," Bill said stuffily. "I thought she looked very striking as they set out this morning." (Oh, but I was thankful for those broken bones.)

  "Striking? She was enough to scare a vulture away. She looked exactly like . . ."

  "Barbara," Bill said grandly, "it just isn't like you to be so prejudiced against another woman. Now, I'll admit that Miss Mouse is a terrible bore and certainly no looker, but that other one has a lot of spirit—just good, healthy, animal spirits."

  "Indeed?" I said. I plunked a piece into the corner of his puzzle, gave him a black look, and went off to the pantry for some spirits of my own.

  That night I felt especially gay. I had a lot of sidecars and what seemed to me the best dinner I'd ever eaten. I talked to anyone I felt like talking to about any subject under the sun. We square-danced—which I don't usually like to do very much—and I fell into bed about midnight feeling like a debutante.

  But my freedom was short-lived. At eight o'clock the following morning the whole pack trip reappeared, suddenly and sullenly. Harry looked like a thundercloud and went straight off to the corral. Miss Mouse came into the house in a perfect trance and drifted off to her room without seeming to notice anybody. The two men of the party came in looking confused and embarrassed, while their wives tried in vain to conceal their expressions of feline amusement.

  The last one to come in was Miss Ladydog. How did she look? Different, certainly, but I can't quite describe it. First of all, she was a good deal less "done up" than usual. The super paint job that had attracted so many admiring glances from the men looked as though it had been applied hastily in the pitch dark—as it probably had—so that, while the result
was still overwhelming, it just wasn't the effect she must have had in mind. The glossy, brilliantined black bob was a trifle disheveled, too, and looked as if there might have been a few burs nestled in it—as there also probably were. But the greatest difference was her carriage and her expression. She no longer switched and twitched like a Grade B show girl; instead, she sort of glided in as though her feet hadn't quite touched the ground. And as for her face, it looked kind of humble and softened, as though she were about to go into a cataleptic seizure.

  "Good morning," I said with a cheer I didn't feel.

  Miss Ladydog, always one to get a half nelson on any conversational opening, didn't say anything. As one struck deaf, she floated up the stairway and disappeared from view.

  Bill, who was seated before the jigsaw puzzle, was just as perplexed as I was.

  "What do you suppose has happened?" I said.

  "How should I know, Barbara? Ask somebody."

  Well, there wasn't anybody around to ask. The whole pack trip had disappeared into its individual rooms. So I ordered breakfast to be made for all of our unexpected adventurers and waited impatiently for someone to show up who could tell us the news. At last one of the women came down and I pounced upon her for details.

  "Well, my dear, I don't actually know what happened," she began, "but in the middle of the night—about three o'clock in the morning, really—there was this terrible noise and caterwauling and . . ."

  That was as far as she got. Just then Harry came in, dressed in his city suit.

  "Mister Bill, Miss Barbara, ma'am," he said, turning bright red, "I'm quittin'."