Guestward Ho!

by Patrick Dennis

  I still considered The Dreadnought one of the most unpardonably horrible old dragons ever created, but I was almost mesmerized by her sheer gall, and although I was enjoying myself that summer—outside the bunk-house—with a full house, I still didn't want to slam the door in her whiskery old face. I had discovered by then that we actually hadn't made a profit during our first year and even if we were having fun with our twenty-five guests that season, a long, cold, deficit-ridden winter was on its way and the state relief rolls didn't look like my idea of Utopia. If we couldn't make a go of the ranch, the smartest thing to do would be to sell out at a profit—to quote The Dreadnought—and set ourselves up back in New York again. So I kept my eyes open and mouth shut and did a lot of deep soul searching out among the wildlife in the bunkhouse.

  One day late in August I was having an especially gloomy little soul search out in my bunkhouse boudoir. Sprawled on the bed—the only place one could sit—I wasn't liking what had been searched out of my soul and I was in one of those What-is-a-lovely-talented-exquisite-creature-like-me-doing-in-a-dump-like-this? moods. Something had come up to annoy me. Some thing? Indeed, about two hundred things. Lunch had been lousy—not bad, but just dull because of my bungled menu planning; the laundry was late with the sheets; Bill and I weren't seeing enough of one another except in the bunkhouse when we were seeing altogether too much of each other; a tradesman had padded his bill and there had been a scene; our bed had collapsed in the middle of the night and for once neither of us had been amused (the wranglers, however, had been convulsed, which only made Bill and me madder); The Dreadnought had been particularly nauseating on the telephone that morning and I had been afraid that Bill would overhear my end of the conversation; a perfect flood of letters and post cards had poured in from our rich New York friends, every man Jack of whom seemed to be living "practically free" in the most heavenly apartments in England, France, and Italy for the summer; my own heavenly apartment was unbelievably hot, stuffy, and buzzing with insect life. I was, in a word, glum.

  "Having a nice cry?" a voice said.

  I turned, and standing in the doorway was Connie White, looking exasperatingly smart and armed with two cans of cold beer.

  "Connie!" I said, cheering up immediately. "Back from Colorado Springs?"

  "Colorado Springs and San Francisco and a number of other places. Can you put me up for a few days?"

  "I think so," I said. "It's the end of the week. Somebody's due to leave."

  "Good—oh," she said. "Here. Skol!" Connie plumped herself onto the middle of the bed and got all set for a good gab session. "Been busy?"

  "Mobbed. The house full. Bill and me living out here with the wranglers. Isn't it pretty?" At that, a creature of some kind scampered over the roof and both The Girls took off in pursuit.

  "It isn't so bad," Connie said. "You could knock down a couple of partitions, insulate it, cut a few big picture windows into the walls, and take all that useless garage space for bathrooms and a kitchen. For five to ten thousand dollars you could turn this into quite a nice house."

  "Well, I just don't happen to have five to ten thousand dollars on me at the moment!" I snapped, irritated for the first time with Connie. "And if I had, I wouldn't be spending it on this shack. In fact, I wouldn't even be here!" Then I calmed down, remembering that Connie, like so many of the very, very rich, often spoke of mere money as though it were something everybody had in superabundance, like bills, gray hairs, and problems.

  "Have you thought at all about what I suggested to you?" she asked.

  "You mean about buying out our interest in the ranch?"

  "I mean about buying out your interest in the ranch," Connie said matter-of-factly.

  "Then you weren't kidding?"

  "Not at all." Then Connie went all over girlish. "Listen, Barbara, I've met a man. He's a transplanted Easterner, like me. He's crazy about the West and about ranching and riding and doing all the things I like to do. And I think he wants to marry me. At least he gave every indication of it."

  "Connie!" I said. "That's wonderful! What's his name? What's he like? Where did you meet him? What does he do?"

  Once again we were at it—two almost-middle-aged women gossiping like schoolgirls. Snapshots, a Sinatra record, and youth were all we lacked.

  Connie had indeed met a man she liked. He was thirty-five, retired, and dying to live in the Southwest. In fact, when Connie had met him, he was shopping around quietly for a guest ranch to buy which he could run "for fun and profit." Those words sounded sinisterly familiar to me, but apparently money was the least of the young man's worries. Now Connie was back with us to share her richly deserved happiness.

  Connie was established in a recently vacated bedroom and set about once more to charm the whole household. She still had all people of all ages falling at her feet, but I thought I detected the certain sappy softness of a woman in love this visit. Connie had also developed a certain proprietary air about the ranch, and she bustled about every morning working twice as hard as I did, making beds, shaking rugs, answering the telephone, doing all kinds of managerial things with such gusto and efficiency that you would never have dreamed she had been born to the purple. She worked so hard, in fact, that there was almost nothing left for me to do. So one morning when everything seemed well in hand, I deserted the ship and drove into town with Bill to pick out some sorely needed new duds at Kay Stephens' shop.

  When I returned, looking—or so I thought—just as fetching as an expenditure of twenty dollars would allow anyone to look, Connie met me at the door with her black eyes blazing.

  "What kind of double cross is this?" she demanded dangerously.

  "What kind of double cross is what?" I asked, stunned.

  "That old bezum on the phone this morning—Mrs. Washington Jefferson Lincoln, or whatever her name was . . ."

  "Oh, you meanThe Dreadnought?"

  "Well, she seems to think she's going to buy my ranch! I told her in no uncertain terms she . . ."

  "Connie, you didn't insult her?"

  "Since I was so mad that I did it in Greek, I don't suppose the old battle-ax knows whether she was insulted or not. But I certainly am. What kind of friend are you to go sneaking behind my back and selling my place to her?"

  "Connie!" I said. "Relax. I haven't gone sneaking behind anybody's back. The Dreadnought came sneaking in here all by herself and ever since then her People have been sneaking around. But I didn't say I'd sell it to her. I didn't say I'd sell it to you. I just don't know."

  "You mean to stand there and tell me that you'd even consider selling it to her, after all you and Bill and I . . ."

  "Connie, I haven't considered selling to a soul. I haven't even mentioned it to Bill. I still don't know. But if we were going to sell out, I'm sure we'd choose you—first, because we both love you and we'd want the ranch to go to someone we loved, and second, because I think we could gouge more money out of you. The Dreadnought is fairly close with a buck, let me tell you."

  "Well, why do you vacillate around like such a ninny?" Connie demanded. "If you don't like it here, why don't you just tell Bill, sell out, pack up, and start life all over again someplace that you do like?"

  "It's not quite that simple, Connie," I said. "In the first place, I don't not like it here. I get to like it better every day and, of course, Bill loves it. He always has. But I'm not sure we can ever make a go of it or that we won't end up on the bread line. I just don't know how much longer we can afford to scrape along making zero profit, or, even losing every year."

  "Well, in that case, name your price. Whatever it is—within reason—I'll give you. You can take your time moving out and go to New York and start in at something else."

  "Connie," I said, with the patience of Job, "it isn't all quite that easy. Bill and I aren't as well off as you." There was a little gem of understatement! "We can't just pick up and go whenever we feel the urge, as you can. We'd have to find an apartment we could afford. Buy furniture. Settle in. Befor
e we did that, both of us would have to find jobs. I know it's hard for you rich to understand, but people like us—and that's most of the people in the world—have to . . ."

  "Well, if that's all you're worried about," Connie said calmly, "why didn't you say so? I have an apartment in New York that isn't bad at all. Four good-sized rooms and a full kitchen on that treesy block of East Fifty-fifth. You could walk to work and save carfare and the rent hasn't gone up a cent since before the war."

  "How come?" I asked suspiciously.

  "Because Daddy owns the building."

  "Any furniture?" I asked. "It would cost thousands to furnish a . . ."

  "I've got all kinds of furniture right in the flat. It's mostly French stuff, if you like that; some Italian. I'd throw that in with the rest of the deal. That is, if you wanted it."

  "I love French furniture," I said dreamily. "Ill bet it's beautiful. But what you don't understand, Connie, is that we couldn't live indefinitely off the money you paid us for our lease on the ranch. I mean, Bill would have to find another job—and a good job. And good jobs aren't so easy to come by, especially if you've been out of touch for this long. A man gets a reputation as a floater and . . ."

  "Don't give it another thought," Connie said expansively. "I'll bet there are millions of things Bill could do in one of Daddy's companies. There's a bank and a real estate company and a shipping company and . . . Is Bill good at figures and keeping books and things like that?"

  "Is he good at it? Why, Bill Hooton is one of the slickest little bookkeepers ever to touch pen to paper," I said with a shade of bitterness. "And he can always show a profit."

  "That's just the kind of man Daddy's always looking for," Connie said. "I could call him up at Monte Carlo right now—reverse the charges, of course—and fix it in a minute." She headed purposefully for the telephone.

  "Hey, not so fast!" I said.

  "Well, I could, Barbara. It's about eight o'clock French time and Daddy's at his best during the cocktail hour."

  "So am I," I said, "but this is going to take a bit of doing. I still don't think that Bill would like . . ."

  "Well, I suppose I could write to Daddy," Connie said. "What would Bill expect to get? Ten, fifteen thousand? Something around there?"

  My jaw dropped almost to the floor. "Yes," I whispered weakly, "something around there." I'd have been grateful for a hundred bucks a week.

  "Good, then it's all settled," Connie said. "I'll write a. . . .”

  "Costanza," I said helplessly, "it is not 'all settled.' You're being kind and generous and fairy-godmotherish and I love you for it. But this is a long way from 'all settled.' I want to think about it for a long time all by myself. Then I want to take it up with Bill and see how he feels about it. I'll let you know as soon as I know. Really I will."

  "And you won't sell out to that old Mrs. Chrysler Cadillac Ford, or whatever she calls herself?"

  "Connie, I promise you—cross my heart and hope to die—that if you still want the wretched place and if we decide to go, then we'll fix it up with Bess Huntinghouse so that you and only you can take over from us. Now, isn't that fair?"

  "Fair's the word. Now let's hunt up Bill and start working on him."

  I tell you, there's nothing richer than a rich Greek, and there's nothing more compelling, either, once started. My head was spinning with visions of the life of Riley that could soon be the life of Barbara Hooton as well. I had just strength enough to put on the brakes.

  "Not so fast!" I said unwillingly. "Let me handle this in my own way. If we went bursting in on Bill right now, when he's in his element with a houseful of guests, and told him what we'd just been discussing, it would break his heart. And if there is one thing I don't want, it's a husband with a broken heart. When the time is ripe, I'll approach him, and, believe me, you'll be the first to hear. Now, is that a deal?"

  "It's a deal."

  Knees shaking and head spinning I made my way unsteadily to the bunkhouse and sank down in the bower of beetles, scorpions, hornets, lizards, rats, cacti, and condors, trying hard not to think about one single one of the wonderful things Connie had suggested.

  18. Good-bye to all that

  I didn't end up with a husband with a broken heart. Not me. I got a husband with a broken arm and I think that's even worse.

  Bill's big break came at the end of the season when, in a mood of boyish exhilaration, he offered a young guest a ride on the rump of a horse that obviously felt one passenger was more than enough.

  "Climb on!" Bill said generously.

  The young man got on behind Bill and then the horse went straight up in the air and came down in a spot about five feet away. Bill and our guest came to rest, too, but nowhere near the horse. Our guest sprained his wrist and Bill broke his left arm.

  Bill is left-handed.

  Just then our cook left us—not out of any fit of pique but simply because it was time to return to her winter job. And also just then, four new guests arrived. We were full up, and there I was, your genial hostess, with a crowded house, a wounded mate, and all the chores to take over.

  Bill tried to handle the kitchen, with my bumbling help, but such tasks as turning bacon, carving, or flipping flapjacks caused him agonies of pain—all the more so because he was quite unconscious of having his left arm in a cast until he absentmindedly attempted one of his usual run-of-the-mill culinary tasks and discovered, too late, that it hurt something awful.

  We tried bravely at preparing meals all by ourselves, but I'll admit the Pink Garter in Lamy did a land-office business from the ranch while Bill was incapacitated. Except for the money that dining out cost, I didn't mind a bit. The Pink Garter was loads of fun—almost as much fun just to see as to eat there. Lamy is a railroad town, dating from who knows when, about eighteen miles from Santa Fe. If you want to take the train to Santa Fe, Lamy is where you get off and pray that you can make connections into town. Across the street from the station stood the Pink Garter—false front, swinging doors, and all.

  In a tiny town that still looks like a set from a horse opera, the Pink Garter is really a perfect gem. It actually is a restored saloon and dance hall from the last century and the restoration has been done cleverly enough to make it authentic and nostalgic, but still not "cute." It boasts its original mahogany bar, a structure so massively elaborate that it reminds one of Hadrian's tomb, and the nineteenth century forerunner of the present-day juke box, which seems to run on gasoline, kerosene, steam, and whim and which also serves up hot peanuts while playing your grandfather's favorite popular air. There is delicious food—mostly steaks and chops and that delicacy locally known as the "New York cut." There is dancing to something a little more contemporaneous than the antique nickelodeon, and, all in all, the Pink Garter gives one the feeling of being in a very gay but rather wholesome night club.

  Even if he had to have his steaks cut up out in the kitchen, Bill seemed to be responding to the "meals out" routine imposed by his broken arm, and I took it as a sign that he might just perhaps be ready for a return trip to New York. As for me, all I wanted to do was to wait through the last siege of guests, enjoy the exquisite New Mexico autumn, and then strike out for New York.

  One evening at the Pink Garter, when Bill was feeling especially mellow on bourbon and beef, I even ventured to suggest a trip to New York during the November lull.

  "Sure," Bill said. "Why not? It sounds like a good idea. How long had you thought we might stay?"

  "A week?" I ventured timidly.

  "A week? Drive all that distance, stop off to see your family and then my family, and then only stay a week? It hardly seems worth it."

  "Ten days?" I suggested, gathering courage.

  "Barbara, that's just ridiculous. If we can't manage to stay for a decent length of time, go to some plays, see our old friends, I don't think we ought to go at all. It's like hiking to Tibet for the week end."

  "Well, if you think you can tear yourself away from the ranch that long . . ."
<
br />   "But of course we can," Bill said. "What's to stop us? There won't be any guests during November and it's too early for skiers. I'd like to go. I kind of miss New York every now and again."

  "You do?" I said, awed. Maybe this was going to be easier than I had thought.

  While Bill snored rhapsodically that night, I got out my very best letter paper and sent Connie this brief rocket:

  Dearest Con—

  Get Wall Street all tidied up and looking its best. Bill and I will be with you in November. If you can lure him into one of your father's firms, Rancho del Monte is yours.

  Love,

  Babs

  The minute the letter was sent—airmail, special delivery—my whole outlook began to change, but in a funny way. While I dreamed of nothing but being back in New York and while my head swam with plans for joining the Museum of Modern Art, the Theater Guild, Cinema 16, and the Society Library, I also began to look at the things around me with a different eye. While I was itching to leave the Southwest, I felt a new kind of tenderness about it.

  The guests that autumn were decidedly nonathletic. We had quite a few older people staying with us to whom violent sets of tennis, brisk plunges in the pool, and all-day rides meant little. That suited us just fine since Bill's arm was still mending, and so we passed lots of lovely days just driving about the countryside. Young Bill Parvin, who had been thrown off the horse with my Bill, manned the wheel and I sat rather grandly in the back seat—"Just like a New York taxicab," I kept telling my husband—and gaped at the sights of New Mexico. And, oddly enough, when I felt that I was looking at them for the last time, they meant a great deal more to me.

  Santa Fe claims to be the oldest city in America. And believe me, it's a claim that simply infuriates St. Augustine, Florida. Personally, I don't care which town eventually wins this long-running battle, but Santa Fe is old. Santa Fe boasts the oldest church, the oldest house, and the oldest public buildings, which is the Governor's Palace. Santa Fe isn't quaint—a word I have come to despise—but it is different, and for a place of some thirty thousand population, it has managed to retain most of its distinctive antique charm. It has narrow winding streets, adobe architecture almost exclusively, and you hear Spanish spoken just as much as English. For all its neon lights and movie theaters and department stores, Santa Fe still reminds me of a town in Spain or Italy much more than it does of an American city.