by Alice Duncan
Ernie’s office door closed just as the doorknob on the outer office door turned. There was no help for it. I straightened my spine, took two deep breaths for courage, hugged my pencil and pad close to my bosom in an effort to look professional, and sat up straight, ready to face my doom. I mean my mother.
The first thing I noticed when the door opened and Chloe and Mother entered the office was that Chloe was much more conservatively clad this morning than was usual for her. She always dressed beautifully and in the very height of fashion—she could afford to do so, since Harvey made tons of money in the movies—but today she wore a soft green crepe suit with a hip-length unfitted jacket, a green confection of a hat and green shoes and handbag to match. I recall seeing the costume in her closet once when we were selecting a dress for me to wear to a speakeasy—and I prayed to heaven Mother never learned about that incident—but I’d never seen it on Chloe.
As for Mother, she wore one of her Boston outfits of navy blue bombazine, mannishly cut, with red trim that should have given the costume a sporty look but didn’t, my mother’s overall majesty of demeanor overawing even frivolous red trim. Her hat sat on her salt-and-pepper waves squarely and, while the rest of us in Los Angeles permitted ourselves to wilt slightly in the summer heat, Mother looked as if she had conquered even the weather. She stood straight and tall—she was taller than Chloe and me by a good deal, probably because she wouldn’t allow any child of hers to outdo her in any way—and as free from perspiration as if she’d been standing in the middle of a Boston street in January.
Hoping to gull her into thinking her presence didn’t distress me, I pasted on a broad smile. “Good morning, Mother. Welcome to the Figueroa Building.” And, as boldly as if I weren’t secretly quaking in my sensible, two-tone lace-up shoes, I walked up and kissed her on the cheek. In order to do so, I had to walk around my desk and then stand on tiptoes, due to the aforementioned height difference. Come to think of it, that might be one of the reasons she intimidated me so much. Probably not. I think it was her personality.
She stood still for the kiss, a demonstration of tolerance I hadn’t expected. I’d anticipated that she’d light right in to me.
Chloe, bless her heart, decided to reveal the reason for this unusual forbearance on our parent’s part. “Oh, Mercy, guess what?”
She had her hands clasped to her bosom, which was most unlike her, but I guess she was putting on a show for our mother, too.
“Have a seat,” said I, waving the two of them to the chairs before my desk. I’d already decided I’d sooner face my mother this morning with a wide expanse of wood between us, and that if she were seated at my side in Mr. Easthope’s chair, she’d be more apt to strike out at me than if she had to reach across the desk to do it. Not that Mother was one for physical violence. Shoot, she didn’t need it. She could cow most people with a single glance. “And tell me what the doctor said.”
Chloe pulled out a chair for Mother, who sat stiffly. Her face, since she’d entered the office, had not lost an iota of its expression of frozen disapproval. With a sigh, I sat, too, ever so grateful for my desk. “So what’s up, Chloe?” I still smiled brightly, figuring I might as well.
“Harvey and I are going to have a baby!” Chloe blurted out.
I, for one, was glad she did that, because it diverted our mother’s attention from her errant younger daughter to her errant older one. “Well, really!” she said to Chloe, her uppercrust Boston accent in full bloom. “Your move to Los Angeles has done nothing to improve your manners, young woman.”
Mother didn’t approve of people speaking openly about having babies and stuff like that. She thought this sort of thing ought to be whispered from woman to woman in the privacy of one of the women’s homes. God alone knew how the men involved were supposed to get the news.
I thought that was a stupid and antiquated notion and figured it wouldn’t do me any more harm to say so than to keep it to myself. “Why not?” I rose from my chair, skirted around my desk and threw my arms around my older sister. “Oh, Chloe, I’m so happy for you!”
“Thank you, Mercy.” Hugging me back, Chloe sounded a trifle misty. I guess, after having been in the company of our mother all morning, she needed a dose of good, honest friendship and sisterly love and a dollop of congratulations.
Mother’s gloved hand knocked on my desk as if she were calling her wayward offspring to attention, thereby effectively breaking the hold my sister and I had on each other. Reluctantly we pulled apart. Lucky me, I got to sit behind my desk again.
“Really!” Mother said stiffly. “I’ve never seen such an unseemly display in public.”
Feeling protected by the desk, I pointed out, “This isn’t really public, Mother. It’s my workplace, and I’m the only one who works in it since Mr. Templeton has his own office, and I’m very happy for Chloe and Harvey.”
“Clovilla and Mr. Nash’s news is best discussed in the home. What I want to know is how you, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, can have the audacity to work for hire. Why, Clovilla told me you were actually in a gunfight not two weeks ago! I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
If I’d had anything to do with it, she wouldn’t have heard about it today, either. I thought about directing a dirty look at Chloe but didn’t. After all, she’d been stuck with Mother all morning long and could be forgiven for saying a little too much. Anyhow, I deserved it after having run out on her.
“I wasn’t in the gunfight, Mother,” I said, aiming for a dignity that seemed pretty far away at the moment. “I was in Chinatown, doing my job, when gunfire erupted around me. It had nothing to do with me, and I wasn’t hurt.” I didn’t consider the latter comment in the nature of a lie. I had been hurt, a little, but that was only because I’d scraped my knees when Ernie pushed me to the pavement. The bullets missed me entirely.
She chuffed out an irritated breath. “Stop equivocating this instant, Mercedes Louise. You know very well what I mean.”
“But—”
“And what was this that Clovilla told me about you shoving a man down an elevator shaft?”
“Well, but he was going to murder me . . .” I wished I hadn’t said that the second it was out of my mouth.
Have you ever heard it said that someone swelled with outrage? That’s what Mother did then. “I,” she said in as stiff and firm a voice as I’d ever heard her use, “am ashamed of you, Mercedes Louise Allcutt.”
“But—” I said, and I tried to say more, but was again overborne.
“But—” Chloe said.
She tried to say more, too, but our mutual mother could trample the Queen of England, if there were one, under her Brahmin feet, never mind two such insignificant objects as her daughters. “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, you are a disgrace to the family.”
“I am not!” I really resented that. I mean, me? I was a disgrace to the family? What about her? I hadn’t run off and left any husbands behind in Boston! I wasn’t the one who’d had an affair with my secretary! Knowing if I said either of those things, God would strike me dead on the spot, probably using Mother as His agent, and although I felt my cheeks heat and my mouth go dry, and also feeling such a dreadful pain in my chest that I wonder to this day how I survived, I only drew my breeding around me like a shield and continued speaking mildly. “I am a disgrace to no one, Mother. I am gainfully employed at a job I like, and am earning an honest living.” Sort of. I saw no reason to mention the quarterly allowance that was paid to me through the bank in Boston, and that my mother couldn’t touch if she decided to be vindictive and cut me off since it had been bequeathed to me by my great-aunt Agatha.
Very well, so I cheated a little bit. Still and all, I was fulfilling my goal in moving to the west coast, which was to get experience of the world. I was doing so with a vengeance in fact, and enjoying every minute of it.
“You’re taking a job away from someone who needs it,” my mother stated flatly.
I have to admit I’d never considered the matter from tha
t perspective before. I didn’t want to start thinking about it then, either. “Nonsense,” I said bravely. “I am gaining experience that will serve me well for my entire lifetime.” Recalling a newspaper headline I’d seen recently—I hadn’t bothered to read the article because stuff like that bored me—I added, “The stock market might go bust one of these days, you know. These good times might not last forever.”
As soon as I saw her eyebrows form that alarming V over her eyes, I knew I’d erred in talking so plainly. “Where in the world did you learn to speak in that pert way, using such abominable language, Mercedes Louise? Bust, indeed. Slang is as inappropriate on your lips as this so-called job of yours is to you.”
Whoops. Before I could apologize, which I’d been on the verge of doing, thereby ruining my pretense of being an independent woman of the world, the door to Ernie’s office opened. I silently blessed him as we all glanced doorward.
Ernie used good sense when he allowed Francis Easthope to exit the office before him. He might have done so even if Mother hadn’t been presiding over the outer office, although he’s not a slave to gentlemanly behavior. In any event, allowing Mr. Easthope to appear first defused the situation slightly. When Chloe saw him, she jumped to her feet and let out a joyful shriek. “Francis!”
Mother’s posture became even straighter, if such a thing was possible, and her expression of outrage intensified. Perhaps I’d been hanging around Chinatown too much, because she reminded me of one of those statues of Buddha they sell there, although without the benevolent smile. She was actually more obelisk-like than Buddha-like, I guess.
Fortunately for all of us, Chloe was too ecstatic at discovering another friend present to pay any attention to our mutual parent. Utterly forsaking everything our mother had ever tried to teach her about proper deportment, Chloe threw her arms around Mr. Easthope, who smiled and patted her on the back, looking a trifle self-conscious. Not even Chloe was this demonstrative as a rule, but I believe anyone might have snapped from the strain under which she’d been operating for the past few hours.
After several seconds, during which I held my breath, Chloe broke from Mr. Easthope. Keeping his hand in hers, she turned to our mother. Her cheeks were pinker than I’d ever seen them, Chloe having perfected the pale-and-interesting look since moving to Los Angeles. I saw her swallow when she recognized Mother’s aspect of righteous anger. Nevertheless, probably because she didn’t know what else to do, she said, “Mother, please allow me to introduce you to one of Harvey’s and my best friends, Mr. Francis Easthope. Francis is a costumier at Harvey’s studio.”
She still held his hand, but in spite of that Mr. Easthope executed a bow that would have done credit to one of Mother and Father’s courtlier friends on the east coast.
“How do you do, Mrs. Allcutt? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I peeked at Mother to see if she’d thawed any after this dazzling display of gentlemanliness. She hadn’t. She was unfailingly, if rather chillingly, polite, however, since that was the Boston way, and she said, “How do you do, Mr. Easthope?”
Then she looked pointedly at Ernie, and I realized I’d forgotten all about him in the excitement of the moment. Instantly I tried to cover my gaffe. “And Mother, please allow me to introduce you to my employer, Mr. Ernest Templeton.”
Ernie’s bow was more ironic than gentlemanly. I got the feeling he was making sport with me, which I might have expected. Darn him anyhow! “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Allcutt. Your daughter is quite the diligent worker.”
At least he’d paid me a compliment. Mother sniffed haughtily. No surprise there. “Mr. Templeton,” she said, speaking the words as if she’d been keeping them cold in the Frigidaire. “How do you do?”
“Swell, thanks.”
Inwardly I groaned. My mother deplores slang. Any time it rears its head, she reacts like a queen being spat upon by a lowly subject. She did so now, closing her eyes for a moment in an expression of long-suffering agony that was totally false. She never suffered anything for long. If something troubled her, she stomped it flat.
Chloe nervously picked up the conversational ball and then fumbled it. “Francis, I just got the most wonderful news!” She heard Mother’s censorious sniff and clamped her tongue between her teeth. Her cheeks turned a deeper pink.
“Indeed?” Mr. Easthope, who of course didn’t have a notion in the world what was going on, kept smiling.
Chloe stood there, her mouth pursed, her blush deepening, and didn’t know what to do or say. Neither did I.
With an aplomb of which I hadn’t known him capable, Ernie stepped nobly into the breach. “May I offer my congratulations, Mrs. Nash? When is the bundle of joy expected?”
Even my mother looked nonplused for a second before her natural stateliness subsumed her expression of surprise.
Chloe blinked at him. “How . . . how did you—?” She looked at me.
I shook my head. “I didn’t know until you told me.”
“You mean you’re . . . er . . . expecting?” Mr. Easthope picked up Chloe’s hand, since she’d finally let his go, and pumped it heartily. “What happy news for you and Harvey. I’m so pleased for you both.”
“But how did you figure it out?” I asked Ernie, irked by this display of uncanny knowingness on his part.
“I’m a private investigator, remember?” He tapped his noggin. “I’m good at my job.”
If there was one thing guaranteed to set my mother off, it was an audacious wink like the one he tipped at me then. She stood and said, “Well, really!”
Ernie pretended to misunderstand her. “Oh, yes. It’s true. I can tell.” He tapped the side of his head once more. “I’ve got a sixth sense about this sort of thing.”
Deciding I might as well go along with him, I said, “It’s true, Mother. Mr. Templeton has developed his detecting skills with vigor and discipline over the years.” The vigor part was true, anyway. “He’s really good at this investigative stuff.”
“We will discuss this position of yours later, Mercedes Louise. It’s time Clovilla got home and rested. There’s been too much of the wild life lived around here. It’s a good thing I got here in time.”
In time for what? I didn’t ask, having learned years earlier that it’s best not to question Mother when she was on her high horse—which was pretty much all the time.
“Come along, Clovilla,” Mother said then, and turned a frowning countenance upon Ernie and Mr. Easthope. “Good day, gentlemen.” She was using the word loosely when it came to Ernie. I caught the nuance of sarcasm in the word. My mother is a mistress of nuance.
“It was a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Allcutt,” said Mr. Easthope, bowing elegantly over the hand she’d held out to him.
“Yeah,” said Ernie, grabbing the hand as Mr. Easthope let it go. I have a feeling he didn’t anticipate her extending it to him, so he usurped her prerogative. Clever devil, Ernie Templeton. “It’s been great meeting you.”
Mother harrumphed and turned toward the door. Then she paused. It took a second, but both men caught on to what they were supposed to do. Mr. Easthope beat Ernie to the door, but I don’t think Ernie tried very hard. I know I wouldn’t have if I’d been treated to a display of Bostonian hauteur by my mother. Mr. Easthope bowed again as the ladies left, Mother first.
“Come to dinner tonight, Francis,” Chloe whispered at Mr. Easthope as she passed him. “Please.” There was a definite note of desperation in the word.
“Delighted,” said Mr. Easthope, lying manfully. He was a true friend.
“Thank you, Francis.” Chloe cast a desperate glance at me over her shoulder.
I gave back a thinnish smile and waved a couple of fingers at her, hoping the expression on my face conveyed only my compassion and none of the ecstasy I felt at not having to accompany our mother back home again. Home being a relative term in this instance, since when Honoria Allcutt enters through one’s front door, all of one’s usual comforts exit through the back. Or the wind
ows or chimney or chinks in the plaster if the back door was locked.
I sighed heavily when the door closed behind Chloe and Mother.
“Clovilla?” said Ernie, grinning.
“It’s not her fault. No more than Mercedes Louise is my fault. People slap these perfectly heinous names on innocent infants without their knowledge or approval.”
Chuckling, Ernie said, “True, true.”
“I must be off now,” said Mr. Easthope. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to help me out, Miss Allcutt.”
“Happy to be of service,” I said, straining to regain a modicum of my general workday vim.
Fortunately the door closed behind Mr. Easthope before Ernie ground out between his teeth, “What the devil did he mean by that? Help out? How are you going to help him out?”
I lifted my chin and hoped I conveyed a fraction of my mother’s hauteur. “Since you won’t help him, I will.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Don’t you ‘oh, brother’ me, Ernie Templeton! Mr. Easthope is a friend of mine, and he has a problem. I believe in helping out my friends when they’re in trouble.”
“Yeah? Well, let me tell you what I think.”
He didn’t have a chance to do so, fortunately, because the outer office door opened, and Lulu LaBelle, of all people—she’s generally confined to the lobby—peeked in. I looked from Ernie to the office door, surprised. “Lulu!”
She stared at me with huge blue eyes, generously decorated with eye shadow and surrounded by curled and mascaraed eyelashes. “Was that your mother?” she asked in an awed voice.
I nodded, feeling too unnerved by recent events to speak.
“Scary, huh?” said Ernie, grinning and forgetting his pique with me. I hoped it would last.
“Oh, my Gawd,” drawled Lulu. “No wonder you looked so peaky when you came to work this morning.”
Peaky didn’t begin to describe my feelings, but I appreciated Lulu’s sympathy, found a smile somewhere within heretofore unplumbed depths of my character, and presented it to her. I even managed to whisper, “Thanks.”
