Love & Mrs. Sargent

by Patrick Dennis

  “Your what?”

  “My folly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There it is, Right there. It’s a beach house. Oh, not a house really, it’s just a place to dress and to sit around in. I got this totally unexpected check when the Readers Digest people condensed my last book. . . . Well, as a matter of fact, I was lying on the beach and had to hike all the way back to the house when Mr. Berdell called from New York with the glad tidings. So I thought right then and there, Why don’t I just blow it all on a little kind of cabana right down here by the water so that every time you want a drink or the phone rings it’s right at hand? It has a fireplace and an ice box and a little bar and. . . . Of course it’s all shut up for the winter, but I’ll show it to you if you like. I have the keys. It’s quite cute, really.”

  “Whatever you say, Sheila.”

  “Oh, well then, come along. There may even be a bottle of scotch around. The door is right over. . . . That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “The padlock’s off. Just a minute.”

  Wearily, Peter watched Sheila hurry to the side door of the beach house, saw her open it and then heard her scream.

  III.

  Following Sheila and Allison back to the house, Peter couldn’t quite believe what had just taken place. Hearing Sheila’s scream he had rushed to the beach house in time to witness the oddest of scenes. Allison, wearing only her slip, was cowering on one of the sailcloth divans while Sheila, shouting abuse, was hammering away at that smart Billy Kennedy kid. The boy, half in and half out of a pair of trousers, was trying for both manly modesty and self defense and losing badly on both fronts. “Ouch! Hey, cut it. . . . I can explain, Mrs. S. . . .”

  “You vile, filthy, depraved little beast, Billy Kennedy! I swear to God, I’ll kill you!” Sheila screamed, beating him with both fists. “How dare you come here and. . . .”

  “Hey!” His trousers hobbling him at the knees, Billy lost his balance and fell headlong across the floor of the beach house.

  “There, you evil little satyr!” Sheila shouted, kicking him in the ribs.

  “Ouch! For God’s sake, I didn’t even. . . .”

  “Don’t speak to me, you little swine,” Sheila said, kicking him again and again.

  “Sheila!” Peter called. He crossed the small room and pinioned her arms to her sides. “That’s enough. I’ll take care of this.” He thrust Sheila onto the divan next to Allison and then stood over Billy Kennedy’s supine form. “Get up! Now!”

  Grappling with his waistband, Billy struggled painfully to his feet, adjusting his clothing as best he could. He was more scared than hurt and Peter allowed himself a moment’s cruel satisfaction at seeing this suave, arrogant young bantam cock so reduced.

  “Get him out of here, Peter!” Sheila cried, struggling to rise. “For God’s sake get him out before I kill him!”

  “You heard Mrs. Sargent,” Peter said. “Now get out.”

  “My coat. . . my shoes. . . .”

  “Out!” Peter said. He propelled him to the door and, planting a foot squarely in the center of Billy’s Saxony tweed, sent him sprawling into the sand. “Here,” he shouted, throwing the jacket and the loafers after him. He was not displeased to notice that the jacket enveloped Billy’s head and shoulders and that one of the shoes struck him hard in the small of the back.

  “Get that devil off my property,” Sheila screamed, “All the way off! Do you hear?” She was standing in the doorway, blind with fury.

  Billy needed no further urging. Gathering up his belongings, he scrambled to his feet and ran down the beach.

  Mortified and sickened, Peter held the house door open for Allison and Sheila. “If I may be excused. . .” he began.

  “You may not be excused,” Sheila said. “I want you in here with me. Now, young lady, march into that office.”

  “Why, Allison,” Mrs. Flood said, putting down an issue of Connaissance des Arts, “what a stunning coat, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Allison said mechanically.

  “Floodie,” Sheila said, “would you mind awfully getting the hell out of here for a little while?”

  The office doors were closed and there was a majestic, agonizing silence. Peter wished that he were dead. The big French cartel clock with un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq lettered on its face instead of numerals ticked loudly away. It was just cinq minutes after trois. Peter had never before noticed what a rackety, irritating thing the clock was. He wanted now to tear the damned thing down from the wall and trample it to death and then take his own life. Allison, he noticed, sat on the sofa looking terrified and defiant and fearful, if such an unlikely combination of facial expressions could be possible. Except for the clock, the stillness was eloquent.

  “Give me a light, Peter,” Sheila said. Just like that—no “would you,” no “could you,” no “please,” and no “thank you” when the deed was done. Of course she must be almost out of her mind with shock and grief, Peter thought, with a kind of grudging charity.

  But when Sheila began to speak it was as though she were standing orals for a degree in elocution.

  “I’m not going to scold you, Allison,” Sheila said, “nor am I going to bother to remind you that you have been brought up—and at considerable expenditure of time, effort, love and money—with a certain set of standards and values, which you seem to have overlooked entirely. I can only assume that you have some sort of conscience and that it might torment you from time to time enough so that you may suffer just about one tenth of what you have made me suffer this afternoon. I had thought that with the background, the breeding, the name and the environment that have always been yours, you might have conducted yourself like a lady of taste, intelligence and discrimination and not like some sluttish little servant girl. . . .”

  “Mother. . . .” Allison said.

  “I’m speaking!” she snapped. She paused, took a deep breath and continued in her logical fashion. “And so it will be quite unnecessary to go into the question of your behavior, or, if you like, morality. Instead, I think that for the present we will deal with more practical matters. Since I’ve always given you complete freedom to come and go as you please and since you have repaid my confidence and trust in this manner, I can only assume that your affair with Billy Kennedy is a long-standing one and that there have probably been others. . . .”

  “Mother, that’s not. . . .”

  “Please do not interrupt. I’m quite miserable enough without having to shout down a room full of people who can know nothing of what I feel. As long as you have felt competent to carry on in this fashion, I hope that you have had the wit to take some sort of precautions, I have always dreamed of the day when you and Dicky would each marry and present me with some grandchildren. But I must confess to feeling a little squeamish about—well, about an illegitimate child, Allison. And so I suggest that the first thing we do is to get around to Dr. Cahan—just to make sure. If anything has gone wrong, I know of a refugee doctor on Irving Park Road who can take care of things. It’s a simple procedure, I believe.”

  “My God, Sheila. . . .” Peter said.

  “Mother, I am not . . .”

  “Will the two of you stop chiming in every time I pause for breath! After the not inconsiderable detail of your physical condition is looked after, Allison, we can go right ahead as though nothing had happened—difficult as that will be. You will come out on Christmas Night, just as scheduled. You and Billy can announce your engagement some time during the winter and you can be married here next spring—in the garden perhaps.”

  “Marry Billy Kennedy?” Allison gasped.

  “I could have asked for a more mature son-in-law, Allison, but at least you have had the consideration—if that’s quite the word I want—to have chosen a paramour whom we know. I don’t think I’m quite up to calling his mother just yet, but I suppose that Kitty will be as pleased as possible-under the circumstances.”

  “Mother, I . . .”

 
; “Allison, I have a frightful headache—understandably, I think. Since you seem to have flown in the face of everything I’ve tried to teach you, it’s probably foolhardy of me to expect you to have the manners to listen to what I am saying quietly and politely. I am very nearly through if you’ll only have the goodness to hear me out. When I am quite finished, I am going to ask you to go to your room and stay there. That will give me a little time to think. But before you go upstairs, Allison, I would like you to answer just one question: Before you entered into this sordid relationship, why didn’t you come to me—your own mother—to ask any advice?”

  “Do I have the floor now?” Allison asked quietly.

  “If you can refrain from flippancy.”

  “I will try.”

  But she hates Sheila’s guts, Peter thought. She really despises her mother.

  “To begin with, I’m not pregnant.”

  “That is a relief, darling.”

  “If you don’t mind not interrupting.”

  “Well, really, Allison!”

  “I did go to your room to talk to you, Mother. I went late last night.” She paused for an uncomfortable moment. “And when I got there, I found the two of you doing just what you think I’ve been doing.”

  “Allison! How dare you!” Sheila’s voice was sharp and tense.

  “It was a touching sight. There was the goddess, the splendid example to young womanhood, the perfect post-debutante, the expert on love, the lone, respectable widow wallowing around in bed like a . . . didn’t you say servant girl? Yes, like a sluttish servant girl with a man young enough to be. . . .”

  “Allison!” Sheila screamed.

  There was a rattling at the doors. From the hall Mrs. Flood could be heard talking loudly and excitedly. “But I tell you, young woman, Mrs. Sargent is not in!”

  “That’s a lie. There’s her car right out in front. I know it is. I seen it a hunnerd times. And I’m gonna see her if it takes me all night.”

  Sheila went to the doors and flung them open angrily. “Mrs. Flood, didn’t I say that I was not to be disturbed?”

  “So she’s out, is she?” the woman cried. “Well, whaddayuh know? So you’re the famous Sheila Sarjint!”

  “Who is this, Mrs. Flood, and what does she want?”

  “I’m Pearl Pulaski and I wanna see you!”

  And then it happened all over again. Sheila was once more on stage. She grew taller, willowy. Her face became a mask of dignity, the cheeks slightly sucked in, the brows two questioning sable arches, her voice dramatically husky with broadening A’s. My God, Peter thought numbly, it’s Lynne Fontanne and Rosalind Russell and Margaret Leighton all rolled into the Archduchess Tatiana. She only needs long gloves and three feathers.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, uh . . . I’m frightfully sorry, but I’m ra-ther busy at the moment,” Sheila said. “If you will tell my secretary exactly what it is you’d like to see me about, perhaps she can arrange an appointment for sometime next week.”

  “The idea!” Mrs. Flood said indignantly. “She came barging in here right past Taylor, past me. . . . I couldn’t do a thing with. . . .”

  “I got all the appointment I need, lady,” the girl said, insinuating herself into the room. Looking at her, Peter was unable to guess her. age—somewhere between twenty and thirty, he supposed. Her rather porcine face was blotched and swollen, the eyes red and puffy. Her inexpertly bleached hair was not quite concealed by a scarf. She wore a soiled, shapeless coat cut along the unbecoming barrel lines that had been considered high fashion a couple of years ago and she carried a large purse made of some kind of cheap fabric that was supposed to look like fur.

  “The impudence!” Mrs. Flood said.

  “Now, please try to understand this,” Sheila said. “I would be delighted to see you at almost any other time. But at the moment I am trying to deal with a problem that concerns my own family and I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask you to. . . .”

  “Ooooo, of cawse I’ll unnerstan’, yer majesty,” the young woman mimicked horridly. “I unnerstan’ all kindsa family problems. Now maybe you can try to unnerstan’ what it’s like to see yer mother layin’ on the kitchen floor with her brains all over the place.”

  Mrs. Flood gasped.

  “Not a very pretty picture for you society dames, is it?” the girl screamed. “Maybe you’d like to see photos.” From her bulging purse she pulled out a tattered newspaper photograph. “That’s my mom. Howdyah like it?”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Flood cried, hands fluttering to her eyes. “That awful murder in Waukegan.”

  “Right!” the girl said.

  “My dear,” Sheila said. The voice was now dulcet, kindly, mellow. “I’m so sorry. And if there’s anything I can do. . . . Well, if you’d simply write a letter. . . .”

  “Oh, that’s great!” the girl shouted. “That’s rich. It really is. Because, lady, that’s just what I done. An’ here’s yer answer.” From her bag she pulled a crumpled sheet of paper, pale blue engraved with an imposing S.S. in the upper left-hand corner. “Oh, no, Sheila Sarjint sez, don’t tell your mom to leave her crazy, drunk of a husband. Don’t take her away to California where she won’t get beat up every day. Remember, Sheila Sarjint sez, yer not any psychiatrist or no marriage counselor. An’ then—oh this is the payoff—an’ then ‘God giveth the shoulder according to the burden.’ That’s a hot one! I could of saved my mom’s life is it wasn’t fer you, but no, I had to go an’ write a letter to. . . .”

  “Oh, my dear,” Sheila said, “I had no idea, believe me. I’m so frightfully sorry.”

  “Yer damn right yer sorry, sister. An’ yer gonna be a lot sorrier.” From the pocket of her coat the girl pulled out an old service revolver.

  Mrs. Flood gasped.

  “Shut up,” the girl said. She leveled the gun and pointed it waveringly at Sheila. She did it very badly as though she had never held a gun before in her life. “An’ now, Mrs. Sheila Sarjint. . . .” She said no more. Peter sprang at her, grabbed her arm and forced it upward. The gun went off, the bullet imbedding itself in the cornice high above Sheila’s head. Mrs. Flood screamed. There was a second’s stillness and then the girl dropped the gun and collapsed into silent, hysterical weeping.

  “Th-thank you, Peter,” Sheila said faintly.

  “Oh, Mrs. Sargent!” Mrs. Flood squeaked, “are you all right?”

  “Perfectly, thank you, Floodie.”

  “I’ll call the police! The girl’s a dangerous maniac. I knew it the minute she. . . .”

  “No! You will not call the police. I don’t want this to get in the newspapers.” Sheila stooped, picked up the revolver, emptied it expertly, dropped the shells in the wastebasket and handed the empty gun back to the girl. “Here is your gun.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” the girl sobbed, “I dint mean it, honest I dint mean it. I musta been outa my mind. Honest, Mrs. Sarjint, I . . . I’m so sorry. I dint mean to do no harm, I. . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Sheila said. “You’re upset. Perhaps you’d like a drink or coffee, tea, something like that? Mrs. Flood will take you out to the kitchen and. . . .”

  “Who, me?” Mrs. Flood said.

  “Yes, you.”

  “No,” the girl said, getting up in a panic. “No. Nothin’, please. My mom’s layin’ out at the fun’rull parlor. I gotta go to her. I. . .” She did not finish. She picked up her purse and dashed out of the room. All action, all sound was suspended until they heard the front door slam.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Flood moaned, sagging against the door jamb.

  “Oh, Mother,” Allison cried, throwing her arms around Sheila.

  “Oh, darling, that crazy girl could have killed you. Oh, Mother, I’m so glad you’re safe. Are you all right?”

  “I thought, Allison,” Sheila said, “that I told you to go to your room.”

  “B-but, Mother, I. . . .”

  “Go to your room immediately, Allison. Mrs. Flood, will you please find out where that poor girl’s mother is—
some undertaking establishment—and send about fifty dollars’ worth of flowers with my card.”

  IV.

  Again the office was still except for the clattery ticking of the clock. Sheila strode briskly to the sofa, sat down, crossed her slim legs elegantly, lighted a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke.

  Mrs. Flood, naturally, was the first to break the silence. “Oh Mrs. Sargent I tell you I’ve aged ten years in the last ten minutes my heart was in my mouth every second of the time I knew that young woman was up to no good the minute I clapped eyes on her and then when she pulled out that horrid great big gun and actually pointed it at you I just wanted to die myself I was so frightened and there you stood simply magnificent in the very jaws of death if it hadn’t been for Mr. Johnson we might both be lying here dead and gone with nobody to know how or why we died but Ive never seen such bravery you were just like a lion tamer or a snake charmer or something the way you had that awful woman simply hypnotized I mean have you ever seen anyone so courageous Mr. Johnson. . . .”

  “Floodie, please.”

  “Now I’m going right upstairs and draw you a good hot tub after all you’ve been through if there’s one thing you need it’s a nice, hot, relaxing bath to. . . .”

  “If there’s one thing I need, Floodie, it’s a nice, cold, relaxing drink. Or maybe just a neat cognac. Will you be good enough to pour at our little mad tea party?”