“Goodness!” Mrs. Flood said, tripping to the bar cart, “have you ever seen such valor, Mr. Johnson? Here she faces a crazed murderess and she can make jokes about it just as though. . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Johnson, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to do this. My hands are trembling so that I. . . . And could I have one, too?”
“Here, let me,” Peter said, taking the decanter from Mrs. Flood. His own hands were none too steady, but he managed to pour out three stiff shots of brandy.
“Here, Mrs. Flood,” he said. “Sheila.”
“Thank you, Peter,” Sheila said.
Nerves of steel, he thought.
“Nerves of steel,” Mrs. Flood said.
“I guess my bird picked the wrong fortune when it came to advising Pearl the other day. Touchy Peter. It seems that you were right and I was wrong. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” Peter said.
“Now I re-mem-ber that girl’s letter,” Mrs. Flood said. “It was the one that came straight to the house and there was that lovely old German proverb about God giving the shoulder. . . .”
Sheila saw her letter to Pearl Pulaski lying on the floor. She scooped it up from the carpet, put the letter in an ashtray and touched a match to it.
Peter glanced at her face in the flickering light—calm, composed. He knew that he had to get away by himself. “If I may be excused, now,” he said, “there’s some work I ought to be doing. And I expect you could use a little rest, too.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’m perfectly fine,” Sheila said. “These little, uh, diversions are all in a day’s work.”
“Oh, they’re not at all, Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Flood said, gesticulating with her brandy balloon. “I’ve been here for three years going on four and the work is so pleasant and interesting and. . . .”
“Have you really been here that long, Mrs. Flood?” Sheila said dangerously.
Insensitive to the tone of Sheila’s voice, Mrs. Flood went right on. “Goodness yes! Four years in February and I can honestly say, Mr. Johnson, they’ve been four of the happiest years any woman ever spent. This lovely home, a charming employer-employer and friend—a happy family. . . .”
“Take your damned hands off me!” a voice said.
“What was that?” Sheila said, starting up. The front door slammed.
“Okay, sonny, take it easy. We’re almost home to mama. Some joint!”
“Beat it, Sarge. If I’m not welcome at your place, you’re not welcome at mine. Quid pro quo. That’s Latin.”
“Dicky!” Sheila said, rising.
“Oh, thank heaven!” Mrs. Flood sighed.
“Okay, Socrates. An’ here’s your car keys.”
“Dicky!” Sheila called sharply. “Dicky. What is the meaning of. . . . Oh.” Even with his back turned to her, Peter could sense that the play was about to begin again. “Oh, has . . . has there been some trouble? Won’t you come in uh . . . I don’t believe I. . . .”
“The name’s King, ma’am. Sergeant King.”
Dicky stumbled into the room followed by a great hulk of an army sergeant.
“Oh, Dicky!” Mrs. Flood said. “Just look at your lovely jacket! Where on earth have you. . . .”
“A very good question,” Sheila said. “Where indeed have you been? Gone nearly twenty-four hours without a word and coming home—being helped home—in this condition. I am not exactly pleased.”
“Tough tit!” Dicky said distinctly. Mrs. Flood’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh!”
“Nor,” Sheila said, “do I find that frightfully amusing. I happen to have been sick with worry about you. Up all night. Calling the police dozens of times. Unable to concentrate on anything. And you come staggering in with your, uh, friend here—drunk, dirty, your clothes torn, abusive.”
“Do forgive me, Lady Bountiful. Sergeant York, may I. . . .”
“The name’s King, son.”
“Oh, yes. So sorry. Sergeant King, I would like to present you to the gracious ladies and gentlemen of my gracious Lake Forest milieu—a French word, Sergeant King.”
“Dicky,” Peter said, “come off it.”
“First of all, my mother, fascinating Sheila Sargent, the Madame de Sevigne of Lake Forest. Next, her literary amanuensis, vivacious Mrs. Thomas Carmody Flood. And Mr. Peter Johnson of Purviance, Kansas and that great big organ—pardon the expression—Worldwide Weekly, This is the last living hero of the Alamo, Sergeant Egmont—your first name is Egmont, I believe—Sergeant Egmont King.”
“How do, ma’am,” King said, turning a dark brick red. “Well, nice to meet you-all. I’ll be goin’ now.”
“No time for Sargents, eh Sergeant?” Dicky said, laughing inanely.
“Dicky!” Sheila said. “That’s enough. If you would be good enough, Mr. King, to explain just how and where you two happened to meet. . . .”
The Archduchess Tatiana all over again, Peter thought, looking down her nose at some oafish serf.
But the oafish serf had faced worse adversaries than Sheila. “Sure I can tell you, ma’am. He come in this morning to enlist. We get lots like him. Well, maybe not quite as drunk or as rambunc—”
“To enlist? In the army?”
“I’m not in the navy, ma’am.”
Quite against her will, Sheila began to feel a certain respect for this great, leathery ox of a man. “No, no. Of course not, Mr. King. I only meant that it comes as something of a shock.”
“It come as something of a shock to me, too, ma’am.”
“But surely you didn’t . . . you didn’t take him?”
“Ma’am, the army ain’t that hard up. Not yet it ain’t.”
“He’s never been strong,” Sheila said.
“Oh, he’s strong enough, ma’am. Corporal Badian and I can testify to that. Tried to tear the place down when we told him to git.”
“But what did you do to him?”
“Why, ma’am, I done just what I wisht somebody would of done for me when I got drunk and joined up thirty years ago.”
“Oh, he’s been like a father to me,” Dicky said sloppily. “Good old Pop!”
“Be still, Dicky,” Sheila said. “Go on, please.”
“Why, we put him in the shower, give him some black coffee and brought him back here, ma’am.”
Dicky stood up eloquently. “Presiding at the coffee pot and the shower nozzle—a sister in Lake Forest, a father in Fort Sheridan! And a doting mother in the local bookstores and The Weekend Bookworm! Has ever a boy been as blessed? Why don’t we all have a drink on that.”
“Dicky. . . .” Sheila commenced.
“Now, listen, son,” Sergeant King said, laying a huge, furry paw on Dicky’s shoulder. “You already had enough. It’s been real nice meeting you an’ maybe tomorrah, nex’ day—when yuh feel better—you come back down to the fort an’ see Corporal Badian an’ I about joining up. You an’ the army kin teach each other a lot. Right now Corporal Badian’s waitin’ in the car out front. He’s kinda anxious to get home. His wife’s in the fam’ly way. Excuse me, please, ma’am,” he added with a furious blush. “So if there won’t be anything else. . . .” He stood uneasily, hesitantly for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, taking in the splendor of the room.
“I can’t begin to thank you, Mr. King,” Sheila said, all charm and composure. She felt, perhaps erroneously, that all ranks below captain were flattered to be referred to as mister.
“No trouble, lady.” And then King added tantalizingly, “The boy had some real interesting things to say.”
Reaching for her purse, Sheila said, “Mr. King, if I could give you and Mr. . . . uh, your friend outside . . . uh. . . .”
Oh please, no, Peter thought.
“Yuh mean Corporal Badian, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Badian. If I could give you and Mr. Badian some little something to repay you for all of your trouble. . . .” The purse snapped loudly open.
“Oh, no, ma’am, thanks very much all the same. I left the boy’s car
out front. Only a fender nicked. He done it at the fort. Well, I’ll be sayin’ good-by now. So long, son.”
“Please don’t go,” Dicky said.
“Thank you, Mr. King,” Sheila said. “Floodie, would you please see our guest to the door?” A second later Sergeant King was gone.
“Mother,” Dicky said, his face crumpling, “I—I want him to stay. He’s . . . he’s such a hell of a swell guy.”
“Peter,” Sheila said, “will you please take Dicky to his room. I’ll get Taylor to help you.”
For the great, gangling hairy creature he was, Dicky had been like a little boy. Docilely he had allowed Peter and Taylor to undress him and put him to bed. And then he had cried like a child against Taylor’s white jacket until, still sobbing, he had fallen back onto his pillow.
“He’s a sad boy, Mr. Johnson,” Taylor said, closing the door. “A real sad boy.”
“I guess we’re all pretty sad,” Peter said. He went to his room and got his coat and hat. He knew he had to get out of this house for a while. He wasn’t sure of just where, but some place. He’d bluff his way through, think of something.
When he got downstairs, Sheila had changed from her heavy suit into a short bare dress that was—well, he didn’t quite know what, but whatever it was it seemed too youthful, too frivolous, inappropriate for the mood of the house and the evening.
“Oh, good,” Sheila said. “You’ve got your hat and your coat. I can see that you feel just the way I do. Just to be out of this house until things get back into perspective. There’s a buffet at the club. That’s often amusing. Quite a different set from the crowd the Mills run with. After all, I haven’t shown you off to anyone very nice out here—and vice versa. It’s still quite early, we might stop in for a drink with. . . .”
“Uh. . . . Sheila,” Peter began. He began badly because he was lying and he did not lie easily or well. “I’ve got to go into Chicago to see this guy for dinner.”
“Oh?” The brows rose questioningly.
“Yeah. This guy I knew in the army. His name’s Hal. He works here in Chicago. On the Sun-Times, I told you this mornin’”
“No,” Sheila said. “No, you didn’t.”
“Oh, sure. I must have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Well, it won’t be much of an evening. But as long as I’m out here, I’ve got to do it.”
“Of course.” She knew he was lying and he knew she knew it.
“So, I guess I can call a cab. There must be some sort of train or. . . .”
“Nonsense, Peter. Take one of the cars. There’s mine. There’s the station wagon or either one of the children’s cars. Believe me, they won’t be using them tonight.”
“Oh, no. I’ll just hop a train and. . . .”
“My dear, you might just as well be in the middle of the Mojave Desert as far as transportation is concerned. Take one of the cars. I insist. Really I do.”
“Well. . . .” He didn’t want one of her cars. He didn’t want anything to remind him of the day he’d just spent. But she was very firm. Already she was placing the keys in his hand. “Here, take the Lincoln. It’s right out in front. That’ll be easier for you. It’s just started to rain.”
“Th-thank you.”
“What time do you think you can shake your old friend? What’s his name?”
“Hank. Henry.”
“Yes, of course. Hank.”
“W-well, I don’t exactly know. He likes to sit around ‘til all hours, drinking and shooting the breeze.”
“Typical Tribune man, I should say.”
“Yeah, Typical. Well, it may be late. Don’t wait up.”
“Good night, Peter.”
“Good night.”
Sheila stood stark still until she heard the door close, the engine start and the wheels of the car crunching on the gravel and then her mighty composure began rapidly to disintegrate. “Oh God,” she said aloud, “what have I done to deserve this?” Two great tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why do they hate me so? All of them. Yes, loathe and despise me. What have I. . . .”
“Yes, Mrs. Sargent?” Mrs. Flood said, entering from the office. “Goodness, you look so girlish tonight and after all you’ve been through.”
Sheila stood rigid, her back still toward Mrs. Flood.
“Poor Dicky!” Mrs. Flood continued. “Well, youth must have its fling, I guess. But there’s no need to worry. I just looked in on him and he’s sleeping like a baby.”
“Is he?” Sheila said tonelessly, not turning around.
“Sleeping it off, I suppose. Poor boy. And where’s our Mr. Johnson?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes,” Sheila said fiercely. “Gone!” She faced Mrs. Flood, the tears streaming.
“Why, Mrs. Sargent!” Mrs. Flood took a tentative step forward.
“Oh, Floodie, what have I done to deserve all this? First Allison. . . .”
“Is anything the matter with Allison?”
“Oh, no. Nothing! Only that today she turned on me like a viper—threw into my face everything I’ve ever tried to do for her.”
“Young people are very odd nowadays, Mrs. Sargent. Tomorrow she’ll be a different girl.”
“Then Dicky. He knows, Floodie. He knows about everything. About that review I wrote, about the books I bought. He knows it all and he hates me for it.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that. No nice boy would ever hate his mother!”
“And now. . . .” Her sobbing had become uncontrollable. “And now . . . Peter . . . Mr. Johnson has gone out. . . . Just out. . . . Not that I’d mind. But he lied to me. He can’t . . . he can’t stand the sight of me. . . .”
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Mrs. Flood said, laying a wrinkled hand on Sheila’s shoulder. “I know that you. . . . Well, I sensed that you felt very warmly toward him.”
“Floodie, they all hate me after all I’ve done for them. Every one of them. And, Floodie, what can I do? I can’t stand going on this way for one minute more. I can’t stand any more. Truly, Floodie, I can’t stand it.”
“Oh, Mrs. Sargent,” Mrs. Flood said, “I know things look black now but I keep remembering the wonderful, wonderful thing you said: ‘God giveth the shoulder according to the burden.’ You must remember that, my dear, and always. . . .”
Sheila’s hand shot out and struck Mrs. Flood. “You fool! Get out of here! Do you understand me?”
“Mrs. Sar-gent!”
“Yes, you heard me, you pretentious old nincompoop. Get out and stay out! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
Ashen, her jaw hanging slack, Mrs. Flood backed out of the room. Alone again, Sheila threw herself onto the sofa and dissolved once more into loud, racking sobs.
FRIDAY
I.
At exactly half past six in the morning Taylor, mystified and still groggy with sleep, tapped on Mrs. Sargent’s bedroom door. Taylor was a creature of habit and it was his habit to rise at seven-fifteen, set the breakfast table, give the lower floor a cursory tidying and read the funnies before anyone required his personal attention. The only time Mrs. Sargent had ever rung for him between the hours of midnight and nine was the night when Allison had been born eighteen years ago and the experience had unsettled him so that he scraped the chromium trim off the running board of Sheila’s La Salle in the parking lot at Evanston Hospital.
Taylor was neither quick nor bright and his wife Bertha reminded him of it often enough so that he was fully aware of his shortcomings. He realized that his wife, his employer, his employer’s daughter and his employees secretary—even though female—were more intelligent, in varying degrees, than he. (Although he hadn’t quite understood when Bertha told him that he was almost as stupid as Mrs. Flood.) Bertha was smart enough for two and Taylor was perfectly satisfied to leave things as they were. And this morning Bertha had been smart enough to stay in bed herself and let Taylor be the one to dress and answer Mrs. Sargent’s bell.
But T
aylor just did not care for the recent changes in his placid routine. All week there had been funny things happening, “People missin’ their meals,” Taylor grumbled. “Trays to tote; not a blessed soul showin’ up for Bertha’s good chicken marengo; Mr. Dicky drunk an’ cryin’ in his room; Miz Flood cryin’ in her room; Miss Allie in her room; Miz Sargent locked in her room talkin’ to herself, won’t even let Bertha turn down the baid; that reporter man takin’ my fresh-washed Lincoln out in the rain; crazy gal with a gun! Just don’t seem lak. . . .”
“Come in,” Sheila called brightly, “Good morning, Taylor.”
“Good morning, Miz Sargent. You feelin’ all right?” She certainly looked all right, Taylor thought—pretty new dress on, crazy new cat coat, fancy new hat.
“Perfectly splendid, thank you,” Sheila said. “Taylor, I wish you’d bring the Lincoln around to the side door. I’m. . . .”
“The Lincoln, Miz Sargent? Hadn’t I oughta wash the Lincoln for tonight? Station wagon’s nice and. . . .”
“I want the Lincoln,” Sheila said flatly. “I’m going out now. The others are to breakfast in their rooms. Say you’re waxing the dining table and please send these notes up to them on their trays.” She handed Taylor four envelopes.
“You don’t want any breakfast, Miz Sargent? It ain’t even seven.”
“I’ll stop off somewhere, thank you, Taylor. I expect to be out all morning but I’ll be back early this afternoon. Please ask Bertha to give the others a very good lunch. Something fancy. And I think you might open a couple of bottles of champagne. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Miz Sargent.”
“Thank you, Taylor. And now, if you’ll bring the car around.”
The last twelve hours had been strange and exciting for Sheila, Strange because she had never before felt such a melange of conflicting emotions and exciting for the same reason. Last evening she had caught herself in the midst of her furious weeping and got so interested in the fact that she was crying that she stopped, blew her nose and tried to figure just how long it had been since she’d cried that hard. Well, she’d shed a couple of tears at Allison’s graduation from Roycemore, but those were tears of sentiment. She’d shed even more when Dicky had been asked to leave Yale, but those were tears of rage. She’d cried quite a lot at the premiere of The Dick Sargent Story but those had been tears of pride. It must have been when her husband died. Not at the great funeral, not at the memorial services. She had kept perfect control then, smiling wanly, bravely from behind a rather skimpy mourning veil made patriotically in accordance with L-85 wartime restrictions. No, she remembered. It was the very night his plane had gone down. She had retired early with a book and had lain in bed disapproving of Forever Amber when the doorbell rang. She had gone downstairs, received the telegram, read it, asked the boy to wait, gone to fetch her change purse, tipped the boy, thanked him and returned to her room. Then she had thrown herself onto the bed she had expected to be sharing with her husband twenty-four hours hence and cried her heart out. The next morning—by then it was in every newspaper—she had been composure itself. She had tried to explain to Dicky that Daddy wouldn’t be back that night and that he would have to be the Man of the House for some time to come. She had telephoned Bishop Stewart to arrange for the funeral and then dressed in black broadcloth to grant the press an interview. After that there had been moments of longing, but no more tears.
Love & Mrs. Sargent Page 21
