by Gore Vidal
The North Dunes was one of the largest and gloomiest. A screened-in porch ran halfway around the house on the ocean side and, from the outside, the place looked like nothing so much as a palace of bleached driftwood.
Inside it was better.
A lean butler took my suitcase and showed me into the sunroom: a big chintzy place on the south side of the house with a fine view of the golf course and ocean: high trees screened the village from view.
Mrs. Veering greeted me, rising from the chair where she’d been seated beside the empty fireplace.
“I couldn’t be more delighted, Mr. Sargeant, to have you here on such short notice.” She shook my hand warmly: she was a big competent woman with a mass of blue hair and a pale skin from which two small blue eyes stared at the world expressionlessly. She was in her fifties with a bosom like a sandbag and a clear voice which was neither Western nor Colony-Restaurant-New-York but something in between. “Come sit over here and have a little drink. I’ll ring for … unless you’d rather mix your own … it’s over there. I’ll just have a dash of Dubonnet: I never have anything else; just a bit before dinner is nice, don’t you think?”
She gabbled away and I made all the expected answers as I mixed myself a Scotch and soda and poured her some Dubonnet over ice. Then I sat down in the fat chair opposite her and waited.
Mrs. Veering was in no hurry to get to the point.
“Alma Edderdale is coming next week, Monday, did you know that? I love her. She’s staying at the Sea Spray … she’s an old friend of yours, isn’t she? Yes? I’ll want to see her of course. I would’ve asked her here but she likes to be alone and besides I have a house full of friends this week end.” She finished the Dubonnet in one lightning gulp. “Friends and acquaintances,” she added vaguely, looking out the window at the golf course, golden in the afternoon sun.
“I wonder …” I began, wanting to get to business right away.
“Will I have another? yes, I think I might. It does me good the doctor says: ‘just a touch of Dubonnet, Rose, before dinner, to warm the blood.’ ”
I poured a highball glass of the stuff which should, I thought, be enough to bring her blood to a boil. Two ladylike sips got her to the bottom of the glass and I could see what one of her problems undoubtedly was. Anyway, the drink seemed to do her good and her eyes glistened as she put the glass down and said, “I like a mixture, don’t you?”
“A mixture of what, Mrs. Veering?” I had a feeling we were operating on two different frequencies.
“People. What else?” She smiled a dazzling smile, her dentures brilliant and expensive. “Now this week end I’ve tried to bring together interesting people … not just social … though they all are of course. Brexton is here.” She paused, letting this sink in.
I was reasonably impressed … or maybe surprised is the better word. My interest in modern painting ranges somewhere between zero and minus ten; nevertheless, having batted around New York in pretentious circles, I’ve picked up a smattering and I can tell Motherwell from Stuempfig with a canny eye. Brexton is one of the current heroes of 57th Street. He’s in all the museums. Every year Life magazine devotedly takes its readers on a tour of his studio, receiving for their pains a ton of mail saying they ought to know better than waste space on a guy whose pictures aren’t any better than the stuff little Sue painted last year in fourth grade. But Brexton has hit the big-time professionally and it was something of a surprise to hear that he was staying with Mrs. Veering. I found out why.
“His wife is my niece Mildred,” she said, licking the ice daintily for one last drop of Dubonnet. “What a fuss there was in the family when she married him ten years ago! I mean how could we know he was going to be famous?”
I allowed this was always a hazard.
“Anyway it’s terribly nice having them here. He isn’t at all tiresome, though I must say I love art and artists and I don’t really expect them to be like other people. I mean they are different, aren’t they? Not gross clay like ourselves.”
Speak for yourself, hon, I said to myself while I nodded brightly. I wondered if the Brextons had anything to do with my being asked for the week end: a big stunt of some kind to put him over maybe? I held my fire.
Mrs. Veering helped herself to another tumbler of Dubonnet. I noticed with admiration that her hand was steady. She chattered the whole time. “Then the Claypooles are here. They’re great fun … Newport, you know.” She socked that one home; then she went back to her chair. “Brother and sister and utterly devoted which is so rare. They’ve never married, either of them, though of course both are in great demand.”
This sounded like one for Dr. Kinsey or maybe Dr. Freud but I listened while Mrs. Veering told me what a nice couple they made and how they traveled together and were patrons of the arts together. I had heard of them dimly but I had no idea how old they were or what arts they patronized. Mrs. Veering assumed I knew everyone she did so she didn’t bother to fill me in on them … not that it made too much difference. I was assuming my duties would have nothing to do with this collection of guests.
She was just about to tell me all about the last guest: Mary Western Lung, the penwoman, when the butler crossed the room silently, swiftly, without warning and whispered something in her ear. She nodded then she motioned for him to leave, without instructions.
Whatever he had said to her had the effect of turning off the babble, to my relief. She was suddenly all business, in spite of the faintly alcoholic flush which burned now behind her white make-up.
“I’ll come to the point, Mr. Sargeant. I need help. As to the main reason for my asking you here, I’ll give you the general details right now. I plan to give a Labor Day party which I want to be the sensation of the Hamptons. It can’t be cheap; it can’t be obvious. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve hired a press agent … assuming you will take the job. I’ll expect full coverage, though, in the press.”
“My fee …” I began; even as a boy scout of eleven I’d discovered that it’s best to get that part of the business over first.
“Will be met.” She was just as businesslike. “Write me a letter tonight saying how much you want, putting yourself on record, and I’ll give you what you need.” I was filled with admiration for her next few remarks which had to do with hiring me and also with her purpose.
“The reason I’ve picked you is because it’s possible for me to have you here as a guest without people asking questions.” I was duly flattered and wished I’d worn my Brooks Brothers gabardine suit. “So don’t say anything about your profession; just pretend you’re a … writer.” She finished brightly enough.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Tomorrow I’ll go over the guest list with you. I think it’s in good shape but you might be able to advise me. Then we’ll discuss what publicity would be wisest. I shall want a very great deal.”
I stopped myself just in time from asking why. That’s one question in my somewhat crooked business you never ask. Being a publicist is a little like being a lawyer: you take on a case without worrying too much about anything except putting it over. I figured Mrs. Veering would let me in on her game sooner or later. If not, considering the fee I was going to ask, it didn’t make a bit of difference.
“Now you’ll probably want to go to your room. We dine at eight thirty.” She paused; then: “I must ask a favor of you.”
“What’s that, Mrs. Veering?”
“Don’t be disturbed by anything you might see or hear while you’re in this house … and be discreet.” Her rather silly face had grown solemn and pale while she spoke; I was alarmed by the expression in her eyes. It was almost as if she were frightened of something. I wondered what. I wondered if she might not be a little off her rocker.
“Of course I won’t say anything but …”
She looked about her suddenly, as though afraid of eavesdroppers. Then she gestured. “Do run along now, please.” I could hear footsteps in the main hall, approaching us.
I
was almost to the door of the drawing room when she said, in her usual voice. “Oh, Mr. Sargeant, may I call you Peter?”
“Sure.…”
“You must call me Rose.” It was like a command. Then I went out into hall, almost bumping into a pale youngish woman who murmured something I didn’t catch. She slipped into the drawing room while I went upstairs; a maid directed me to my room.
I was uneasy to say the least. I wondered whether or not I should take my bag and head for one of the local inns, like the 1770 House. I didn’t need the job that much and I did need a vacation which, under the circumstances, might not be in the cards. Mrs. Veering was a peculiar woman, an alcoholic. She was also nervous, frightened … but of what?
Out of curiosity more than anything else I decided to stay. It was one hell of a mistake.
IV
At eight o’clock I went downstairs after a long bath and a slow ceremony of dressing while studying the faintly clammy but well-furnished room (all houses on dunes anywhere beside an ocean have the same musty smell) and reading the titles of the books on the night table: Agatha Christie, Marquand, the Grand Duchess Marie … I have a hunch those same books were beside every guest bed in the Hamptons … except perhaps in Southampton they might have Nancy Mitford and maybe something off-color. I decided I would devote myself to Mrs. Christie in lieu of Miss Liz Bessemer, whom I’d probably not be able to see until Saturday, if then.
I found the other guests all milling around in the big room which was now cheerful and full of light, the curtains drawn against the evening. Everyone was there except our hostess.
The woman I had bumped into earlier came to my rescue. She was slender, not much over thirty with a pleasant muted face and dressed in gray which made her seem somehow old-fashioned, not quite twentieth-century. “I’m Allie Claypoole,” she said, smiling; we shook hands. “I think I ran into you.…”
“In the hall, yes. I’m Peter Sargeant.”
“Come and be introduced. I don’t know what Rose is up to.” She steered me about the room.
On a love seat for two, but just large enough for the one of her, sat Mary Western Lung, the noted penwoman: a fat dimpled creature with a peaches-and-cream gone faintly sour complexion and hair dyed a stunning silver blonde. The fact she was very fat made the scarlet slacks she was wearing seem even more remarkable than they were. I counted four folds in each leg from ankle to thigh which made it seem as though she had four knees per leg instead of the regulation one.
Next stop was the other side of the room where Mrs. Brexton, a small dark-haired woman with china-blue eyes, was examining a pile of art books. I got a brisk nod from her.
Brexton, who was supervising the tray of whisky, was more cordial. I recognized him from his pictures: a small, stooped man of forty with a sandy mustache, a freckled bald pate, heavy glasses and regular, ordinary features, a bit like his few representational paintings.
“What can I do you for?” he asked, rattling ice around in a martini shaker. Next to, “long time no see,” I hate, “what can I do you for,” but after his wife’s chilly reception I fell in with him like a long-lost brother.
“I’ll have a martini,” I said. “Can I help?”
“No, not a thing. I’ll have it in just a jiffy.” I noticed how long his hands were as he manipulated the shaker: beautiful powerful hands, unlike the rest of him which was nondescript. The fingernails were encrusted with paint … the mark of his trade.
Allie Claypoole then introduced me to her brother who’d been in an alcove at the other end of the room, hidden from us. He was a good deal like her, a year or two older perhaps: a handsome fellow, casual in tweed. “Glad to meet you, Sargeant. Just rummaging around among the books. Rose has got some fine ones; pity she’s illiterate.”
“Why don’t you steal them?” Allie smiled at her brother.
“Maybe I will.” They looked at one another in that quick secret way married people do, not at all like brother and sister: it was faintly disagreeable.
Then, armed with martinis, we joined the penwoman beside the fire. All of us sat down except Mrs. Brexton who stood aloof at the far end of the room. Even without indulging in hindsight, there was a sense of expectancy in the air that night, a gray stillness, like that hush before a summer storm.
I talked to Mary Western Lung who sat on my right in the love seat. I asked her how long she’d been in Easthampton while my eye traveled about the room, my ears alerted to other conversations. Superficially, everything was calm. The Claypooles were arguing with Brexton about painting. No one paid the slightest attention to Mrs. Brexton; her isolation officially unnoticed. Yet something was happening. I suppose I was aware of it only because of my cryptic conversation with Mrs. Veering; even so, without her warnings, I think I would have got the mood on my own.
Mary Western Lung was interminable; her voice was shrill and babyish but not loud; as a matter of fact, despite the size of her person which could’ve easily supported a voice like a foghorn, it was very faint for all its shrillness and I found I had to bend very close to catch her words.… which suited her just fine for she was flirting like a mad reckless girl.
“Except now, with Eisenhower, it’s all changed.” What was all changed, I wondered? not having listened to the beginning of her remarks.
“Nothing stays the same,” I said solemnly; hoping this would dovetail properly. It did.
“How clever of you!” She looked at me with faintly hyperthyroid eyes; her big baby’s face as happy and smooth as another part of a baby’s anatomy. “I’ve always said the same thing. This isn’t your first visit to these parts, is it?”
I told her I’d spent a lot of childhood summers here.
“Then you’re an old-timer!” This news gave her a great deal of inscrutable pleasure. She even managed to get her hand on my left knee for a quick warm squeeze which almost made me jump out of my skin; except under special circumstances, I hate being touched. Fortunately, she did not look at me when she administered her exploratory pinch, her attention addressed shyly to her own scarlet knees, or at least to a spot somewhere between two of the more likely creases.
I managed, after a few fairly hysterical remarks, to get to the console where the remains of the martinis were, promising I’d bring her back one. While I poured the watery remains from the shaker into my glass, Mrs. Brexton suddenly joined me. “Make me one too,” she said in a low voice.
“Oh? why sure. You like yours dry.”
“Any way.” She looked at her husband who was seated with his back to us, gesticulating as he made some point. There was no expression in her face but I could feel a certain coldness emanating from her, like that chill which comes from corpses after rigor has set in.
I made a slapdash martini for her and another for Mary Western Lung. Without even a “thank you” Mrs. Brexton joined the group by the fire, talking, I noticed, to Miss Claypoole only, ignoring the two men who were still arguing.
Since there was no place else to go, I had to rejoin Miss Lung who sipped her martini with daintily pursed lips on which sparkled a few long golden hairs.
“I never like anything but gin,” she said, putting the drink down almost untouched. “I can even remember when my older brothers used to make it in bathtubs!” she roared with laughter at the thought of little-old-she being old enough to remember Prohibition.
I then found out why she was a noted penwoman. “I do a column called ‘Book-Chat’; it’s syndicated all over the United States and Canada. Oh, you’ve read it? Yes? Well, isn’t that sweet of you to say so. I put a great deal of myself in it. Of course I really don’t have to make a living but every bit counts these days and it’s a lucky thing for me it’s gone over so big, the column that is. I’ve done it nine years.”
I troweled some more praise her way, pretending I was a fan. Actually, I was fascinated, for some reason I couldn’t define, by Mrs. Brexton and, as we talked, glanced at her from time to time out of the corner of my eyes: she was talking intently t
o Allie Claypoole who listened to what she said, a serious, almost grim expression on her face; unfortunately their voices were too low for me to catch what they were saying. Whatever it was I did not like the downward twist to Mrs. Brexton’s thin mouth, the peevish scowl on her face.
“Rose tells me you’re a writer, Mr. Sargeant.”
Rose picked the wrong disguise, I thought to myself irritably; I could hardly hope to fool the authoress of “Book-Chat.” I stalled. I told part of the truth. “I used to be assistant drama critic on the New York Globe up until a few years ago when I quit … to write a novel.”
“Oh? how exciting! Throwing everything to the wind like that! To live for your art! How I envy and admire you! Do let me be your first reader and critic.”
I mumbled something about not being finished yet but she was off, her great bosoms heaving and rippling. “I did the same, too, years ago when I was at Radcliffe. I just left school one day and told my family I was going to become a Lady of Letters. And I did. My family were Boston … stuffy people, but they came around when I wrote Little Biddy Bit … you probably remember it. I believe it was considered the best child’s book of the era … even today a brand-new generation of children thrills to it; their little letters to me are heart-warming.”
Heartburning seemed to me a more apt description. Then the career of Mary Western Lung was given me at incredible length. We had got her almost down to the present, when I asked what was keeping our hostess. This stopped her for a split second; then she said. “Rose is often late.” She looked uncomfortable. “But then you’re a friend of hers … you probably know all about it.”
I nodded, completely at sea. “Even so …”
“It’s getting worse. I wish there was something we could do but I’m afraid that, short of sending her to a sanitarium, nothing will do much good … and of course since she won’t even admit it there’s really no way for those of us who are her oldest and most treasured friends to approach her. You know what her temper is!” Miss Lung shuddered.
