House Party

by Patrick Dennis

  Joe Sullivan stood first on one foot, then on the other, at the edge of the driveway. He felt alone and embarrassed, largely because he was both alone and embarrassed. Now he hated the whole Ames-Pruitt pack for leaving him hung up this way in a throng of strangers. He had to admit that Felicia had waved to him from the punch bowl, which was thoughtful of her, even if she was a snake from the word Go. And Joe had overheard Paul muttering "Hadn't we better take Sullivan with us, honey? He won't know anybody," But Claire had said "Oh, darling, please. No." And so Joe was alone. Maybe were all a lot of low-grade hicks back in Mooseheart, he fumed, but nobody back home would treat company like this.

  Now he watched what he sardonically labeled The Idle Rich at Play. There were the Dressy Rich—older people mostly who had gone to some pains for the general's party. A few of the old dames were wearing full-length flowered chiffon dresses that fairly screamed Lawn Party. Lorgnettes and/or lavalieres, dependent on platinum chains, thumped against their stomachs. Their husbands wore yellowing white suits that looked as though they'd been cut in 1900 and carried yellower Panama hats.

  There were the Smart Rich—the women wore trim little uniforms of black or navy and looked as though they gave some thought to calories and the trends in hairdressing. Their menfolk wore suits of tropical worsted, raw silk or chemical fabrics, and went bareheaded.

  Then there were the Dowdy Rich, who were probably the richest of all. These women came in wrinkled dresses longer in front than in back. Their legs were encased in lisle stockings that gathered like Venetian blinds at the ankle and they were shod in soiled oxfords that proclaimed stout wear and bunions. One knew that their slips were made of real silk because they showed and one sensed real silk bloomers beneath.

  There were the Athletic Rich who arrived late in shorts and tennis shoes, sunburned and disheveled, wrapped in cable-knit sweaters and smelling faintly like venison.

  All told, the crowd didn't look much different from one at the bank president's reception back in Mooseheart or a faculty tea at the University. Only their accents were different. But Joe decided that they were hostile. "Goddam pack of snobs," he growled. Then he hitched up his trousers and made a beeline for the silver bowl of Hell-for-Leather Cavalry punch.

  The accordion swelled to deafening crescendo with the final bars of "I Get a Kick Out of You." Manning Stone thought wearily of hearing Ethel Merman sing it eight times a week in Anything Goes, then thrust aside his memories of the musical stage and smiled ardently at Kathy. The conversation rose to a roar.

  "One thing about compost is that it really does discourage Japanese beetles, and I must say that our roses never looked as . . .”

  "Barbara's so anxious for a boy this time. Three little girls so far and of course they do want a son to carry on the . . ."

  ". . . why he can't simply have a few bottles of cheap whiskey instead of this concoction . . ."

  "Anchovies always give me the worst hives."

  ". . . train service is getting steadily worse. I wrote a letter. . .”

  "Well, just one more, then we really must be . . .”

  Joe put down his first glass of Hell-for-Leather with a shiver. Not only did it look like Shinola, it was Shinola. Bravely he held out his cup again to Sergeant Timberline.

  Mrs. Ames took a step backward and emptied her punch cup into the rose bush behind her. She hoped that the Hell-for-Leather wouldn't kill it but then she thought, it's either it or me, and felt a little better.

  Then she smiled nervously and scanned the crowd for members of her own brood. Bryan was busily circulating, being charming and pleasant to everyone—being absolutely dependable. Paul had detached himself from Miss Devine and was dogging Bryan's footsteps. Well, a good thing if he could learn a little something about mixing with people. There was no sign of Elly. Now Mrs. Ames saw Kathy towering over the crowd.

  Kathy had gathered an unusually large cluster of bachelors and young married men around her. She seemed to have them in stitches and Mrs. Ames was pleased to see that Kathy was finally coming into her own.

  But when she noticed Manning scurrying toward Kathy with another cup of that appalling brew, Mrs. Ames was again displeased. It was one thing if a man drank too much, Mrs. Ames thought, but a woman was so, so . . . Her dark eyes traveled to the table where the punch was being purveyed. Speaking of people of either gender drinking too much, Mrs. Ames felt that she ought to go and rescue that strange young Sullivan man of Elly's, Not only was he drinking too much, but he was all alone. How could Elly bring a guest out here and then . . . She drifted over toward Joe Sullivan.

  "Hey, Bryan, wait a minute," Paul called, hurrying crabwise through the crowd on the lawn.

  "Watch it, kid," Bryan said patiently. "You nearly knocked poor old Mrs. Marchbanks down. Take it easy, for God's sake. You've got the rest of your life to talk to me."

  "But I want to talk to you—now—about something important."

  "Good, kid, I want to talk to you, too. Really, Paul, you should pay a little more attention to the way you look."

  "Bryan, let's forget about that crap. What I want to say is . . ."

  "That's the trouble, kid. It's so easy to forget about those things. Too easy, really. Oh, you don't have to look like a tailor's dummy the way that Stone guy does, but on the other hand it wouldn't hurt you to spruce up a bit when you're out among people who might very well be contacts. It . . ."

  "Bryan, I'm sorry, but this is important. Claire and I want . . .”

  "Afternoon, Mr. Hemenway, sir. You know my brother."

  "Hello, Mr. Hemingway," Paul growled. The man stalked off haughtily.

  "Damn it, Paul," Bryan growled. "He was a Hemenway. Anybody'd think you'd never been here before in your life. You can't go around calling people by the wrong names and insulting them and cutting them dead if you ever expect to . . ."

  "Screw him!" Paul snapped. "Bryan, I want to tell you something."

  "And I want to tell you, something, too, Paul. I know you're a lot younger than I am, but believe me, kid, you've got to develop some . . . Well, Mrs. Delano! How good to see you again!" Bryan roared directly into the hearing aid pinned like a Croix de Guerre on the mountainous bosom of the woman who stood facing him.

  "Why, Bryan Ames," the old woman cawed. "Just the one I'm looking for. Would you mind running up and getting an old lady a cup of that delicious punch. It's so crowded over there and I'm getting so much static on my aid that . . ."

  "Why, certainly, Mrs. Delano," Bryan shouted. "I’ll be right back."

  "Bryan," Paul said, "Bryan, for God's sake can't you stop being so damned social for a minute. I want to talk to . . ." But Bryan was gone.

  14: Performance

  Joe didn't usually drink very much. Not that he wasn't able to, he couldn't afford to. When he was at a party with people he knew, or when he had been sitting around the fraternity house or the PX, he could consume prodigious amounts and still keep his head clear. But when he was depressed, a bottle of beer could hit him like a thunderbolt. General Cannon's punch was a thunderbolt. Three cups, downed in quick succession, had done their duty. A shrill woman behind him was saying: "Now that the children have all married and gone off the house is simply too huge for Jim and me and I can't for the life of me think of what to do with it."

  Joe was about to turn and make an impertinent suggestion when he saw Mrs. Ames heading his way. "Mr. Sullivan," she said charmingly, "I'm dying of thirst and I honestly can't abide this mixture of the general's. If I hold your punch cup for you, would you mind going into the house and finding a glass of water for me?”

  "Sure, you hold the cup and I'll follow one of those maids until I sight water." Joe had been all prepared to give her the Claire treatment—maybe tell her that his father was a receiver of stolen goods and his mother ran a bordello—but there was something about Mrs. Ames which he respected and, in spite of himself, liked.

  Mrs. Ames hated big parties in general and this one in particular. She wondered why she
hadn't stayed home and taken a nice nap and let her rude, neurotic children—all except Bryan, of course—come here and behave as badly as they wished. But still she felt that she must uphold the family honor. And she was certain that if she stood here long enough and made her face look particularly welcoming, she'd soon be surrounded by people. Now she fervently hoped that those people would be under forty and sufficiently attractive to entertain Mr. Sullivan.

  She heard a salvo of masculine laughter and looked toward its source. There was Kathy, surrounded by still more men. One or two young married women in maternity dresses were looking dourly at her from a considerable distance.

  ". . . and then sometimes," Kathy was shouting, "I think I’ll just give up the Save-the-Trees Foundation and become a camp-follower with the Red Army."

  "Oh, dear," Mrs. Ames sighed. She's a parody of the scarlet sister. Where did she ever pick up this unfortunate routine? Having worried for years about Kathy's shyness, her unpopularity at parties, Mrs. Ames almost wished that once again her daughter would be the tall, gawky nice girl who said polite things to her hostess and talked to all the old ladies.

  ". . . but the maddest thing," Kathy screamed, "is that there I was right in the middle of the Persian Room—solid sequins from head to toe and so tight I could scarcely breathe—when I had to go to the . . ."

  Mrs. Ames turned away and tried not to hear. Poor little Kathy—poor big Kathy really! That obscene dress, that hat, that veil wound around her chops! She sounds like Violet out of Eva Tan-guay. She's absolutely . . .

  "Mrs. Ames, I've been wanting to speak to you for so long, but with all these people coming and going, I simply haven't had a chance. Are you having a good time?" It was Betty Cannon.

  "Why, of course, Betty. It's a lovely party. We're all having such n good time." Something touched her elbow. It was Joe Sullivan with a glass of ice water. "Betty, I don't believe you know this nice Mr. Sullivan. He's staying with us, and he's having a splendid time, too. Aren't you, Mr. Sullivan?"

  Well, Kathy was slaying them—no two ways about it. Men who had been avoiding her at dances for the past ten years were crowding around her like autograph collectors mobbing a film star. She had only to open her mouth to have them rolling on the lawn. The accordionist was playing "Sophisticated Lady"—quite badly—and Kathy was singing the whole thing for laughs. She performed a grind, a bump, shook her shoulders ludicrously and then gave her bodice an ostentatious hoist. Her audience loved it. Now she went slinking over to Manning and took his punch cup from him. With a neat gesture she tossed the black brew down her throat. Hearty laughter. She rolled her eyes beneath their painted lids—tonight she'd wear even more eye make-up and a much bigger mouth, for laughs—and looked at Manning. The expression on his face was something to behold. She'd never seen a man so mystified. "They call me la flamme. I drive men mad," she said. She hoped that no one remembered Beatrice Lillie saying it in a revue some years back. Apparently no one did, because it brought down the house. "Fetch me another, my fool," she said huskily. Three men darted for the punch bowl.

  Then she plucked a rose and stuck it between her teeth. The only one who didn't seem to be amused was John Burgess. Well, where did he get off being such a poker face? Wasn't he the one who'd let her understand that she was entertaining? She drained most of another cup and tossed the dregs into a rose bush.

  "To hell with the trees," she said. "I'm starting a new, rival organization. It's going to be called the Wreck-the-Trees Foundation. Another cup and be quick about it, you gypsy beggar!”

  "Now here in chapter thirty-one is where I discover the Communist plot in the quartermaster's depot. Why, do you know that one of them stinkin, yellah-bellied sergeants was . . ."

  I suppose I could pretend to faint or maybe throw an epileptic fit, Elly thought. At least that would shut him up and get me out of here. My God, isn't there one man who isn't writing a book?

  ". . . so I sez to this little pinko, I sez, 'Lissen, Izzy'—you know that race is all Commies—'Lissen, Izzy,' I sez, 'the only kind of red I put up with around this man's army is the red blood of our heroes an' if you don't like things here, why the hell don't you go back to that ghetto in Moscow where you came from?' I sez—you can see it right here, it's on page eight-oh-nine. Say, girlie, c’mon, drink up. It ain't every day you get a chance to have an exclusive pitcher of Hell-for-Leather Cannons special blend. Hahahaha!

  "Well, like I said, I been tryin' some of these other publishin’ companies—nothin' but a pack of Reds in 'em. Liberals they call themselves and then I sez, 'Why, there's that Elly Ames, a real red-blooded, white, an true-blue Ammurican girl! Get that? Red, white and blue. An' so I . . ."

  "Daddy!" Betty said. She was standing in the doorway of the general's study almost in tears. "Daddy, you've been in here for more than an hour. Nobody's even seen you and some of the people are starting to leave. You've got to come out and see your guests. I simply can’t keep on telling them that . . ."

  "Well my stars and stripes, Little Soldier, what dya know? I been meaning to come out and see the folks, but this little editress here has been so interested in my book she just wouldn't let me break away."

  If there is a God, Elly thought, he'll send a bolt of lightning through that window that will kill us all—and a good thing, too. Nothing happened. So, in a weak voice Elly said: "It's been very interesting, General, but Betty's absolutely right. You ought to go out and see your guests. Why, Mother would be heartbroken if . . .”

  "Is that a fact?' General Cannon roared, his chest swelling. "Well, can't disappoint the ladies. Tell Timberline to get Truman out of the stall, Little Soldier. Bet you've never seen a horse could do tricks like this one. Smarter’n most people."

  It must be, thought Elly numbly. At least it's out in a nice stable while I'm trapped in here with this old . . . Here was her chance. Being closest to the door she bolted and dashed out to the lawn.

  There was a moan which was felt rather than heard when Sergeant Timberline led the horse out to the lawn. The general had moved into the community shortly after the war when a misguided patriotism, a sympathy for his daughter, and the nagging memory that his late wife had been an Allen—practically like being a Pruitt—had made him accepted. But the yearly birthday parties, coupled with the punch, the horse and the general himself, had become a little taxing for even the most mannerly. There were no two ways about it, the horse just wasn't a very interesting performer, nor had its repertoire improved with age and annual repetition.

  "All right, now, folks," the general bellowed, "just step up here and watch old Truman do some tricks for us." A half-hearted group formed a ragged circle around the place where the horse was moodily munching grass. A few pretended not to hear and stuck doggedly in their little knots of conversation, but they knew it was a lost cause. The performance would not begin without a one hundred per cent captive audience.

  "Oh, a horse!" Violet squealed. "Isn't that adorable!" The Hell-for-Leather punch had not been wasted on her.

  "How it calls to mind the beautiful Soir du Cirque my darling Elsie Mendl gave one heavenly night in nineteen th . . ."

  "All rightie, folks," the general said. "Now if I may have your undeevided attention, I'm going to ask Truman some questions. First of all, Truman, tell me, d'ya think you'd make a good president?" The horse nodded vigorously and there was applause from the left-wing minority.

  Whack, down came the riding crop on the horse's croup. "I said, ‘D'ya think you'd make a good president?'" The general brandished the riding crop menacingly and the horse shook its head. "There! Good old Truman!"

  Mrs. Ames shuddered through a series of questions concerning the Democratic party, Margaret Truman's singing voice, General MacArthur, mink coats and deep freezers—each punctuated by oughtn't to telephone the A.S.P.C.A. She heard someone say resounding cuts with the riding crop. She wondered briefly if she "Maybe he should ask a few questions about the Harding administration." Mrs. Ames giggled and then, realizing it was Ka
thy who had said it, stiffened. "She's lost all of her manners," Mrs. Ames sighed. But it was true. Here was this vicious old man beating a horse and asking questions out of the dead past. Here was Violet trying to be a girl again. Here was Uncle Ned digging up international corpses from a dozen stylish European cemeteries. It was all simply unbelievable and yet it was really happening.

  To the accompaniment of lashes, the horse played dead, rolled over—goaded on by a smart kick in the flank—counted falteringly to five with its hoof and pretended to pray. The performance, like Aida, seemed to grow longer every time it was witnessed.

  Kathy felt her head spinning. It should have been a pleasant sensation but somehow it wasn't. She'd drunk—heavens, she'd drunk she didn't know how much of this appalling concoction and now, now . . . The accordionist was playing "The Leavenworth Cavalry Gallop" and the horse, badly out of step, was capering around the circle, its flesh heaving with every crack of the crop.

  "The poor thing," Kathy kept saying to no one in particular. "The poor dumb thing." Kathy was beginning to feel awful. She wanted to get out of these shoes and go lie down someplace. But still she was game. "That horse dances about as well as I do, darling," she said. Somehow this remark didn't fracture them as she had thought it might. She was feeling slightly hysterical. She began to think of herself as the horse; much too big a creature to be prancing and clowning to the crack of a whip. She decided that . . . well, things were getting so fuzzy that she didn't know quite what it was she had decided.