On a rainy September afternoon, he retrieved his valise from the wardrobe where he had stowed it when he first moved into Mrs. Volger’s and, with a heavy heart, began to pack his things. He indulged himself, this once, in a good shot of whisky in the afternoon, something to soothe the unrelenting pain of his arm and to cushion the despair that made his eyes burn and his feet drag.
He gave a guilty start at the knock on his door, and he quickly capped his flask and thrust it into his trouser pocket. He crossed to the door, and opened it to find Mrs. Volger in the corridor. “It’s the mail, Major,” she said brightly. She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her housedress and showed it to him, a thick beige square bearing his name and address in an elegant copperplate hand he didn’t recognize. “It looked important, so I brought it right up.”
He hadn’t opened the door very wide, and she leaned to one side in a not-very-subtle attempt to see what he was doing. He was tempted to take the letter and close the door, to postpone the inevitable and uncomfortable conversation they would soon have. Instead, he stepped back, and pulled the door as far open as it would go.
She stared at the pile of clothes lying on the bed beside the half-packed valise. “Taking a trip, Major Parrish?”
He said, “No. I wish I were. Please come in, Mrs. Volger.”
She took a tentative step inside, something she never did when he was home. She was careful to clean and change linens when her tenants were properly away at their work. “What’s all this, then?”
The letter was still in her hand, and he wanted to see what it was, but he knew he owed her an explanation. “Mrs. Volger, I’m—I’m sorry to say I’ve lost my job.” It was hard to speak the words, embarrassing. Shaming. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and it encountered the hard, slim silhouette of the flask. He pulled it back out again and stood awkwardly, looking down into his landlady’s wrinkled face.
She said, with sincerity, “Oh, no! That’s terrible news. You can find another, though, I’m just sure, a nice young man like you.”
“I’ve been trying,” he said. “I think I’ve tried every place there is. The employment picture in Seattle is . . . well, I don’t need to tell you how hard times are.”
“But you—an engineer. An officer. A—” She waved his letter in the air as she searched for other ways to describe his good qualities.
“I sure wish things were different. I was going to give you my notice today.”
She stood shaking her head, gazing at the modest pile of his possessions heaped on the coverlet. “You’re my very best tenant, Major Parrish,” she said sadly.
He didn’t know why that should be, but he let it go. Perhaps it was the flowers that made her say that. Perhaps being a landlady could be as lonely as being a one-armed, unemployed engineer. He said only, “Kind of you, Mrs. Volger. I’m sorry to leave.”
She looked up at him suddenly, her faded eyes brightening. “I can give you a month,” she said. She tapped her chin with the corner of the beige envelope. “While you try to find work. You can make it up to me later.”
Again, he said, “Kind of you, but I think I’m going to have to try a different city. Maybe San Francisco.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Too bad. That’s so far away.”
“I know.”
“Well, a young man has to have work, I suppose.”
“Yes. I’ll be on my way by the end of the month, if you want to rent the room.”
She sighed, and turned toward the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “You remember. I can give you a month on account, if you change your mind.”
“Thanks.” She stepped through into the hall, and it seemed she had forgotten her original errand. “Er—Mrs. Volger?”
She turned back to him, eyebrows raised, then remembered the letter in her hand. “Oh! Oh! Yes, your letter. I do hope it’s good news, Major Parrish. I expect you could use some.”
He took the letter from her. She watched him for a moment, as if hoping he might read it while she was there, share its contents. That was too much for him. He nodded to her, thanked her again for coming up the stairs, and closed the door.
He sat down by the window, first pulling the flask out of his pocket. He uncapped it, something he had become deft at doing with one hand, and took a healthy swig before he set it on the round table beside the letter. There was no return address, but it was clearly his name, in full, written above the address of the boardinghouse. He turned it over and worked his thumb under the flap of the envelope. It was only lightly glued. It popped free easily, and he shook out the card inside.
It was one of those engraved things, an invitation, the typeface all curlicues and sweeping capital letters, deep burgundy ink on heavy beige card stock.
Mrs. Dickson Benedict
requests your presence at a garden party in honor of
Miss Allison Benedict
Saturday, September 18, 1920
Benedict Hall
at four in the afternoon
Cocktail attire
Respondez, s’il vous plait
Frank stared helplessly at this incomprehensible missive. Why on earth would Edith Benedict invite him, of all people, to an event honoring someone he had never heard of, much less met? He was about to reach for his flask, to soothe this new irritation, when he heard the telephone shrill in the downstairs hall. Moments later, Mrs. Volger’s heavy step sounded again on the stair, followed by a knock on his door.
With an exasperated laugh, Frank tucked the flask underneath the day’s newspaper, and went to answer.
“Major Parrish, you have a telephone call,” Mrs. Volger panted. “She says it’s—Doctor something. Dr. Benedict? Does that sound right?”
With a rush of relief, Frank said, “Yes, Mrs. Volger. It sure does!” He hurried out, pulling the door to his room closed behind him. “Thanks!” he said over his shoulder as he pattered down the stairs to the hall table. It was a bit tricky for him, holding the earpiece of the telephone in his hand, leaning down so he could speak into the receiver. “Hello? Margot, I hope that’s you!”
Her deep chuckle reassured him. “Hello, Frank. I tried to catch you before it came, but I suppose you already have it.”
“If you mean this invitation, yes. What have you got me into?”
She laughed. It was good to hear, after the stress of the past weeks, and it made him smile even as he bent nearly double over the little table. “I’ve got you into some silly party, Frank. I hope you won’t mind too much. It’s my cousin—my mother’s niece. Allison. It’s her debutante year, and they wanted to have her first public party at Benedict Hall.”
“But, Margot—why me?”
“Oh! Mother insisted I have an escort. She says it’s improper for me to attend on my own, and she insists I be there.” There was a brief moment of silence, filled only by the faint clicking of the telephone line. Or someone listening in. Margot said, “You can say no if you want to.”
In fact, Frank’s first thought had been to refuse. Of course he would feel out of place and awkward, but it was the perfect excuse to postpone his departure a few days. Perhaps he could find the right moment to explain to Margot why he had to leave Seattle. He said, hastily now, “I’ll come, if you want me to. Can’t have Dr. Benedict going to a party unescorted.”
“It’s so silly, isn’t it? All the things I do in the clinic, in the hospital—but I can’t go to a garden party without a man holding my elbow!”
“You’d better explain what Mrs. Benedict means by cocktail attire,” he said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“No one has,” she answered in a wry tone. “That was Preston’s idea. He says they’re holding ‘cocktail parties’ in New York, and if Mother wants to be a fashion leader in Seattle, she should, too.”
“Does she want that?”
“What she wants—as always—is to make Preston happy. He’s going to write up the party in ‘Seattle Razz,’ so everyone has to look modish and up-to-date.”
“I
don’t have a dinner jacket, Margot. All I have is my dress uniform.”
“Oh, Frank,” Margot said, and she laughed again, a deep sound that filled him with pleasure. “Please do wear that. Mother will love it!”
Margot, wary of another disaster like the photograph of her in the Times at the hospital benefit, turned to her sister-in-law for assistance in the matter of her dress for the garden party. Ramona looked wise when she approached her. “We must go shopping, Margot.”
“Do we have to? We couldn’t just order something . . . ?”
Ramona’s laugh dismissed that idea without even a discussion. They were at breakfast, and Ramona rose from the table with a determined look.
“Absolutely not, Margot,” she said, with an air of authority. “There’s no time for you to be properly fitted, of course. We’ll have to get something prêt-à-porter down at Frederick’s, and there’s really no time to lose. Why not go this morning?”
Meekly, Margot put down her coffee cup and stood up, pushing back her chair. The men were already gone. Edith had disappeared with the debutante and her mother to choose flowers and ribbons for the event. Loena and Leona stood together just inside the door, waiting for the last of the family to finish their breakfast. As Margot and Ramona approached the door, both maids curtsied. Margot rolled her eyes, and Loena giggled, making Ramona cast her a sharp glance.
“That girl is getting above herself,” Ramona said when they were in the hall gathering their things.
“She’s not, really, Ramona,” Margot said. She made an effort to keep her tone mild. “I saw her yesterday at the clinic for a follow-up exam. She’s just a bit giddy, happy with life in general. She knows how close she came to dying.”
Ramona sniffed, but said nothing more. She made a brief telephone call to order a taxi, and it was soon waiting for them at the foot of the walk. They went out, side by side, and the taxi driver jumped out of his automobile to hold the door for them.
Ramona, it seemed, knew the proper taxi company to call. This driver was neatly dressed, and his vehicle was spotless. Margot found herself, in a very short while, stepping out on Pine Street. The Frederick’s doorman, a well-spoken Negro in a billed cap and black leather gloves, opened the door of the taxi, then scurried ahead to hold the door of the store for the ladies. Ramona, without giving him so much as a glance, swept past. Margot followed, smiling at the man as she passed him. He bowed, and she thought, with a pang, of Blake.
She had gone to see Blake the night before, after her clinic hours. It required a streetcar ride and a walk of a half dozen blocks, but she had been rewarded by seeing him sitting up, listening to Sarah Church read from the Times. His eyes had brightened when he saw Margot. He managed to mumble a hello, and to take her hand in both of his and squeeze it.
The East Madison Convalescent Home was modest, even shabby, but it was clean and the staff was friendly. Sarah saw to it that Blake had everything he needed, but still Margot went to check on him every evening she could. His whereabouts were still a secret, even to Dr. Henderson.
“Margot?”
Margot blinked, startling out of her reverie. She had followed Ramona automatically, up in the elevator to the third floor, and now a saleswoman in a tidy coatdress, with a tape measure draped around her neck, was looking her up and down as if she were a mannequin to be adorned. The saleswoman said, in a cool voice, “Madame has a lovely figure.”
Margot bit her lip to keep from laughing at this, but her sister-in-law clearly didn’t find it amusing. She nodded sagely, one finger to her lips, and said, “Yes, she does. She won’t need a corset, that’s certain. Her legs are terribly long, though.”
“Your message said cocktail attire?”
“Yes.”
“So very chic,” the woman murmured.
“It’s to be a garden party at Benedict Hall. My cousin’s debutante year, you know.”
“How lovely,” the saleswoman said smoothly. “Well. Most frocks are above the ankle this season, so I’m certain we can fit Madame. If Madame will permit?” She whipped off the tape measure with a practiced gesture, and began to measure Margot’s shoulders, her hips, her waist. She conferred with Ramona over colors and fabrics before she disappeared into a back room. Margot stood, bemused, while Ramona toured the racks around them, fingering dresses, eyeing displays.
“This will be excellent for Madame, I think,” the saleswoman said. She had returned with a gown draped over one arm, a silk slip and a long gauzy scarf over the other.
“Oh, good,” Ramona said. Margot found herself a moment later in a dressing room. The two other women helped her out of her simple day frock and into the slip and the proposed evening gown. The saleswoman led her back out into the showroom, and pirouetted her before a long mirror while Ramona watched with a professional air. Margot had never seen her sister-in-law so confident. Ramona, clearly, was in her element.
She had to admit that Ramona and the Frederick’s saleswoman knew what they were doing. The gown was long and narrow, a silk georgette crepe in a warm peach color. It sparkled with crystal beads, flowing easily over Margot’s narrow hips. Its scalloped hem fell just to her ankles. The saleswoman stood to one side, her hands clasped to her cheeks in admiration. “Oh, Madame! So elegant. It’s perfect.”
Margot gazed at herself in the mirror. “I—I must say—” she said, then stopped.
Ramona, forgetting her dignity, giggled like a girl. “Oh, say it, Margot! You look swell!”
They caught each other’s eyes in the mirror, and suddenly both were laughing. “Ramona, you’re amazing! How did you know what would look good on me?”
Ramona shrugged a little, and pursed her lips smugly. “I’ve had practice,” she said.
The saleswoman tweaked a seam here, a sleeve there, then stood back. “We’ll just take in the waist a bit, shall we? And perhaps a bit in the shoulders. I have other gowns, naturally,” she said. “But this sets off your coloring so nicely. And elbow-length gloves, I think?”
“Yes, definitely. Hair?” Ramona asked. She addressed the saleswoman directly, as if asking Margot would be a waste of time.
It would have been. Margot kept her hair short so she wouldn’t have to fuss with it. She listened with bemusement as the two other women discussed what might be done to dress it up. In the end, she accepted Ramona’s recommendation of a beaded bandeau to encircle her forehead. She only drew the line at a sweeping white silk feather. “I’d feel like a parrot,” she protested.
Ramona held the feather this way and that near her face, then, surprisingly, nodded agreement. “You’re right, Margot. It’s too much. But promise you’ll wear the bandeau!”
“As long as you don’t think it makes me look like a Red Indian.”
“Oh, no, Madame!” the saleswoman exclaimed. “All the ladies in New York and Paris are wearing them this year. They’re very smart. Very avant-garde.”
Ramona had recovered her air of importance. “Have it all wrapped and sent to Benedict Hall, will you?”
“Of course, Madame. It’s been my pleasure to assist you.”
Margot couldn’t help but notice that there was no mention of the bill. It would appear on Father’s desk, she supposed, and be dealt with accordingly. Not until she and Ramona were shown to a table in the tearoom did she realize she hadn’t the faintest idea how much money they had just spent. Ramona ordered their tea without looking at the menu, and Margot accepted that as well.
“Ramona, thank you for your help today,” she said, when the tea and a plate of finger sandwiches were set in front of them. “I never know what to wear.”
“You’re going to look beautiful,” Ramona said with pride.
Impulsively, Margot said, “You’re so good at this! You could be a designer, or a buyer for this very store.”
At this, Ramona’s eyebrows rose. “Why would I do that? Take a job?”
“I just meant—” Margot began, and then let her voice trail off. Women in aproned uniforms and frilled whit
e caps moved among the tables, serving ladies in modish hats and summer wraps. She thought, observing the scene in the Frederick & Nelson tearoom, that she identified more with the waitresses than she did with the ladies at the tables. Than she did with her sister-in-law, or even with her mother.
She smiled across the china tea service at Ramona, and let it pass. For once, her sister-in-law had found something she could do for Margot, some way to showcase her own special abilities, and Margot felt real gratitude for it. For this one day, in this one instance, she supposed she didn’t need to point out the irony of the situation. She had just bought a very pretty frock, and she could hardly wait to see Frank’s face when he saw it. It was enough.
“After tea,” Ramona said decisively, “we must find you some shoes. Peau de soie, I think, and not too high a heel! You don’t want to tower over your escort.”
Frank approached Benedict Hall past a line of cars crowding Fourteenth Avenue. Saloon and touring cars, Model Ts, even an imported Stanhope were parked in the street. Drivers in caps and gloves leaned on their automobiles, smoking, waiting for their passengers. Music floated from the garden, a small ensemble playing light classics and popular tunes. Frank was a little late, as Mrs. Volger had labored over his uniform with her cleaning cloths and irons longer than he had expected. She had also insisted on laundering his shirt and polishing his shoes, fussing over him in a maternal fashion that made him smile even as he squirmed under the attention.
He had decided not to bring flowers, and as he came up the walk, he was glad of it. Benedict Hall was awash in flowers. They massed in white wicker baskets, draped over decorative arches leading into the garden, bloomed in nosegays in small crystal vases on every surface he could see. The sounds of conversation and clinking glasses spilled out through the neighborhood. A man he had never seen, wearing a butler’s coat and gloves, met him at the door, accepted his overcoat, and guided him around the wide porch to the garden. He announced him to the gathering, though no one seemed to pay the slightest attention.
Benedict Hall Page 30
