House Party (5 page)

"Nothin' I can do about it, Mr. Pruitt," Sturgis whined. "It's them bloody batteries again. Well jest haf to keep a-goin' like this,"

"Jesus," Paul said aloud, "Jesus." Fang continued barking.

With the two roofs opening and closing, opening and closing, the Hotchkiss turned toward the Jericho Turnpike and continued its eccentric peregrination in the direction of Pruitt's Landing.

Pruitt's Landing is one of the few towns on Long Island that is still "unspoiled." It is so old that its main street is still called High Street and elms still arch across it. It is quaint without being cute, authentic without being restored. The old families see to that. All the buildings that are not white clapboard with green trim are red brick with white trim. Any new structure that goes up in the village proper is okayed by a board of the most rigid traditionalists. No neon sign hisses and flickers. No billboard mars its rustic charm. It is off the main highway. Only the elect know that it exists, and the only weekend trippers who enter its precincts are those well-off enough to pay the stiff rates at its one resting and dining place, where a chaste sign reads:

THE OLDE PRUITT'S LANDING HOSTELRY

Eftablished

1 7 3 7

Breakfast Luncheon Cocktails Dinner

Guefts Accommodated

By Refervation Only

Ordinarily the silence of High Street is undisturbed except for the plump of the under-inflated tires of large station wagons or sleek convertibles, the rattle of pearls, or the modulated cadences of a well-bred "Good morning." This afternoon, however, the elm trees quivered to the sound of a motorcycle siren.

Bryan Ames knew that the jig was up. He pulled over to the curb and halted resignedly in front of Betty Cannon's Little Corner Book Shop. The motorcycle screeched to a stop behind him. The local policeman, unused to an opportunity to arrest anyone, trembled with excitement as he removed his gauntlets, hunted for a pencil and his pristine book of traffic tickets. "Well, Barney Oldfield," the officer growled inexpertly out of one corner of his mouth, "where's the fire?"

Bryan removed his sun glasses and grinned up at the policeman. "Hello, Charlie," he said, "how's the wife?"

"Oh, it's
you.
Jeest, Mr. Bryan, I din't reckinize you. Hey, that's some bus you got there. New?"

"New since I've been out here last. But, no kidding, Charlie, how's Delphine and the little one?"

"Little
ones,
Mr. Bryan. We got three now."

"You don't say! What kind?"

"All girls, sir."

"Well, Charlie, that's just great. What's wrong with girls?”

"Well, we're hopin' fer a boy next time. But, honest, Mr. Bryan, you wuz goin' awful fast. I wouldn't mind except this is just about the time they push all the old ladies' wheelchairs from the pitcher show back to the hotel. They gotta go right across High Street and it's dangerous drivin’ so fast."

"I'm sorry, Charlie. Sorry as hell. I forgot it was time for the old girls to tuck into tea."

"Well, if it was somebody from the city instead of you, Mr. Bryan, I'd sure as hell run you in. But seeing as how . . . Well, shit, just drive slow till you get out of the village.
Please."

"Okay, Charlie. I'm sorry. Really I am. Give my best to Delphine and the girls. Hope it's a boy next time. So long, Charlie."

"So long, Mr. Bryan."

Bryan Ames gunned the big black Chrysler convertible and drove at a modest fifteen until he passed the Esso station, then he opened up for the last four miles between the village and the old Pruitt Place.

Now, driving along this leafy road, Bryan was lonely. He wished that he'd waited until five when Eleanor, his youngest sister, would leave work for the weekend. Then he could have brought along Elly and her young man who punched time clocks and wrote books. Bryan thought that he might think about women, what with the road vibrating below him and nature vibrant above him. But Bryan couldn't think about women without thinking of the screams and tantrums—the thoroughly waspish behavior—of his last almost-fiancee. She had been the eleventh girl he'd nearly been engaged to.

"Why the hell can't women nowadays be ladies like Mother, or clean young kids like Elly, or beautiful harlots like Cousin Felicia?" Bryan asked of no one in particular. Well, to hell with women. Eleven almost-engagements; two dozen heavy affairs; a hundred dalliances—all ruined because of women.

Bryan snapped on the radio, which he disliked, and pressed the button for WQXR, which he disliked least.

“. . . fourteen seconds before four o'clock," a mellifluous voice said. Then an even more mellifluous voice came on for a spot announcement: "When President George Washington wanted to put his holdings into safe hands he chose The Knickerbocker Trust Company, America's oldest—America's most distinguished—private bank; for six generations in the same American family. As Washington did, you can place
your
trust in The Knickerbocker Trust. Call or write this station for free descriptive brochure. Remember: You can
trust
The Knickerbocker Trust."

Bryan snapped off the radio. He found this commercial—and the ones about Jefferson and Hamilton and Adams and Hay, too—just as odious as the members of the board did: Even if every word happened to be true; even if it was his idea; even if it was bringing in business.

Just as the commercial said, The Knickerbocker Trust had been in the Ames family for six generations and Bryan Ames had been in The Knickerbocker Trust for ten years—ever since his father died. He'd been a naval lieutenant (junior grade) at the time, and The Knickerbocker Trust was such a tradition that strings had been pulled to get him demobilized so that no Axis torpedo could interfere with the primogeniture of the bank. But Bryan had refused to budge and a flood of sympathetic and patriotic fan mail had followed his refusal. A month later the war was over and Bryan stepped into the vice-presidency. Ever since then he had really played the role of president, owing to his immediate superior's cardiac condition.

Although installed in the bank largely as an Ames and a figurehead, Bryan had made some radical changes. He had hired the first female employees. He instituted a modest advertising campaign. He installed air conditioning. He even wanted to remodel the building—iron pillars, tile floors, ladies' parlor and all—but was advised against it so strongly that he settled for a good cleaning and a paint job. The board felt at first that Bryan was a bit too extreme—a new broom and all that.

But Bryan got results and more business, too, without losing New York's heaviest tiaras from the musty vault, without forsaking New York's shakiest, but most revered, signatures. The Knickerbocker letters of credit still carried the authority of a Papal Bull; the bank was still America's oldest bank, America's
best
bank.

Socially Bryan was endearing. He belonged to the Yale, Union, Knickerbocker and Century clubs, but only out of respect to his dead father. He didn't
believe
in clubs. His social circle included unnumbered Jews; Catholics both aristocratic and proletarian; and three Negroes. He was adamant against joining the Society of the Cincinnati, the Mayflower Descendants, the Huguenot Society, the Lords of Colonial Manors or any other of a score of American aristocratic bodies for which he was eligible. Bryan said—and in print—"ancestor worship is for the Chinese and for the birds." Everyone, including most of the members of the societies, respected him for it.

And
socially,
Bryan was a catch. He had manners; he had breeding; he had charm; he had money. He was nice looking—handsome, really—taller and heavier than Paul, his great, black Pruitt eyes blessed not only with silken lashes, but with twenty-twenty vision. Many a mother had wept at seeing her daughter paired off with some lesser man, while Bryan Ames still stalked the streets scot-free. The board, always anxious of the future, wanted an heir to replace Bryan circa 2000. But Bryan was still unattached.

And now as he drove along Bryan thought once again of women. But almost at once he was at the gate house and this made him think of home.

It was two miles from the gate to the main house, mostly uphill. Bryan drove slowly because he wanted to see how the place was coming along. It was coming badly. The forest, though overgrown, looked pretty good, but the clearings distressed him. Outbuildings had fallen into disuse. Certain little garden spots had gone to seed. Weeds abounded. "Poor Mother," Bryan said aloud again. "I've got to have a talk with her—see that the place is tidied up a bit." Then the car took the last precipitous climb and there again stood the old Pruitt Place, its shingles weathered to a pearly gray, its windows clean, its lawns clipped, its flowers brilliant, its roof—though exhausted—hiding its fatigue.

"I'm home," Bryan said, sliding under the porte cochere. "I'm home again." He sprang out of his car, dragging his suitcase behind him. "Mother," he shouted, "Mother, Nanny, Aunt Lily, Felicia! I'm home! I'm home, everybody. I'm home!”

Mrs. Ames was in a state of disarray. Her face was covered, as it rarely was, with cold cream. Her pewter hair streamed down her back. She had decided that for once she'd look like a lady for her guests. Now she heard Bryan's call. It was as thrilling today as his wail had been the day he was born.

"Bryan!” she called, leaning out of the open window. "Bryan! I'm up here. Up in my room." Really, she thought, pulling her hair back over the sill, what am I doing? I look like an antediluvian Rapunzel. I can't let Bryan see me like this.

She quickly wiped off the cold cream, coiled her hair into an immense and becoming bun, and snatched from the closet a lacy peignoir and hoped she was wearing it with what Violet called an "air." Then she touched her mouth with tinted pomade and rose to await her first-born.

In a moment Bryan rapped at the door and then burst in.

"Mother!"

"Bryan,” Mrs. Ames said, feeling some pain within his strong embrace. She wanted to say How big you've become! Instead she said, "How tired you look."

"Its nothing, Mother. Just the bank."

"I suppose it's that loathsome old board. They worried your poor father half to death." To death, in fact, Mrs. Ames added to herself. "Now, just let me look at you. Oh, Bryan, I haven't seen you, darling, since—since Christmas."

"Don't I telephone all the time?"

"That's not the same, darling. Come kiss your mother again . . . Oh, Bryan, I'm
so glad
to have you here. Of course your great uncle's coming to act as host and all that. But, Bryan, Uncle Ned's so old and so—so terribly silly. Oh, darling, it's good to have the head of the family here with all these people descending on me." Mrs. Ames tugged the handkerchief out of her son's breast pocket and mopped at her eyes.

"Mother! You're crying. What's the matter with you? Who
is
coming? What's wrong?"

"Oh, Bryan, it's nothing. I'm just a silly, good-for-nothing old woman. Just as silly and good-for-nothing as your Aunt Violet, only she's rich and her hair isn't gray. At least it doesn't
look
gray." Mrs. Ames snuffled inelegantly. "Bryan, have you any money?"

"Some. Why?"

"Darling, would you run out and buy a bottle of champagne? I
can't
entertain as shabbily as this and I've spent everything I have just buying vulgar things like Scotch and gin. I daren't even cash another check."

"Mother, what are you talking about? You're a rich woman. You've got at least twenty thousand a year. Why, only three per cent of the families in America have over ten."

"Spare me your statistics, darling, and give me your hankie again." Mrs. Ames blew her nose loudly. "D-do you know how much it costs just to keep this wretched old house going? I mean to keep it warm and clean and looked after; to keep some of the grass mowed and the beach raked and the floors polished and the weeds pulled. Do you know what the income taxes are for a widowed woman with no dependents—a rich woman with twenty thousand a year? Do you know what the land taxes are on three miles of frontage? Oh, Bryan, can't you—can't the trust company—get this horrid house off my hands?"

"Mother!
What are you talking about? This is your
home!"
Bryan was shocked, but patient. "Now, Mother, stop crying. You've had a hard day. Well talk about this tomorrow. Just as soon as I've had a swim and a shower I'll go right into town and buy you a whole
case
of champagne."

"Really, Bryan, your mother
hasn’t
turned into a toper, I just thought it might make the weekend so—so
festive!"
Mrs. Ames choked down a sob. "It would please Uncle Ned, I know. But just one bottle. I don't want you spending
all
your money. I don't even
like
champagne."

"I'll still buy a case. May I call the liquor dealer and tell him to start chilling it?"

"I hope so. If the phone's still working."

"What do you mean, Mother?"

"Well, I wrote a check today for the telephone company, but it's nip and tuck as to whether your Aunt Violet ever got it around to them."

"You mean they threatened to . . ."

"That's just what I mean. I just hope that Violet remembered to take the check to them. I also hope the check won't bounce, but then it really wouldn't
show
until next week, would it?"

"Mother! One of
your
checks
bounced?"

"Like a ball, Bryan," Mrs. Ames whispered. "I
think."

"Mother, you and I have got to go into this."

"I don't want to go into anything, Bryan. I just want to get
out."

"Now, Mother, don't you worry. Take a nice bath and rest. I'll
order the champagne and pick it up. I'll meet the train, too. Felicia and I will meet it together."

"How nice."

"Where is Felicia?"

"Asleep somewhere, I suppose."

"Isn't Elly coming out on the train?"

"And God knows who-all else. Well, it's a
big
house."