Let Me Tell You (6 page)

“Really,” Mrs. Spencer said. Mrs. Babcock was a dreadful person, she thought, always coming and putting her hands on people. “I assure you,” she said, “I know nothing against these people.”

“Well, then, that's all right, isn't it?” Mrs. Babcock was clearly relieved. “It's a nice house,” she explained, “and we've put some work in it, fixing it up, and it's belonged to Carl's folks for over a hundred years, and I wouldn't want to see anyone living there who might let it go down.”

“Yes, I can quite understand,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Goodbye.” I am such a busy person, she thought, moving quickly down the street; why does everyone come to me with their problems? Irma had to have shoes, the lawn furniture must be repainted; would it be wise to look around for a new dress to wear when the Ramseys returned the dinner invitation, or would a new dress look ostentatious, eager? She sighed, and hurried.

She always did her own shopping, checking quality and price with care; it did not pay, she believed, to buy food for a family without considerable caution, and with prices on clothes and furniture and magazines and even Harry's newspaper going up all the time, a good housekeeper had to watch carefully to be sure she was not cheated, or deceived, or foolish. Consequently, when Mrs. Spencer went into the supermarket across the street from Harry's bank, she did not move idly but neither did she seize exciting novelties from the shelves or hurry to snatch the top head of lettuce or the special for the weekend. She walked slowly, pushing the shopping cart with the pride of one performing perfectly an exacting and delicate chore, and hesitated and debated and even, when the clerk was not looking, prodded at the melon with the tip of her gloved finger. It would not fit her position as Harry's wife to serve poor food to her family. Her children must bear visibly on their faces the healthy evidence of the very best; no unripe fruit must mar the smooth curve of little Irma's cheek or the growth of Donnie's sturdy legs. Rapt, devoted, Mrs. Spencer was considerably annoyed at the interruptions from her neighbors, who bade her good morning or asked about her health or stood in her way before the shelves. When she moved to the counter where old Sanson added and made change, she answered his good morning with only a nod; did that can of peas look slightly swollen? had she by some chance taken down a faulty container?

“That can doesn't look sound, Mr. Sanson. Will you please get me another?”

He glanced up at her, so briefly that she barely saw, and left the counter to fetch her another can of peas. “It's such a nuisance,” she said to the woman waiting behind her in line. “These days, everything's so poorly made.” The woman turned her head aside and looked impatient;
she
doesn't care what she feeds her family, Mrs. Spencer thought, and shrugged as Mr. Sanson returned with a sounder can of peas. As he added up the prices of her groceries, she followed his gestures for any absentminded blunder; he might charge her twice for something, perhaps for two cans of peas. Then, at last, surveying the slip that listed the items, checking as each went into the box for the boy to carry to her car, she was astonished when Mr. Sanson said, as casually as he took her money, “Friend of yours was in yesterday, Mrs. Spencer. Moving into town for the summer.”

“A friend of mine? Of
mine
?”

“Mrs. Oberon. Nice-talking lady.”

“A friend of
mine
?”

“Said she was.” His old eyes lifted, shrewd. “She didn't have any money with her,” he said.

“Really—” Mrs. Spencer gasped, shocked. “You don't expect
me
to pay…?”

Mr. Sanson smiled oddly. “Seen a lot of people come through here,” he said, looking past Mrs. Spencer to the woman waiting behind her. “Back when this was a little country store, I used to know the ones I could trust. Still do. Can tell them every time.
Her,
I could trust. Being,” and he looked again at Mrs. Spencer, “as she was a friend of
yours.
”

“I absolutely refuse—”

“Besides,” Mr. Sanson went on reasonably, reaching past Mrs. Spencer to pull the cart behind her, “Liz Babcock rented them Carl's old farm down by the river, and I guess they'll be around for a while.”

“Those new people moved in,” Mrs. Finley said, breathing heavily as she leaned to take up the pail and mop. “Thought sure you'd be down there helping out.”

“What new people?” Mrs. Spencer asked. “I want all those shelves washed today, Mrs. Finley.”

“Those friends of yours. Down to Liz Babcock's old man's farmhouse.”

“Those people are not—”

“Half the town's down there anyway. They likely don't need
you.
” Mrs. Finley's eye, on the bare edge of insolence, turned to her mop. “Nice folks,” Mrs. Finley said. “Easy to get along with, I'd think.”

Mrs. Finley is really too old and too heavy for this kind of work, Mrs. Spencer thought; I ought to start looking around for someone younger.

“New kid in my class,” Donnie announced over his supper. “Nice guy.”

“Donnie, dear. ‘Guy' is not a civilized word.”

“Nice fellow,” said Donnie primly. “He's got a two-wheel bike. And a microscope. And a dog. A
dog.
”

“Animals are very well for the open country, dear. But with our lovely lawns and our pretty flowers— Imagine what a dog would do, digging and scratching!”

“And he's got a big brother who's teaching him to pitch. He's already the best marbles player in the school.”

“What's his name?” Irma asked. “Donnie? What's his name? Donnie?”

“Irma glirma,” Donnie said. “Irma dirma epiglirma.”

“Donnie? Donnie?”

“Joe,” Donnie said, reverently. “Joe.”

“Joe what, dear?”

“
I
don't know. Joe something. You know what? He's got a baseball with all the Yankees' autographs on it. He's going to bring it to school.”

“Really, Donnie.” Mrs. Spencer spoke with some distaste. “Do you know what his father does? What kind of clothes does he wear? Does he speak nicely?”

“Sure,” her son said, “sure,” and bent his head over his pudding.

After considerable hesitation, and without quite knowing why, Mrs. Spencer brought herself reluctantly to speak to her husband. She put her slim dessert spoon down on the edge of her plate, touched the handle of her coffee cup, and said, not raising her eyes, “Harry, I'm worried about something.”

“Money?” He looked up, concerned. “Money, Margaret? Surely there's no need—”

“No.” She smiled, a little. “Not money, Harry. No, I'm worried about these people, the ones who have just moved into town.”

“The Oberons?” He was puzzled.

“You
know
them?”

“Sure,” he said. “Joe and Rosie. They've been in the bank. What worries you about
them
?”

“They've been using my name. Nothing serious, of course, and I'm sure everyone around town knows me well enough to recognize the kind of people I know, but they told Mr. Sanson at the market that they were friends of mine, and today I was disturbed when the florist just happened to mention that Mrs.—what
is
the name? Oberon—was buying white roses because they were my favorite flower and she was expecting me to call—”

“You ought to, as a matter of fact,” Harry said. “Common courtesy.”

“But I don't even
know
them,” Mrs. Spencer said.

“If they're friends of your sister's—”

“Really,” Mrs. Spencer said. Her fingers tensed on the handle of her coffee cup. “Harry,” she said, then stopped. Finally she said, “If I call on them, then they'll expect to visit
here.
”

“Why not?” Harry said. “You could buy
her
favorite flowers. They are very pleasant people, anyway.”

“Introduce them to
my
friends?” Mrs. Spencer was astounded. “
My
friends, Harry?”

“Then do as you think best,” Harry said slowly. “I just thought they were very pleasant people.”

Mrs. Spencer lifted her chin regally. “I do not call on people who capitalize on my name,” she said.

Harry glanced up, sardonically. “It's my name, too,” he said, “and I'm honored.”

Pamela Worthington was quite surprised, she told everyone, to find that the Spencers had not gone to the Oberons' housewarming; it was certainly
the
party of the summer, although probably the Oberons would surpass it themselves, the summer being young. At any rate, one would surely have expected the Spencers, of all people, to be there with their old friends.

“I simply couldn't understand it,” Pamela Worthington said at last to Mrs. Spencer. “You, of all people.”

“We were not invited,” Mrs. Spencer said. “We don't know the people.”

“Margaret,
honestly.
Rosie Oberon will simply
die
when she hears you thought you weren't invited. She'll simply
die.
”

“We were not invited.”

“But, my dear,
of course
you were invited. Rosie told me herself she was expecting you, and all evening they were absolutely
watching
for you.”

“We do not know the people.”

Pamela stared. “But Harry
introduced
me to them, right there in the bank.” Then she stopped, and lowered her voice. “Really, Margaret,” she said, “whatever this is all about, I
do
think you're making too much of it. I don't know what they ever could have done to offend you.”

Mrs. Spencer snapped her pocketbook open, and then shut, with finality. “Furthermore,” she said, “I do not
want
to know them.”

“It's your business, after all.” Pamela's tone had grown definitely colder. “I always knew you could carry a grudge, Margaret, but I do think that in this case you're just carrying one too far. Rosie Oberon is one of the sweetest people I ever met, and I just don't see how it's
possible
to carry on a feud with her.”

Mrs. Spencer turned away. “I said I do not know the people,” she said. “That should be enough for any of my friends.”

“Maybe,” Pamela said, perhaps not quite loud enough to be heard, “maybe you don't have that many friends to spare.”

The blossoms fell from the peach tree and were swept up by the boy who did the Spencers' lawn; dandelions sprang up, Donnie and Irma were released at last from school, the weather turned almost warm enough for swimming. On a Thursday, just two weeks after the Oberons' first letter had come, Mrs. Spencer was late getting home, held up by a tiresome woman who could not understand why the country club dances had to be kept small and exclusive and thought an important committee meeting was the place to argue about it; people should be more discriminating, Mrs. Spencer had been telling herself crossly all the way home; after all the work we've done to keep things nice, someone always turns up without any appreciation or understanding. Because she was angry and in a hurry she ripped her stocking getting out of her car, and
that
meant she would have to change stockings before dinner, and that meant she would be even later; almost running, she went quickly into her house. Surely one might get by without these petty irritations, she was thinking.

“Dorothy?” she called. “Dorothy?”

The high school girl who watched over Donnie and Irma in the afternoons when Mrs. Spencer had her committee meetings and her book club meetings and her Wednesday Club meetings unwound herself from a chair in the living room. She had been watching television, Mrs. Spencer saw with one shocked glance; there was an apple core in the ashtray on the end table. “
What?
” Mrs. Spencer said, gasping, “
Dorothy?
”

“Mr. Spencer—”

“Garbage in my living room? Where are the children?”

“They're not here,” Dorothy said. Carefully, daintily, she took up the apple core. “I'll wash the ashtray if you like,” she said sweetly.

“Watching
television
?”

“I only stayed around,” Dorothy said, giving Mrs. Spencer one level, rude stare, “because Mr. Spencer asked me to. He said to tell you that he had taken the children out to the picnic. He said to tell you that they would be expecting you to join them when you got back. That,” said Dorothy, “is what I stayed here to tell you.”

“A
picnic
?”

“Everyone in town is going. At the Oberons'. I'm going too.” For a moment Dorothy's voice trembled with adolescent outrage. “I could even be late,” she said, “just because I wanted to do you a favor.”

“Really, Dorothy.” Mrs. Spencer lifted her chin. “I don't need people doing me favors. You could have left a note.”

“Mr. Spencer asked me to, and I could have been at the picnic a long time ago.” Dorothy stopped, schoolbooks and jacket in her arms, one hand fumbling for the front doorknob. “My mother says I don't have to babysit for you anymore if I don't want to,” she said, with enormous dignity. “So I just guess I won't be back anymore.”

“Just as you please, Dorothy,” Mrs. Spencer said, but the door slammed behind Dorothy and her words trailed off. The house was very still; Mrs. Spencer's planning had somehow never taken into account the fact that someday she might come home and not find Harry and the children. Uncertain, she turned toward the stairs, thinking to go and change her stockings, and then hesitated. She had told Harry and the children, had she not, that the Oberons were socially unacceptable? This was just like her sister, this pushing and climbing and refusing to take no for an answer, until nice people were forced to visit out of sheer weariness; they will be making a great fuss over Harry and the children to get at
me,
Mrs. Spencer thought; I must go at once and put a stop to it.