“Oh, Jesus,” the girl sobbed, “I dint mean it, honest I dint mean it. I musta been outa my mind. Honest, Mrs. Sarjint, I . . . I’m so sorry. I dint mean to do no harm, I. . . .”
“It’s all right,” Sheila said. “You’re upset. Perhaps you’d like a drink or coffee, tea, something like that? Mrs. Flood will take you out to the kitchen and. . . .”
“Who,
me?
”
Mrs. Flood said.
“Yes, you.”
“No,” the girl said, getting up in a panic. “No. Nothin’, please. My mom’s layin’ out at the fun’rull parlor. I gotta go to her. I. . .” She did not finish. She picked up her purse and
dashed out of the room. All action, all sound was suspended until
they heard the front door slam.
“Oh!” Mrs. Flood moaned, sagging against the door jamb.
“Oh, Mother,” Allison cried, throwing her arms around Sheila.
“Oh, darling, that crazy girl could have killed you. Oh, Mother, I’m so glad you’re safe. Are you all right?”
“I thought, Allison,” Sheila said, “that I told you to go to your
room.”
“B-but, Mother, I. . . .”
“Go to your room immediately, Allison. Mrs. Flood, will you
please find out where that poor girl’s mother is—some undertaking establishment—and send about fifty dollars’ worth of flowers with my card.”
IV.
Again the office was still except for the clattery ticking of the
clock. Sheila strode briskly to the sofa, sat down, crossed her slim
legs elegantly, lighted a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke.
Mrs. Flood, naturally, was the first to break the silence. “Oh Mrs. Sargent I tell you I’ve aged ten years in the last ten minutes my heart was in my mouth every second of the time I knew that young woman was up to no good the minute I clapped eyes on her and then when she pulled out that horrid great big gun
and actually pointed it at you I just wanted to die myself I was so
frightened and there you stood simply magnificent in the very jaws of death if it hadn’t been for Mr. Johnson we might both be lying here dead and gone with nobody to know how or why we died but Ive never seen such bravery you were just like a lion tamer or a snake charmer or something the way you had that awful woman simply hypnotized I mean have you ever seen anyone so courageous Mr. Johnson. . . .”
“Floodie,
please.”
“Now I’m going right upstairs and draw you a good hot tub after all you’ve been through if there’s one thing you need it’s a nice, hot, relaxing bath to. . . .”
“If there’s one thing I need, Floodie, it’s a nice, cold, relaxing drink. Or maybe just a neat cognac. Will you be good enough to pour at our little mad tea party?”
“Goodness!” Mrs. Flood said, tripping to the bar cart, “have you ever seen such valor, Mr. Johnson? Here she faces a crazed
murderess
and she can make jokes about it just as though. . . .
Oh, fudge! Mr. Johnson, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to do this.
My hands are trembling so that I. . . . And could I have one, too?”
“Here, let me,” Peter said, taking the decanter from Mrs. Flood. His own hands were none too steady, but he managed to pour out three stiff shots of brandy.
“Here, Mrs. Flood,” he said. “Sheila.”
“Thank you, Peter,” Sheila said.
Nerves of steel, he thought.
“Nerves of steel,” Mrs. Flood said.
“I guess my bird picked the wrong fortune when it came to advising Pearl the other day. Touchy Peter. It seems that you were right and I was wrong. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” Peter said.
“Now I re-mem-ber that girl’s letter,” Mrs. Flood said. “It was
the one that came straight to the house and there was that lovely old German proverb about God giving the shoulder. . . .”
Sheila saw her letter to Pearl Pulaski lying on the floor. She scooped it up from the carpet, put the letter in an ashtray and touched a match to it.
Peter glanced at her face in the flickering light—calm, composed. He knew that he had to get away by himself. “If I may be excused, now,”
he said, “there’s some work I ought to be doing. And I expect you could use a little rest, too.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’m perfectly fine,” Sheila said. “These little, uh, diversions are all in a day’s work.”
“Oh, they’re not at
all,
Mr. Johnson,” Mrs. Flood said, gesticulating with her brandy balloon. “I’ve been here for three years going on four and the work is so pleasant and interesting and. . . .”
“Have you really been here that long, Mrs. Flood?” Sheila said dangerously.
Insensitive to the tone of Sheila’s voice, Mrs. Flood went right
on. “Goodness yes! Four years in February and I can honestly say, Mr. Johnson, they’ve been four of the happiest years any woman ever spent. This lovely home, a charming employer-employer
and
friend—a happy family. . . .”
“Take your damned hands off me!” a voice said.
“What was that?” Sheila said, starting up. The front door slammed.
“Okay, sonny, take it easy. We’re almost home to mama. Some
joint!”
“Beat it, Sarge. If I’m not welcome at your place, you’re not
welcome at mine.
Quid pro quo.
That’s Latin.”
“Dicky!” Sheila said, rising.
“Oh, thank heaven!” Mrs. Flood sighed.
“Okay, Socrates. An’ here’s your car keys.”
“Dicky!” Sheila called sharply. “Dicky. What is the meaning of. . . . Oh.” Even with his back turned to her, Peter could sense that the play was about to begin again. “Oh, has . . . has there been some trouble? Won’t you come in uh . . . I don’t believe I. . . .”
“The name’s King, ma’am. Sergeant King.”
Dicky stumbled into the room followed by a great hulk of an
army sergeant.
“Oh, Dicky!” Mrs. Flood said. “Just
look
at your lovely jacket!
Where on
earth
have you. . . .”
“A very good question,” Sheila said. “Where indeed have you
been? Gone nearly twenty-four hours without a word and coming home—being
helped
home—in this condition. I am not exactly pleased.”
“Tough tit!” Dicky said distinctly. Mrs. Flood’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh!”
“Nor,” Sheila said, “do I find
that
frightfully amusing. I happen to have been sick with worry about you. Up all night. Calling the police dozens of times. Unable to concentrate on
anything. And you come staggering in with your, uh,
friend
here—
drunk, dirty, your clothes torn, abusive.”
“Do
forgive me, Lady Bountiful. Sergeant York, may I. . . .”
“The name’s King, son.”
“Oh, yes. So sorry. Sergeant King, I would like to present you
to the gracious ladies and gentlemen of my gracious Lake Forest
milieu—a French word, Sergeant King.”
“Dicky,” Peter said, “come off it.”
“First of all, my mother, fascinating Sheila Sargent, the Madame de Sevigne of Lake Forest. Next, her literary amanuensis, vivacious Mrs. Thomas Carmody Flood. And Mr. Peter Johnson of Purviance, Kansas and that great big organ—pardon the expression—
Worldwide Weekly,
This is the last living hero of the Alamo, Sergeant Egmont—your first name
is
Egmont, I believe—Sergeant Egmont King.”
“How do, ma’am,” King said, turning a dark brick red. “Well, nice to meet you-all. I’ll be goin’ now.”
“No time for Sargents, eh Sergeant?” Dicky said, laughing inanely.
“Dicky!” Sheila said. “That’s enough. If you would be good enough, Mr. King, to explain just how and where you two happened to meet. . . .”
The Archduchess Tatiana all over again, Peter thought, looking down her nose at some oafish serf.
But the oafish serf had faced worse adversaries than Sheila. “Sure I can tell you, ma’am. He come in this morning to enlist. We get lots like him. Well, maybe not quite as drunk or as rambunc—”
“
To
enlist?
In the
army?”
“I’m not in the navy, ma’am.”
Quite against her will, Sheila began to feel a certain respect for this great, leathery ox of a man. “No, no. Of course not, Mr. King. I only meant that it comes as something of a shock.”
“It come as something of a shock to me, too, ma’am.”
“But surely you didn’t . . . you didn’t
take
him?”
“Ma’am, the army ain’t that hard up. Not yet it ain’t.”
“He’s never been strong,” Sheila said.
“Oh, he’s strong enough, ma’am. Corporal Badian and I can testify to that. Tried to tear the place down when we told him to git.”
“But what did you do to him?”
“Why, ma’am, I done just what I wisht somebody would of done for me when I got drunk and joined up thirty years ago.”
“Oh, he’s been like a father to me,” Dicky said sloppily. “Good old Pop!”
“Be still, Dicky,” Sheila said. “Go on, please.”
“Why, we put him in the shower, give him some black coffee and brought him back here, ma’am.”
Dicky stood up eloquently. “Presiding at the coffee pot and the shower nozzle—a sister in Lake Forest, a father in Fort Sheridan! And a doting mother in the local bookstores and
The Weekend Bookworm!
Has ever a boy been as blessed? Why don’t we all have a drink on that.”
“Dicky. . . .” Sheila commenced.
“Now, listen, son,” Sergeant King said, laying a huge, furry paw on Dicky’s shoulder. “You already had enough. It’s been real nice meeting you an’ maybe tomorrah, nex’ day—when yuh feel better—you come back down to the fort an’ see Corporal Badian an’ I about joining up. You an’ the army kin teach each other a lot. Right now Corporal Badian’s waitin’ in the car out front. He’s kinda anxious to get home. His wife’s in the fam’ly way. Excuse me, please, ma’am,” he added with a furious blush. “So if there won’t be anything else. . . .” He stood uneasily, hesitantly for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, taking in the splendor of the room.
“I can’t begin to thank you, Mr. King,” Sheila said, all charm and composure. She felt, perhaps erroneously, that all ranks below captain were flattered to be referred to as mister.
“No trouble, lady.” And then King added tantalizingly, “The boy had some real interesting things to say.”
Reaching for her purse, Sheila said, “Mr. King, if I could give you and Mr. . . . uh, your friend outside . . . uh. . . .”
Oh please, no, Peter thought.
“Yuh mean Corporal Badian, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Badian. If I could give you and Mr. Badian some little something to repay you for all of your trouble. . . .” The purse snapped loudly open.
“Oh, no, ma’am, thanks very much all the same. I left the
boy’s car out front. Only a fender nicked. He done it at the fort. Well, I’ll be sayin’ good-by now. So long, son.”
“Please don’t go,” Dicky said.
“Thank you, Mr. King,” Sheila said. “Floodie, would you please see our guest to the door?” A second later Sergeant King was gone.
“Mother,” Dicky said, his face crumpling, “I—I want him to stay. He’s . . . he’s such a hell of a swell guy.”
“Peter,” Sheila said, “will you please take Dicky to his room. I’ll get Taylor to help you.”
For the great, gangling hairy creature he was, Dicky had been like a little boy. Docilely he had allowed Peter and Taylor to undress him and put him to bed. And then he had cried like a child against Taylor’s white jacket until, still sobbing, he had fallen back onto his pillow.
“He’s a sad boy, Mr. Johnson,” Taylor said, closing the door. “A real sad boy.”
“I guess we’re all pretty sad,” Peter said. He went to his room and got his coat and hat. He knew he had to get out of this house for a while. He wasn’t sure of just where, but some place. He’d bluff his way through, think of something.
When he got downstairs, Sheila had changed from her heavy suit into a short bare dress that was—well, he didn’t quite know
what, but whatever it was it seemed too youthful, too frivolous,
inappropriate for the mood of the house and the evening.
“Oh, good,” Sheila said. “You’ve got your hat and your coat. I can see that you feel just the way I do. Just to be out of this house until things get back into perspective. There’s a buffet at the club. That’s often amusing. Quite a different set from the crowd the Mills run with. After all, I haven’t shown you off to
anyone very nice out here—and vice versa. It’s still quite early, we might stop in for a drink with. . . .”
“Uh. . . . Sheila,” Peter began. He began badly because he was lying and he did not lie easily or well. “I’ve got to go into Chicago to see this guy for dinner.”
“Oh?” The brows rose questioningly.
“Yeah. This guy I knew in the army. His name’s Hal. He works here in Chicago. On the
Sun-Times,
I told you this mornin’”
“No,” Sheila said. “No, you didn’t.”
“Oh, sure. I must have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“
Well, it won’t be much of an evening. But as long as I’m out here, I’ve got to do it.”
“Of course.” She knew he was lying and he knew she knew it.
“So, I guess I can call a cab. There must be some sort of train or. . . .”
“Nonsense, Peter. Take one of the cars. There’s mine. There’s the station wagon or either one of the children’s cars. Believe me, they won’t be using them tonight.”
“Oh, no. I’ll just hop a train and. . . .”
“My dear, you might just as well be in the middle of the Mojave Desert as far as transportation is concerned. Take one of the cars. I insist. Really I do.”
“Well. . . .” He didn’t want one of her cars. He didn’t want anything to remind him of the day he’d just spent. But she was very firm. Already she was placing the keys in his hand. “Here, take the Lincoln. It’s right out in front. That’ll be easier for you. It’s just started to rain.”
“Th-thank you.”
“What time do you think you can shake your old friend? What’s his name?”
“Hank. Henry.”
“Yes, of course. Hank.”
“W-well, I don’t exactly know. He likes to sit around ‘til all hours, drinking and shooting the breeze.”
“Typical
Tribune
man, I should say.”
“Yeah, Typical. Well, it may be late. Don’t wait up.”
“Good night, Peter.”
“Good night.”
Sheila stood stark still until she heard the door close, the engine start and the wheels of the car crunching on the gravel and then her mighty composure began rapidly to disintegrate. “Oh God,” she said aloud, “what have I done to deserve this?” Two great tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why do they hate me so? All of them. Yes, loathe and despise me. What have I. . . .”
“Yes, Mrs. Sargent?” Mrs. Flood said, entering from the office.
“Goodness, you look so
girlish
tonight and after all you’ve been
through.”
Sheila stood rigid, her back still toward Mrs. Flood.
“Poor Dicky!” Mrs. Flood continued. “Well, youth must have its fling, I guess. But there’s no need to worry. I just looked in on him and he’s sleeping like a baby.”
“Is he?” Sheila said tonelessly, not turning around.
“Sleeping it off, I suppose. Poor boy. And where’s our Mr. Johnson?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes,” Sheila said fiercely.
“Gone!”
She faced Mrs. Flood, the
tears streaming.