Complete Stories (15 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Parker,Colleen Bresse,Regina Barreca

BOOK: Complete Stories
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She took him by a limp arm and led him, unresisting, along the walk to the house; led him past the maid that opened the door, up the stairs to his little blue bedroom. She put him in it and closed the door.
Then she went to her own room, placed her package carefully on the table, removed her gloves, and laid them, with her bag, in an orderly drawer. She entered her closet, hung up her coat, then stooped for one of the felt slippers that were set scrupulously, in the first dancing position, on the floor beneath her nightgown. It was a lavender slipper, with scallops and a staid rosette; it had a light, flexible leather sole, across which was stamped its name, “Kumfy-Toes.”
Mrs. Matson grasped it firmly by the heel and flicked it back and forth. Carrying it, she went to the little boy’s room. She began to speak as she turned the door-knob.
“And before mother had time to take her hat off, too,” she said. The door closed behind her.
She came out again presently. A scale of shrieks followed her.
“That will do!” she announced, looking back from the door. The shrieks faded obediently to sobs. “That’s quite enough of that, thank you. Mother’s had just about plenty for one morning. And today, too, with the ladies coming this afternoon, and all mother has to attend to! Oh, I’d be ashamed, Curtis, if I were you—that’s what I’d be.”
She closed the door, and retired, to remove her hat.
The ladies came in mid-afternoon. There were three of them. Mrs. Kerley, gray and brittle and painstaking, always thoughtful about sending birthday-cards and carrying glass jars of soup to the sick. Mrs. Swan, her visiting sister-in-law, younger, and given to daisied hats and crocheted lace collars, with her transient’s air of bright, determined interest in her hostess’s acquaintances and activities. And Mrs. Cook. Only she did not count very much. She was extremely deaf, and so pretty well out of things.
She had visited innumerable specialists, spent uncounted money, endured agonizing treatments, in her endeavors to be able to hear what went on about her and to have a part in it. They had finally fitted her out with a long, coiling, corrugated speaking-tube, rather like a larger intestine. One end of this she placed in her better ear, and the other she extended to those who would hold speech with her. But the shining black mouthpiece seemed to embarrass people and intimidate them; they could think of nothing better to call into it than “Getting colder out,” or “You keeping pretty well?” To hear such remarks as these she had gone through years of suffering.
Mrs. Matson, in her last spring’s blue taffeta, assigned her guests to seats about the living-room. It was an afternoon set apart for fancy-work and conversation. Later there would be tea, and two triangular sandwiches apiece made from the chopped remnants of last night’s chicken, and a cake which was a high favorite with Mrs. Matson, for its formula required but one egg. She had gone, in person, to the kitchen to supervise its making. She was not entirely convinced that her cook was wasteful of materials, but she felt that the woman would bear watching.
The crepe-paper baskets, fairly well filled with disks of peppermint creams, were to enliven the corners of the tea-table. Mrs. Matson trusted her guests not to regard them as favors and take them home.
The conversation dealt, and favorably, with the weather. Mrs. Kerley and Mrs. Swan vied with each other in paying compliments to the day.
“So clear,” said Mrs. Kerley.
“Not a cloud in the sky,” augmented Mrs. Swan. “Not a one.”
“The air was just lovely this morning,” reported Mrs. Kerley. “I said to myself, ‘Well, this is a beautiful day if there ever
was
one.’ ”
“There’s something so balmy about it,” said Mrs. Swan.
Mrs. Cook spoke suddenly and overloudly, in the untrustworthy voice of the deaf.
“Phew, this is a scorcher!” she said. “Something terrible out.”
The conversation went immediately to literature. It developed that Mrs. Kerley had been reading a lovely book. Its name and that of its author escaped her at the moment, but her enjoyment of it was so keen that she had lingered over it till ’way past ten o’clock the night before. Particularly did she commend its descriptions of some of those Italian places; they were, she affirmed, just like a picture. The book had been drawn to her attention by the young woman at the Little Booke Nooke. It was, on her authority, one of the new ones.
Mrs. Matson frowned at her embroidery. Words flowed readily from her lips. She seemed to have spoken on the subject before.
“I haven’t any use for all these new books,” she said. “I wouldn’t give them house-room. I don’t see why a person wants to sit down and write any such stuff. I often think, I don’t believe they know what they’re writing about themselves half the time. I don’t know who they think wants to read those kind of things. I’m sure
I
don’t.”
She paused to let her statements sink deep.
“Mr. Matson,” she continued—she always spoke of her husband thus; it conveyed an aristocratic sense of aloofness, did away with any suggestion of carnal intimacy between them—“Mr. Matson isn’t any hand for these new books, either. He always says, if he could find another book like
David Harum
, he’d read it in a minute. I wish,” she added longingly, “I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard him say that.”
Mrs. Kerley smiled. Mrs. Swan threw a rippling little laugh into the pause.
“Well, it’s true, you know, it really is true,” Mrs. Kerley told Mrs. Swan.
“Oh, it is,” Mrs. Swan hastened to reassure her.
“I don’t know what we’re coming to,
I’m
sure,” announced Mrs. Matson.
She sewed, her thread twanging through the tight-stretched circle of linen in her embroidery-hoop.
The stoppage of conversation weighed upon Mrs. Swan. She lifted her head and looked out the window.
“My, what a lovely lawn you have!” she said. “I couldn’t help noticing it, first thing. We’ve been living in New York, you know.”
“I often say I don’t see what people want to shut themselves up in a place like that for,” Mrs. Matson said. “You know, you exist, in New York—we live, out here.”
Mrs. Swan laughed a bit nervously. Mrs. Kerley nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s pretty good.”
Mrs. Matson herself thought it worthy of repetition. She picked up Mrs. Cook’s speaking-tube.
“I was just saying to Mrs. Swan,” she cried, and called her epigram into the mouthpiece.
“Live where?” asked Mrs. Cook.
Mrs. Matson smiled at her patiently. “New York. You know, that’s where I got my little adopted boy.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Swan. “Carrie told me. Now, wasn’t that lovely of you!”
Mrs. Matson shrugged. “Yes,” she said, “I went right to the best place for him. Miss Codman’s nursery—it’s absolutely reliable. You can get awfully nice children there. There’s quite a long waiting-list, they tell me.”
“Goodness, just think how it must seem to him to be up here,” said Mrs. Swan, “with this big house, and that lovely, smooth lawn, and everything.”
Mrs. Matson laughed slightly. “Oh—well,” she said.
“I hope he appreciates it,” remarked Mrs. Swan.
“I think he will,” Mrs. Matson said capably. “Of course,” she conceded, “he’s pretty young right now.”
“So lovely,” murmured Mrs. Swan. “So sweet to get them young like this and have them grow up.”
“Yes, I think that’s the nicest way,” agreed Mrs. Matson. “And, you know, I really enjoy training him. Naturally, now that we have him here with us, we want him to act like a little gentleman.”
“Just think of it,” cried Mrs. Swan, “a child like that having all this! And will you have him go to school later on?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Matson replied. “Yes, we want him to be educated. You take a child going to some nice little school near here, say, where he’ll meet only the best children, and he’ll make friends that it will be a pretty good thing for him to know some day.”
Mrs. Swan waxed arch. “I suppose you’ve got it all settled what he’s going to be when he grows up,” she said.
“Why, certainly,” said Mrs. Matson. “He’s to go right straight into Mr. Matson’s business. My husband,” she informed Mrs. Swan, “is the Matson Adding Machines.”
“Oh-h-h,” said Mrs. Swan on a descending scale.
“I think Curtis will do very well in school,” prophesied Mrs. Matson. “He’s not at all stupid—picks up everything. Mr. Matson is anxious to have him brought up to be a good, sensible business man—he says that’s what this country needs, you know. So I’ve been trying to teach him the value of money. I’ve bought him a little bank. I don’t think you can begin too early. Because probably some day Curtis is going to have—well——”
Mrs. Matson drifted into light, anecdotal mood.
“Oh, it’s funny the way children are,” she remarked. “The other day Mrs. Newman brought her little Amy down to play with Curtis, and when I went up to look at them, there he was, trying to give her his brand-new flannel rabbit. So I just took him into my room, and I sat him down, and I said to him, ‘Now, Curtis,’ I said, ‘you must realize that mother had to pay almost two dollars for that rabbit—nearly two hundred pennies,’ I said. ‘It’s very nice to be generous, but you must learn that it isn’t a good idea to give things away to people. Now you go in to Amy,’ I said, ‘and you tell her you’re sorry, but she’ll have to give that rabbit right back to you.’ ”
“And did he do it?” asked Mrs. Swan.
“Why, I told him to,” Mrs. Matson said.
“Isn’t it splendid?” Mrs. Swan asked of the company at large. “Really, when you think of it. A child like that, just suddenly having everything all at once. And probably coming of poor people, too. Are his parents—living?”
“Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Matson said briskly. “I couldn’t be bothered with anything like that. Of course, I found out all about them. They were really quite nice, clean people—the father was a college man. Curtis really comes of a very nice family, for an orphan.”
“Do you think you’ll ever tell him that you aren’t—that he isn’t—tell him about it?” inquired Mrs. Kerley.
“Dear me, yes, just as soon as he’s a little older,” Mrs. Matson answered. “I think it’s so much nicer for him to know. He’ll appreciate everything so much more.”
“Does the little thing remember his father and mother at all?” Mrs. Swan asked.
“
I
really don’t know if he does or not,” said Mrs. Matson.
“Tea,” announced the maid, appearing abruptly at the door.
“Tea is served, Mrs. Matson,” said Mrs. Matson, her voice lifted.
“Tea is served, Mrs. Matson,” echoed the maid.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with her,” Mrs. Matson told her guests when the girl had disappeared. “Here last night she had company in the kitchen till nearly eleven o’clock at night. The trouble with me is I’m too good to servants. The only way to do is to treat them like cattle.”
“They don’t appreciate anything else,” said Mrs. Kerley.
Mrs. Matson placed her embroidery in her sweet-grass workbasket, and rose.
“Well, shall we go have a cup of tea?” she said.
“Why, how lovely!” cried Mrs. Swan.
Mrs. Cook, who had been knitting doggedly, was informed, via the speaking-tube, of the readiness of tea. She dropped her work instantly, and led the way to the dining-room.
The talk, at the tea-table, was of stitches and patterns. Praise, be nignly accepted by Mrs. Matson, was spread by Mrs. Swan and Mrs. Kerley upon the sandwiches, the cake, the baskets, the table-linen, the china, and the design of the silver.
A watch was glanced at, and there arose cries of surprise at the afternoon’s flight. There was an assembling of workbags, a fluttering exodus to the hall to put on hats. Mrs. Matson watched her guests.
“Well, it’s been just too lovely,” Mrs. Swan declared, clasping her hand. “I can’t
tell
you how much I’ve enjoyed it, hearing about the dear little boy, and all. I
hope
you’re going to let me see him some time.”
“Why, you can see him now, if you’d like,” said Mrs. Matson. She went to the foot of the stairs and sang, “
Cur
-tis,
Cur
-tis.”
Curtis appeared in the hall above, clean in the gray percale sailor-suit that had been selected in the thrifty expectation of his “growing into it.” He looked down at them, caught sight of Mrs. Cook’s speaking-tube, and watched it intently, his eyes wide open.
“Come down and see the ladies, Curtis,” commanded Mrs. Matson.
Curtis came down, his warm hand squeaking along the banister. He placed his right foot upon a step, brought his left foot carefully down to it, then started his right one off again. Eventually he reached them.
“Can’t you say how-do-you-do to the ladies?” asked Mrs. Matson.
He gave each guest, in turn, a small, flaccid hand.
Mrs. Swan squatted suddenly before him, so that her face was level with his.

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