The Chameleon (15 page)

“I am not one of them!” she told the mirror, referring to the girls who taunted her. “I am destined for better things!” she vowed as she unclipped the jeweled barrette from her updo and let her shiny tangle of hair tumble free over her bare shoulders. She hiked the bodice fabric up to her collarbone, flung her falsies on the dressing table, and stood back to survey her new reflection.

Face clean, falsies tossed, and modesty restored, Claire gathered up her now quite lovely party dress and with her chin up hurried out of the powder room and into the small, dark, private library across the hall, shutting the door behind her. She looked around for the phone. She'd call a taxi. She was going home.

Her head was spinning and all she could see was black, white, and black. She leaned against the doorjamb a moment to collect her thoughts and gain some composure.

“Ohhhh! I will
not
go to their stupid ball. I am going to get out of here. If only I had wings!” She shouted to a wall of books.

Harry Harrison turned around in a leather wing chair where he had been browsing through an oversized atlas, and echoed her sentiment.

“I'd rather be flying myself. It's a spectacularly clear night.” He stood and poked his head out the bay window.

Claire's jaw dropped.

“Oh, excuse me. I didn't know there was anybody else in here.”

“Well it's not exactly the public library,” he said. The young man in dress blues galumphed across the room, extending his hand.

“I'm Harry.” His grin was sincere and stretched from ear to ear. He shook her hand like he was pumping water.

“I'm Claire.”

“Nice name. Nice dress.” His goofy grin was immediately disarming.

“Really?” Her shoulders relaxed. She lifted her violet eyes and cocked her head. He was taller than she.

“Oh, it's grand.”

Claire couldn't help smiling. He looked awfully handsome in his naval lieutenant's dress uniform. Something about the uniform made her feel safe.

“So are you really a flier?” He certainly looks the part, Claire thought to herself.

“You bet. And a good one. Just call me the Winged Mercury.” He pointed to a bronze statue of Mercury, the kind you could find in the library of anyone with an annual adjusted income of over two hundred thousand. Only this one was wearing a Venetian party hat.

“I met Amelia Earhart once. I even have a letter from her.” Claire's eyes grew more violet in her animation. She began to forget just why she had come into the library in the first place. “Imagine, a flier in the library.” She smiled shyly, closing her eyes. “ ‘The drone of the plane, the steady sun, the long horizon all combined to make me forget for a while that time moved swifter than I.’” She opened her eyes wide to Harry. “Beryl Markham,
West with the Night.
I'm reading it now. Do you know it?” A log popped in the quietly burning fireplace.

“Afraid not, but she's that gal who flies in Africa, isn't she?”

Claire nodded. “Tell me where you've flown.” She moved closer to look at the atlas map with him. He smelled like fresh air, soap, and airplane hangars. “Where will you be going? Please show me. I'm good at geography.” Claire was starting to dimple like Shirley Temple.

“Only if you'll let me escort you into the ballroom. I still have to march myself through that dull receiving line, but it would be much nicer with the prettiest girl here on my arm.” He said it with all the sincerity of an Eagle Scout—and she believed him. He had none of that yawning diffidence about him—done that, been there—that boys who usually went to these affairs demonstrated. He was holding his arm out to her.

“On your arm? Why, I'd love to.” Claire's voice was like softly blowing heather.

“I don't suppose you have any dances open on your dance card?” He tried to sneak a peak.

“Well it's awfully late and most of my dances are gone, but you being in the war and a flier…” She shook her empty dance card off her wrist and tucked it in her bosom like she imagined Daisy Armstrong would do.

Together they walked lightly into the bombardment of champagne, cigar smoke, orchestras, combos, butlers, and smells of candle wax, youthful perspiration, fresh salmon, and the expensive apricot and jasmine odor of Quelque Fleurs, the evening's most prevalent perfume.

Claire's light mix of vanilla, musk, and cocoa knocked all the other smells from Harry's olfactory memory. He leaned down to her slender neck to catch the delicious aroma that was like an oasis in the midst of society's many heavy smells. In the candlelight her lavender eyes were so bright, and her questions about his flying expertise so earnest, that he suddenly erased from his memory all the other girls’ dance cards, upon a dozen of which his name was neatly written. Stepping out, they joined the others in the flickering ballroom.

He put his arm around her waist. Without knowing it, he was following her very subtle lead, just as she had learned all those years back at Field's dancing school. She had the knack; he felt like Fred Astaire. Funny, he was usually so awkward. Minnie always said he danced with the gawkiness of a giraffe. But now he had a sudden impulse to whirl this pretty girl around in a fancy step.

She beamed a radiant look back at him. The band struck up Cole Porter's “Night and Day.” He pulled her closer as she hummed the melody into his ear.

He wondered what it would be like to kiss her fresh lips and put his hands on her pale shoulders. He liked the way her pretty pallor was natural, no cosmetic colors painted on her face that stained a soldier's dress shirt when he took his girl into his arms.

“I suppose you must be exhausted from all this ball business. Crammed into just a few days. Are you coming out at the cotillion tomorrow night?” It was too much to hope that she might be free and just have a quiet dinner where she would be all his.

She blushed and nodded, looking away at another dancing couple. No need to tell him yet that I'm an impostor, she thought. Not just yet—it would spoil the moment. This wonderful borrowed moment. Besides, she rationalized, Auntie Slim would be disappointed if she caved in and fled now. She'd want Claire to make an effort and hold her head high. She'd expect her to act like her girl with guts. More importantly, she was starting to have fun. What was the harm in staying?

“Oh, finally, we've found the roving receiving line.” Harry nudged Claire forward. He was feeling proprietary and they hadn't even exchanged last names yet. Now the Pettibones formed a semiformal queue in front of the main salon's brightly burning fireplace, festooned with garlands of holly and greenery dotted with white gardenias and red roses.

Cilla, standing with her parents and two of her recently unmarried sisters, carried a bouquet of pale Alice roses in her pudgy hands. She smiled eagerly at Harry. He may be boring, as the other girls repeatedly groaned, but both her mother and much-married sisters pronounced him quite a catch. But what on earth was he doing with Claire? Somebody ought to fill him in, and that somebody would be she. He would be grateful and that would start the ball rolling. She jumped out of line to greet him.

“You know, Claire is
help,
” she whispered into Harry's ear as he leaned down to congratulate her.

“Oh, she's a great help. She actually made me, the clumsiest man alive, look like Fred Astaire out there on the dance floor.”

“I mean, she's not one of us.” Cilla was cupping her hand to his ear and standing on tiptoe. “She's my mother's saleslady's daughter. Oh, don't get me wrong, we love her mother to pieces. It's just that she's poor as a church mouse.” There, she'd saved him. “I didn't want to put you in an awkward position.” She flirted with him with her squinty brown eyes.

“As poor as all that,” Harry echoed politely.

This Claire was someone who appeared both independent and able to look up to him, Harry Harrison, on whom no one had ever relied. His mother and Minnie were always telling him what to do. From the moment he had laid eyes on Claire he had somehow felt important Like the perennial groundhog who pops out of his burrow looking to end a long winter, for the first time in his life, Harry saw his own shadow.

“Well, thank you, Priscilla,” he said. He didn't bother to tell her of the dinner talk at Charlotte Hall during the heart of the Depression when Cyrus Pettibone, bowler in hand, had come begging to Harrison for a handout and hand up. But he'd been poorer than a church mouse. He
owed
millions. If Harry's father hadn't rescued Cyrus, putting his old friend on his feet again and bringing him into his fold where they had made even bigger fortunes, Priscilla Pettibone, now scurrying back to her place in the receiving line, would not be in a position to snub Claire tonight.

He wondered how this lovely creature beside him was able to be so dignified with so many malicious girls out to hurt her. It brought out his protective male instincts. Why, this girl might actually need him. Back home, Minnie Mortimer, his forced fianc´e, had never even allowed him to select a restaurant or to pull out her chair at dinner. She never even let him win a game of backgammon. She was totally self-sufficient. Hell, Minnie gave lie to the adage that it takes two to tango. The few times they'd made love, he got the impression that she'd just as soon be in bed with Thunder. Yes, he thought, standing up straighter, Claire needed someone to protect her.

Millicent Pettibone spotted Harry down the line, and waved. “Well hellooo, Cinq!” she sang, calling him by his least favorite pet name. Millie adored people with ancestors.

Claire looked from Millicent to Harry. Was this some new Lake Forest society custom she hadn't heard about? Did all the guests get numbers in French? What would hers be, Zéro? She gulped. She was next in line to shake hands with Mrs. Pettibone. The old feeling of unease came over her. Mrs. P.’s chin was jutting out at her like a rock in a storm. Suppose she publicly chastised Claire for her aunt's behavior in front of Harry? Then Auntie Wren's words rang through her ears: “Remember Claire, there's no defense like elaborate courtesy.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Pettibone. It was so nice of you to include me. Everything is so perfect.” Millicent regarded Claire with a superior smile coining from a cold and condescending height. Claire ignored the slight.

“Cilla.” Claire put her gloved hand in the deb's kid-gloved hand, leather to cloth, skin never touching skin. “You have the most beautiful gown here. Chanel, isn't it?” Her voice was like silk. “You put all the other girls to shame.” And quickly moved along to Cyrus. She had always thought of him as a benevolent benefactor, but tonight she thought he looked like a two-timing lout. He gave her hand an extra squeeze as she passed down the line. One of the sisters snapped open her enamel cigarette case with a diamond
P
on the top and pulled out a Chesterfield instead of shaking Claire's hand.

Claire mustered up all the false courtesy she could and smiled kindly. She could shrug them all off. If she didn't care, they wouldn't matter. Plus she had the security of being escorted by Lieutenant Harry. But Harry who? Harry whoever. She whirled around. Harry the Fifth in French seemed to be Millicent Pettibone's most favorite guest.

“There you are, dear. Cyrus said you were probably hiding that aristocratic nose of yours in a book in one of our libraries.
We
are a literary family, too. Aren't we, girls?” She hugged Harry to her bosom. “My, but aren't you handsome in your uniform. Your parents must be soooo proud. Do you have any medals yet? And engaged to the Mortimer girl. What a respectable coming together of fine families. My goodness, but what with this war I suppose you'll be married in one of those jiffy ceremonies. Why, these days a girl comes out on Friday and marries on Sunday. Isn't that right, Sally?”

“Guess it saves on flowers.” Sally shook his hand. “Nice to see you, Harry. Been a long time.”

Claire looked over her shoulder at her “engaged” escort. Well, what could Auntie Slim's niece expect? They had probably singled her out and told him, “Engaged and on your own? Well, hit on her. She's a nobody. She'd be perfect.”

She felt deeply wounded. The same feelings that she had felt earlier in the powder room washed over her. Her mouth went dry again. Her knees felt weak.

“Claire. Are you all right? Can I get you something to drink?” Harry picked up a glass of champagne off a passing silver tray.

Get out of my sight, you louse of a man, she thought. He wasn't even married yet and he was already cheating on his wife.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Perhaps we should toast your engagement.” She gave him her sweetest smile.

“Hold on. Wait a minute,” he spilled some Dom Pérignon on his sleeve as he guided her back into the little library, steering her through the party people as the orchestra played “Embraceable You.”

“There,” he said finally. He shut the door and shut out the party. She continued walking straight to the telephone.

“Let's see, I was about to call for a cab before you startled me from your hiding place.”

He put two fingers to his lips and studied her, cradling his elbow in his other hand. Was this young woman, whom he had just met, whirled twice around the dance floor, and whom he was dying to kiss, jealous? Was it possible that this high-strung, beautifully mannered peach of a girl liked him enough after a few spins around the room to feel some kind, the same kind, of chemistry he was feeling? But, he thought, moving toward the telephone, boring Harry Harrison never inspired any feelings in women except their bossy side.

“Hello, I'm calling from the Pettibone House. I was wondering if you could send a taxi over right away. What? Organ. Claire Organ. Yes. Chicago.”

“How do you do, Claire Organ?” Harry took her hand, pumping it again and grinning. “Harrison. William Henry Harrison the Fifth. Tuxedo Park. Friends call me Harry.”

She dropped the phone.

They were married four days later.

Chapter Seven

The Two Mrs. Harrisons

The day after that wedding night I found that a distance of a thousand miles, abyss, discovery and … metamorphosis separated me from the day before.

—
Colette