Treasures (4 page)

Late in the afternoon she stopped her little red car in front of a neat brick building shaded by five oaks that had three stories’ height against the building’s two. For a moment before climbing the steps to the front door, she looked back at the car. It had been a good buy, only two years old. Davey had once said, she remembered, that he always tried to get a demonstration car, and so she had shopped about and found one. This further success now gave her confidence.

A heavy woman with short, blue-gray curls answered her ring.

“Mrs. Raymond?” asked Connie.

“Yes. Are you the person who telephoned this morning?

“Yes. Consuelo Osborne. I’d like to see the room.”

“You sounded older on the telephone.”

“Did I?” She needn’t be so independent, Connie was thinking as she smiled, because I might not even like the room.

“Is that your car?” Mrs. Raymond inquired.

And Connie replied, still smiling, “All mine.”

“Well, come in. I’ll show you the room.”

At the rear of the house, which gave it a feeling of privacy, was an ample bedroom furnished with a Grand Rapids bed and dresser, a comfortable chair, and ugly maroon cretonne curtains. It was unmistakably clean. Connie’s fastidious nose detected the very freshness of the air.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

“You’re not a Texan.”

“I’m from Ohio.”

“What made you leave?”

“I can’t stand the cold winters.”

“Not sick, are you?”

“No, no,” Connie corrected herself. You had to think fast in this world, or you’d be tripped up. “I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Because I wouldn’t want the responsibility of somebody getting sick in the house.”

“Of course not. I understand.”

“Because I would feel the responsibility, you know. We’re churchgoing people.”

“Oh, yes.” An answer was expected. “I am too,” Connie said piously. This was not exactly true, not exactly untrue either.

“To tell you the truth, we were looking for a more settled woman, someone older. But I can see you’re a lady, and we do have to give youth a chance, don’t we?”

Connie smiled.

“Osborne? English stock.”

Connie nodded. “With a touch of Dutch on my mother’s side.”

Mrs. Raymond seemed satisfied. “Would you like a cold drink? I keep iced tea ready all the time in this weather.”

The two sat down at the table in the immaculate kitchen. And Connie saw that the woman, now that her suspicions had been dispelled, was lonesome. It was sad to be fat, aging, and lonesome.

“So you said there was Dutch on your mother’s side?”

“Yes, Mom always said we were cousins”—Connie laughed—“very distant cousins, of the Vanderbilts. That’s how I got the name Consuelo.” The story unfolded, rolling easily from her lips. Who knew, there might even be something to it. “I suppose if we had lived in New York, there would have been some contact, but Ohio’s not next door. Dad was in the furniture business. He died just when I was about to leave for the University of Michigan, so I couldn’t leave my mother alone. Not that there wasn’t plenty of money, it was a question of caring for her.”

“Poor dear, losing your mother so young.” Mrs. Raymond was fascinated.

The afternoon wore on. At the end of it Consuelo got up, drove back to the hotel for her luggage, and by nightfall was comfortably established in the room with the garden view.

Houston was
rich.
In spite of all she had ever read, Connie had not been able to imagine how so much money could be so lavishly, so gorgeously, spent. Women bought without even asking the price: ski clothes for Vail or Gstaad, beach garb for the Caribbean
or Hawaii, suede coats, cashmeres, British tweeds, Italian suits, French silks and ballgowns. The very feel of the fabrics, their softness, fluffy or crisp under the hand, was a pleasure to Connie and was communicated to her customers, bringing more sales and more commissions.

The owner was delighted with her. “You deserve a little something for your good work,” she said one day. “Look in the back and pick out a couple of dresses for yourself. I’ll let you have them at cost. We don’t sell that many size fours, anyway,” she added, “so I can spare them. Besides, you’re good publicity. Just be sure to mention us when you’re out on the town.”

Connie, however, wasn’t going out on the town at all. After four months in the city she still knew almost no one. To begin with, her working hours were long, leaving little time for anything but work. The other saleswomen were either middle aged or married or both. And the two who were neither had taken a dislike to the newcomer whose sales were bigger than their own.

How did you get to know people? Especially, how could you get to know the kind of people who came into the shop and talked about the Hermitage in Leningrad and hearing Placido Domingo at the Metropolitan in New York? Those were the people she wanted to know. The truth was, Connie was feeling more deprived here in Houston than she had felt back home.

Pride wouldn’t let her admit it, however. Whenever she called Eddy, reversing the charges at his insistence, he was so full of his own enthusiasm that she was almost forced to respond in kind. When she talked to Lara, which she often did, especially on Sunday’s creeping afternoons,
she dared not even hint at anything less than perfect satisfaction, for Lara would only urge her, and ultimately even nag her, to come home.

One Sunday she got into the car and drove, idling along with no purpose except to pass the time. In the Memorial section the big, substantial houses spread their wings under the shade. On quiet streets nursemaids pushed perambulators while little boys and girls on their tricycles peddled alongside. Blue pools glistened, and people sat together under gay umbrellas.

In River Oaks the houses were even larger and farther apart, Jaguars and Mercedes stood before impressive entrances, and unmarred lawns were green as a billiard table. A group of young people—about Connie’s own age—wearing tennis whites crossed the road and ran behind a house. One of the girls had a black ponytail tied with a red ribbon. It bobbed as she ran. There was something happy in the way it bobbed. And a feeling of desolation came over Connie; it felt as if, while she was standing in a crowd, everyone had suddenly turned his back to ostracize her.

She drove around the block, sped through the bleak downtown, and emerged upon a wide avenue on which stood great hotels among brilliant flowers, blazing in the sunlight. People, always people, in groups and pairs, were going in and coming out.

Back in her own room she could either read or turn on the television. Or else she could sit in the yard with the Raymonds and the family from the upstairs condo, two tired parents and two quarrelsome children. Or, she could stop off somewhere for a hamburger and a shake.
… Instead, she swung the car into a hotel driveway and got out.

In spite of all the people who came and went, the lofty lobby was uncrowded. And she recognized a touch of amusement at herself for acting as if she had walked into a palace. It was only a hotel, and she was a hick, a rube, a bumpkin, staring at the chandeliers, the silk tapestries, the leather luggage on the carts, the diamond-studded watches in the jeweler’s display window—staring at everything.

Presently, she went farther in, sat down, ordered tea, and watched the parade. She had been sitting long enough to have a second cup when a young woman on the banquette beside her spoke up.

“I hope you won’t think me awfully rude, but I’ve been admiring your dress. I always love black and white, and I’ve been looking all over without finding a thing.”

Obviously, she was hoping that Connie would say where she had bought the dress, and so, mindful of her employer’s injunction, Connie did so.

“I might have guessed. Well, that place is far too rich for my blood.”

The honest admission brought forth an honest response. “For mine too. I only work there, and sometimes they let me get something at cost.”

“Lucky you! I’ve just given notice on my job. I’m getting married and moving to Dallas.”

“And lucky you! Getting married, I mean.”

“I know. He’s wonderful. By the way, my name’s Margaret Ames.”

“Connie Osborne.”

A dialogue was now begun. Connie was starved for talk and the other, being euphoric, was also eager for it. By the end of half an hour intimate opinions, about clothes and hair and life in general, were being exchanged.

“I hope I can find a job in Dallas as good as the one I’ve had,” said Margaret Ames.

“Oh? What do you do?”

“I’m at a country club, in charge of parties, lunches, weddings, dinners, stuff like that. I go over menus with people. I do it all. It’s really great.”

“Well, my job’s pretty good, but I wouldn’t call it great.” And Connie confided, “The problem is, I don’t meet anybody. It’s hard, being in a strange city.”

“I know. It’s tough.”

Both women sighed, Connie more deeply, and the other in sympathy.

“If I could make a change I wouldn’t mind,” Connie said tentatively, thinking, A job like hers at a club, perhaps? And she struck out boldly. “I suppose your work must be very complicated. Don’t you have to know a lot about food and serving and—”

“Not really. I didn’t know a thing when I started. You pick it up from the help, the cooks and the waitresses, as you go along. Actually, all you need is to be friendly, have a good memory, and be good looking.”

Connie felt the stirring of serious interest.

“And you do meet a top class of people. The best. As a matter of fact, I met my fiancé there—well, not exactly, it was sort of roundabout, when his company sent him to do an estimate for a new roof.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“Hey! Would you be interested? Because if you would, I’d be glad to recommend you to take my place.”

“Really? You’re an angel!”

“Good heavens, it’s no trouble at all. And, you know, I have a feeling you’d just fit.”

“I can’t thank you enough!”

“Glad to do it. You know, you’d find it a whole lot easier than trying clothes on a bunch of finicky women all day. And the pay is close to double, I’ll bet.”

“Really? You’re an angel,” repeated Connie.

Every day, in the beginning, was magical. True, she was still on her feet as she had been in her only two previous jobs, and the hours were even longer. But to Connie the atmosphere of this place was compensation enough for tiredness. To look out every morning on acres and acres of green, over the golf course and the low hills beyond, then down where the pool and the tennis courts lay in a grove of cool trees! All was peace and ease; everything was beautiful. The gardens were brilliant. The airy rooms were shaded restfully against the glare of the afternoons. At dinnertime the blue-and-white dining room sparkled. At night on the terrace, candles flickered in hurricane globes and lanterns hung among the trees. One could imagine that nothing ugly or drab or worrisome had ever touched the lives of the people who played and danced here; it was as if they were all floating through their days and nights in a perpetual celebration.

Her heart expanded. Her normally high spirits soared
higher. People liked her. She had a dependable memory for names and faces, which was exactly what the job required. The guests were pleased when she remembered where they liked to be seated and what they liked to drink. The staff, many of them older women who had been there for years, were almost motherly, surprising her by their total absence of resentment that someone so much younger than they had been placed over them. Apparently, to them, this was simply the natural order of things.

“Don’t put the Darnley table near to the Exeters. Mrs. Exeter was Darnley’s first wife, and the two women hate each other.”

“If Mr. Tory says seven-thirty, he means seven twenty-eight. That man’s so prompt, he’ll be early to his own funeral. And you’d better have everything ready, too, because he’s a crank.”

Celia Mapes, who was handy with such advice, was kindly but could be meddlesome too.

“I’ve got a daughter about your age overseas with the army in Germany. Living with some guy she says she’ll probably marry. I suppose you are, too, aren’t you?”

“Living with some guy? No, I live by myself.”

“What happened? Did you break up?”

“I’ve never had anybody to break up with.”

“Never had a real boyfriend? Don’t tell me. A girl like you.”

“It’s true, though.”

“I don’t believe it. You mean you’ve never—you’re a virgin?”

“Well, believe it or not, I am.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?”

“Not that I know of.” Connie laughed. “Maybe I’m funny, but I’ve just never really wanted anybody that way. Never met anybody. There was an awfully nice guy once, but he had acne, and it turned me off.”

And there had been others, like the floor manager in the store back home. That one had been good to look at. But he was flat, without ambition. And all he could talk about was sports.

The older woman warned, with a shake of her head, “Well, my dear, it’s no good being so fussy, or you’ll find yourself left behind one of these days. Now, I’ve got a nephew I could introduce you to. Big guy, like a football player, and a real gentleman. He drives for an oil company. For real good pay too.”

The offer was touching, and Connie felt mean to refuse it. I’m not a snob, she thought. It’s not that. I’m not stupid enough for that. It’s just that I’m not going to waste myself. So she lied.

“Thanks. Maybe some other time, but not now. My landlady’s fixing me up with someone this weekend.”

Celia Mapes looked at Connie with quizzical eyes as though she had recognized the lie. “You’re pretty as a picture,” she said bluntly, “but if you’re thinking of teaming up with any of the members here, forget it. Money sticks to money, you know.”

There were a good many young couples among the club’s membership. She wondered how people so young could afford to live as lavishly as this. Had they all inherited their wealth? Her eyes and ears were curious and
alert now as she passed among them, observing and catching phrases.

“There’s really no difference between a Bentley and a Rolls.”