“It’s getting worse. I wish there was something we could do but I’m afraid that, short of sending her to a sanitarium, nothing will do much good . . . and of course since she won’t even admit it there’s really no way for those of us who are her oldest and most treasured friends to approach her. You know what her temper is!” Miss Lung shuddered.
“I thought she seemed a little, well, disturbed this evening. She . . .”
Miss Lung’s hand descended with dramatic emphasis on my left thigh where it remained some seconds like a weight of lead. “I’m afraid for her!” Her high voice grew mysterious and feeble. “She’s heading for a breakdown. She now thinks someone is trying to kill her.”
It was out at last and I was relieved to find that Mrs. Veering was only a mild psychotic and not, as I’d first thought, really in danger of her life. I relaxed considerably, prematurely. “Yes, she told me something like that.”
“Poor Rose,” Miss Lung shook her head and withdrew her hand from its somewhat sensitive resting place. “It all started a few years ago when she was not included in the New York Social Register. I suppose you weathered that with her like all the rest of us . . . what a time it was! It was about then that her . . Miss Lung looked about to make sure no
one else could hear.“ Her drinking began. I remember telling Allie Claypoole (who’s also from Boston by the way) that if Rose didn’t get a grip on herself she’d . . .”
But grip or no grip, our hostess appeared in a magenta dinner dress, looking handsome and steady, no worse for the gallon of Dubonnet she’d drunk before dinner.
“Come along, children!" she said, waving us all toward the dining room. I admired her steadiness. She obviously had the capacity of a camel. “I’m sorry I’m late but I got held up. We have to go in now or the cook will make a scene.”
It was while I accompanied Mrs. Brexton in to dinner I noticed, when she turned to speak to her husband, that across her neck, ordinarily covered by a long bob, was an ugly purple welt extending from under the ear down the side of her neck and disappearing into the high-necked dress she was wearing. It was a bruise, too, not a birthmark nor a scar ... it was a new bruise.
When she turned from her husband to speak to me, hair covered the discoloration. There was an odd look in her eyes, as though she could detect in my face what it was I’d seen, what I thought for, as she made some remark about the dance to be held the next night at the Yacht Club, her hand strayed unconsciously to her neck.
5. Dinner went well enough. Mrs. Veering was in fine form, no trace of the earlier fear which had marred our first meeting. I studied her during dinner (I sat on her left; Brexton was on her right; Allie Claypoole was on my left). She was animated and probably quite drunk though she didn’t show it except, perhaps, in the feverish brightness of her eyes and in her conversation which made no sense at all though it sounded perfectly rational.
It was a queer crew, I decided. A hostess on the make socially in spite of her alcoholism and a big snub from the Social Register; a highbrow painter; his wife whose blood could probably etch glass, with a bruise on her neck which looked as if somebody had tried to choke her to death and then decided what the hell and left the job half done. The somebody was probably her husband whose hands looked strong enough to twist off a human head like a chicken’s.
And the mysterious Claypooles, brother and sister and so in love, or something. He sat next to Mrs. Brexton at dinner and they talked together intently, ignoring the rest of the company which seemed to irritate his sister. Brexton was oblivious of everyone, a good-humored, self-centered type who saw to it that the conversation never got too far away from him or from painting.
And of course my penwoman, a massive giggling friend to man ... at least so she seemed underneath all the “Book-Chat.” Since her score was probably quite low, all things considered, her predatory instincts doubtless expressed themselves only in pats and pinches at which she was pretty expert.
After dinner, a little high on white wine, we all went back to the drawing room where a card table had been set up.
“Of course we’re seven but that doesn’t mean four can’t play bridge while the others are doing something more constructive.” Mrs. Veering looked brightly around. At first everyone said they’d rather not play but she apparently knew what she was up to and, finally, the bridge enthusiasts (I’m not one; poker’s the only card game I ever learned) flocked to the table, leaving Mrs. Brexton, Allie Claypoole and myself in front of the fireplace.
It was obviously up to us to do something more constructive but I couldn’t think what. There’s nothing worse than being at a formal house on a week end with a group of people you don’t know and who don’t particularly appeal to you. There’s always the problem of what to talk about which, in this case, was complicated by the sour behavior of Mrs. Brexton and the vagueness of Alice Claypoole, neither of whom seemed happy with the arrangements either.
“I suppose you and Fletcher will be going back to Boston after this.” Mrs. Brexton snapped this out suddenly at Allie in a tone which, if it was meant to be pleasant, missed the mark wide. Fletcher, I gathered, was Claypoole’s first name.
“Oh, yes ... I think so. We’re getting a smaller place in Cambridge, you know.”
“I don’t know why you won’t live in New York. It’s much more interesting. Boston is dead all year ’round.” Mrs. Brexton was animated on the subject of Boston at least. This was the first conversation I’d heard out of her all evening.
"We like it.”
“I suppose you would.” The insult in this was so clear that I could hardly believe I’d got it right.
But Allie didn’t seem particularly to mind. “People are different, Mildred,” she said quietly. “I don’t think either of us could take New York for very long.”
“Speak for yourself. Fletcher likes the city and you know it. You're the one who keeps him in Boston.”
Allie flushed at this. “He’s always polite," she said.
“That’s not what I mean.” They faced each other suddenly implacable, enemies. What was going on?
A first-rate row was beginning. “What do you mean, Mildred?”
Mrs. Brexton laughed unpleasantly. “Don’t play the fool with me, Allie, I’m one person who . .
“Partner, I had no hearts!” squealed Miss Lung from the table, followed by a groan from Mr. Brexton.
“For God’s sake shut up, Mildred,” Allie said this under the squeal of Miss Lung but I heard her if the others didn’t.
“I’ve shut up too long.” Mrs. Brexton seemed to subside, though; her spasm of anger replaced by her usual unpleasant expression. I noticed her hands shook as she lighted a cigarette. Was she another alcoholic? One of course was par for any week end. Two looked like a frame-up.
Miss Claypoole turned to me as though nothing unpleasant had been said. “I’m sure you’ll have something good to say about Boston,” she said, smiling. “I seem to be a minority here.”
I told her I’d gone to Harvard and this forged a link between us so strong that, without another word, without even a good night to her hostess, Mrs. Brexton left the room.
“Did I say anything to upset her?” I asked innocently. I was curious to know what was going on.
Allie frowned slightly. “No, I don’t think so.” She glanced at the bridge tables; the others were engrossed, paying no attention to us. “Mildred isn’t well. She . . . well, she’s just had a nervous breakdown.”
So that was it. “What form did it take?”