“Did you travel for business reasons?” Rosemary asked him.
“Business and pleasure both,” he said. “I’m seventy-nine years old and I’ve been going one place or another since I was ten. You name it, I’ve been there.”
“What business were you in?” Guy asked.
“Just about every business,” Mr. Castevet said. “Wool, sugar, toys, machine parts, marine insurance, oil . . .”
A bell pinged in the kitchen. “Steak’s ready,” Mrs. Castevet said, standing up with her glass in her hand. “Don’t rush your drinks now; take them along to the table. Roman, take your pill.”
“It will end on October third,” Mr. Castevet said; “the day before the Pope gets here. No Pope ever visits a city where the newspapers are on strike.”
“I heard on TV that he’s going to postpone and wait till it’s over,” Mrs. Castevet said.
Guy smiled. “Well,” he said, “that’s show biz.”
Mr. and Mrs. Castevet laughed, and Guy along with them. Rosemary smiled and cut her steak. It was overdone and juiceless, flanked by peas and mashed potatoes under flour-laden gravy.
Still laughing, Mr. Castevet said, “It is, you know! That’s just what it is; show biz!”
“You can say that again,” Guy said.
“The costumes, the rituals,” Mr. Castevet said; “every religion, not only Catholicism. Pageants for the ignorant.”
Mrs. Castevet said, “I think we’re offending Rosemary.”
“No, no, not at all,” Rosemary said.
“You aren’t religious, my dear, are you?” Mr. Castevet asked.
“I was brought up to be,” Rosemary said, “but now I’m an agnostic. I wasn’t offended. Really I wasn’t.”
“And you, Guy?” Mr. Castevet asked. “Are you an agnostic too?”
“I guess so,” Guy said. “I don’t see how anyone can be anything else. I mean, there’s no absolute proof one way or the other, is there?”
“No, there isn’t,” Mr. Castevet said.
Mrs. Castevet, studying Rosemary, said, “You looked uncomfortable before, when we were laughing at Guy’s little joke about the Pope.”
“Well he is the Pope,” Rosemary said. “I guess I’ve been conditioned to have respect for him and I still do, even if I don’t think he’s holy any more.”
“If you don’t think he’s holy,” Mr. Castevet said, “you should have no respect for him at all, because he’s going around deceiving people and pretending he is holy.”
“Good point,” Guy said.
“When I think what they spend on robes and jewels,” Mrs. Castevet said.
“A good picture of the hypocrisy behind organized religion,” Mr. Castevet said, “was given, I thought, in Luther. Did you ever get to play the leading part, Guy?”
“Me? No,” Guy said.
“Weren’t you Albert Finney’s understudy?” Mr. Castevet asked.
“No,” Guy said, “the fellow who played Weinand was. I just covered two of the smaller parts.”
“That’s strange,” Mr. Castevet said; “I was quite certain that you were his understudy. I remember being struck by a gesture you made and checking in the program to see who you were; and I could swear you were listed as Finney’s understudy.”
“What gesture do you mean?” Guy asked.
“I’m not sure now; a movement of your-“
“I used to do a thing with my arms when. Luther had the fit, a sort of involuntary reaching-“
“Exactly,” Mr. Castevet said. “That’s just what I meant. It had a wonderful authenticity to it. In contrast, may I say, to everything Mr. Finney was doing.”
“Oh, come on now,” Guy said.
“I thought his performance was considerably overrated,” Mr. Castevet said. “I’d be most curious to see what you would have done with the part.”
Laughing, Guy said, “That makes two of us,” and cast a bright-eyed glance at Rosemary. She smiled back, pleased that Guy was pleased; there would be no reproofs from him now for an evening wasted talking with Ma and Pa Settle. No, Kettle.
“My father was a theatrical producer,” Mr. Castevet said, “and my early years were spent in the company of such people as Mrs. Fiske and ForbesRobertson, Otis Skinner and Modjeska. I tend, therefore, to look for something more than mere competence in actors. You have a most interesting inner quality, Guy. It appears in your television work too, and it should carry you very far indeed; provided, of course, that you get those initial ‘breaks’ upon which even the greatest actors are to some degree dependent. Are you preparing for a show now?”
“I’m up for a couple of parts,” Guy said.
“I can’t believe that you won’t get them,” Mr. Castevet said.
“I can,” Guy said.
Mr. Castevet stared at him. “Are you serious?” he asked.
Dessert was a homemade Boston cream pie that, though better than the steak and vegetables, had for Rosemary a peculiar and unpleasant sweetness. Guy, however, praised it heartily and ate a second helping. Perhaps he was only acting, Rosemary thought; repaying compliments with compliments.
After dinner Rosemary offered to help with the cleaning up. Mrs. Castevet accepted the offer instantly and the two women cleared the table while Guy and Mr. Castevet went into the living room.
The kitchen, opening off the foyer, was small, and made smaller still by the miniature greenhouse Terry had mentioned. Some three feet long, it stood on a large white table near the room’s one window. Goosenecked lamps leaned close around it, their bright bulbs reflecting in the glass and making it blinding white rather than transparent. In the remaining space the sink, stove, and refrigerator stood close together with cabinets jutting out above them on all sides. Rosemary wiped dishes at Mrs. Castevet’s elbow, working diligently and conscientiously in the pleasing knowledge that her own kitchen was larger and more graciously equipped. “Terry told me about that greenhouse,” she said.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Castevet said. “It’s a nice hobby. You ought to do it too.”
“I’d like to have a spice garden some day,” Rosemary said. “Out of the city, of course. If Guy ever gets a movie offer we’re going to grab it and go live in Los Angeles. I’m a country girl at heart.”
“Do you come from a big family?” Mrs. Castevet asked.
“Yes,” Rosemary said. “I have three brothers and two sisters. I’m the baby.”
“Are your sisters married?”
“Yes, they are.”
Mrs. Castevet pushed a soapy sponge up and down inside a glass. “Do they have children?” she asked.
“One has two and the other has four,” Rosemary said. “At least that was the count the last I heard. It could be three and five by now.”
“Well that’s a good sign for you,” Mrs. Castevet said, still soaping the glass. She was a slow and thorough washer. “If your sisters have lots of children, chances are you will too. Things like that go in families.”
“Oh, we’re fertile, all right,” Rosemary said, waiting towel in hand for the glass. “My brother Eddie has eight already and he’s only twenty-six.”
“My goodness!” Mrs. Castevet said. She rinsed the glass and gave it to Rosemary.
“All told I’ve got twenty nieces and nephews,” Rosemary said. “I haven’t even seen half of them.”
“Don’t you go home every once in a while?” Mrs. Castevet asked.
“No, I don’t,” Rosemary said. “I’m not on the best of terms with my family, except one brother. They feel I’m the black sheep.”
QI
“Oh? How is that?”
“Because Guy isn’t Catholic, and we didn’t have a church wedding.”
“Tsk,” Mrs. Castevet said. “Isn’t it something the way people fuss about religion? Well, it’s their loss, not yours; don’t you let it bother you any.”
“That’s more easily said than done,” Rosemary said, putting the glass on a shelf. “Would you like me to wash and you wipe for a while?”