“No relation. She came from the Middle West, I believe,” said George. “But a remarkable coincidence.”
“As you say, a remarkable coincidence. I’m so glad she didn’t see it, because Geraldine and I have been at our wits’ end to keep her mind off the subject.”
“Good for you, Dorothy,” said George. “But you think she is facing some sort of a crisis?”
“A nervous, or moral, collapse. Or both.”
“You feel that strongly?”
“I do, George. I can’t repeat some of the things she said, because they were one woman to another, under stress and strain. But the sky’s the limit, George. And a girl that was gently brought up, as Wilma was, hasn’t much to fall back on. I mean she can’t take such things lightly.”
“You haven’t said this, but what you’re afraid of is that Wilma isn’t going to care who she sleeps with from now on,” said George.
“The sky’s the limit. Those were her own words.”
“Well, I certainly agree with you that it could be a very serious problem,” said George. “But let’s wait and see if it becomes a problem, and if it does, then we’ll have to see if there’s anything we can do about it. Wilma’s in her middle forties, still a rather attractive woman. She may find someone she’d like to marry. I don’t wish to seem cold-blooded about this, Dorothy, but she’s not going to marry a man unless she sleeps with him first, is she?”
“Probably not.”
“Then what harm is it going to do her if she has one or two affairs, with the possibility that one of them will end in marriage?”
Dorothy nodded slowly five or six times. “I knew you’d see it more clearly than I have. I don’t approve of that—that course of action. But you’re a man of the world, and there are no children to have to think about. I only wish that I could be more outspoken, but I can’t.”
“Something she said?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy James.
“Well, she said the sky’s the limit. I can infer from that that that’s what she means.”
“There was some nastiness to it. I believe that the relationship between a man and a woman can be tender and beautiful. I’ve found it so. Wilma isn’t approaching it that way. That’s really as much as I can say, George. But thank you for your patience.”
She rose, and it was obvious that she was depressed. She was an odd little woman, and at the moment she reminded George of a sparrow pecking at horse-droppings; but that was natural to sparrows.
In a few minutes Bing Lockwood returned from his drive.
“There was more to see than you expected,” said his father.
“No, but I had the extra time on my hands so I went and had a beer with my old Princeton classmate Ken Stokes,” said Bing.
“And distant cousin. What is he doing these days?”
“What is he doing? You know he’s a distant cousin, but didn’t you know he was blind?”
“I knew that one of them had lost his eyesight. They’re all cousins of ours, but I’ve never tried to keep track of them all. He was blinded in an explosion, wasn’t he?”
“His first year out of college. The Reading Company chemical lab.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because I suddenly remembered that he wrote me a hell of a nice letter when Mother died. It must have been one of the last letters he ever wrote.”
“Has he a job?”
“He has a music store, way out West Market Street. He wrote some songs for the Triangle shows. Played a very hot piano, in those days. Now he makes his living selling records, Victrolas, sheet music, musical instruments. Recognized my voice almost instantly. ‘Wait a minute, I know that voice,’ he said. ‘Someone I haven’t seen for a long time.’ Strange how they go on talking about seeing people. He hasn’t been able to see anyone for six years. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s Bing Lockwood.’ “
“The Lockwood name has been in the papers lately,” said George. “I imagine he has someone read to him.”
“His wife. He married out of the country club set. A very pretty little Irish girl. They have four children and a fifth on the way. Maybe a fifth and sixth. They already have one set of twins. Do you ever listen to records?”
“Geraldine does, your stepmother.”
“Well, I bought you a house present. Some Blue Seal, some Red Seal, and a whole batch of Whiteman and George Olsen and so on. Ernestine might like them, if you don’t. And you can exchange any you already have.”
“Thank you very much. Dinner is at seven-thirty, if you want to take a shower.”
“I’ll do just that. Can I have a drink sent up to my room?”
“I’ll send it up. What would you like?”
“An Orange Blossom. We raise oranges in California, you know. The Sunkist State.”
“You’re feeling pretty good.”
“What the hell, why not?”
“Well, I didn’t think of it as an occasion for rejoicing, but you seem to.”
“Father, I have some things to do in New York the day after tomorrow, and then I’m taking the Twentieth Century Limited to Chicago, and I hope that’s the last the East will see of me for ten years. In other words, I’m on my way home. That’s the occasion for rejoicing. As soon as I came out of that cemetery I was on my way home. That was the turning-point.”
“Perfectly clear, my boy. Go take your shower, and remember to wash behind your ears.”
“You can’t make me sore. I’m in too good a mood.”
“I hope it lasts through dinner. I’ve seen people like you turn very ugly.”
“Well, send up those Orange Blossoms, please. Not too much powdered sugar.”
As the four Lockwoods and Dorothy James met for cocktails the spirit of the gathering was established by Bing. Earlier, at the luncheon, his father had seen how Bing conducted himself when a certain solemnity was called for and the company were all older than he: then the boy, the son, was a well-brought-up young man whose vitality and healthy good looks made him a welcome addition to the party. They had said he was attractive, and he was. Now the tone of the gathering was different: the absence of the Desmond Farleys and Sherwood James, all three extremely conventional individuals in word and deed and appearance, had a relaxing effect on the survivors of the luncheon group. The other principal relaxing factor was alcohol. George Lockwood was spacing out his own drinks, as he always did, and Dorothy James was having only a strange concoction of gin and bitters diluted with ice water, which was all she ever took as a cocktail. There was hardly more gin than bitters in the drink, but it was an expression of her political opposition to Prohibition. (During her suffragette days she had been in favor of Prohibition.) But Wilma and Geraldine had had something to drink before coming downstairs, and Bing Lockwood had had enough of the Orange Blossoms to have a noticeable effect. He was not drunk, but he had reached a state of euphoria that was prevented from becoming silliness by an air of masculinity to which the women responded and which his father saw as a first sign of ugliness.
At half-past seven the maid announced dinner, and Geraldine said, “We’ll be another ten minutes, May.”
“Why?” said George.
“Because I for one would like another cocktail,” said Geraldine.
“And so would I,” said Wilma.
“That’s the way to talk,” said Bing. “I’ll be happy to tend bar, Father.”
“Go right ahead,” said George. “But if we’re going to turn this into a drinking party, don’t say ten minutes, Geraldine. Call May back and tell her we’ll be a half an hour or an hour, or two hours. But let’s not have dinner ruined.”