THE WEEK AFTER she had the Duffins in to dinner, Patsy received an invitation which surprised her. It was from a couple called the Caldwells, an older couple who were friends of Jim’s parents. She and Jim scarcely knew them, but twice, on grand occasions, they had been asked to dinner at the Caldwells’ and had gone and been bored in a quiet but high style.
The Caldwells were of the very wealthy; their fortune was one of the most respectable and the most respected in the state, but it was respected within a certain circle only, for they were in no sense flamboyant. The Caldwells were not of the Hunts, the Mecoms, or the Murchisons. They built no hotels, bought no football teams, owned no newspapers; they had no links with the White House, raced no horses, bred no fancy cattle. The Caldwells had no image at all or, at least, none comparable to the size of their fortune. They were known nationally only to those who knew finance, and locally as regular, dutiful contributors to charity and to the arts. They lived much as Jim’s parents lived, quietly if restlessly, and occupied their time with travel and rather haphazard art collecting. They were not extraordinarily memorable, or extraordinarily likable, but they were pleasant, they were kindly, they seemed like people who had been able to occupy themselves for sixty years without going crazy and hoped, with luck, to keep it up another decade or so. The dinners Jim and Patsy attended had been stiff. The Caldwells knew only the wealthy and enjoyed only a small fraction of the wealthy they knew—mostly rather quiet conservative people like themselves who, despite their fortunes, seemed bent on nothing more ambitious than not going crazy. The talk at the dinners was not unpleasant, just uninspired. A little politics, a little gossip, usually pedestrian and fairly good-natured, a little sport, a little art, and mostly places—places everyone had been, places everyone would go again, in particular Mexico.
Mrs. Caldwell was a thin graying woman who gave an impression of feebleness. She smoked a great deal and the hand she held her cigarette with shook. Hostessing seemed an effort for her, but she worked at it. Individual guests were sometimes taken for long distances into the interior of the huge house to be shown particular works of art. Patsy had once been shown three Rothkos.
The dinner party of the evening was larger than the ones she and Jim had attended. Some twenty people were there, enough to fill the small paneled den where cocktails were being served. The den held no Rothkos, only an English oil portrait. Mr. Caldwell—Ted, he liked to be called—was a small dapper man; he was fond of Patsy, twinkled at her, and shook her hand at length. Mrs. Caldwell kissed her, as she always did, and as always Patsy found it difficult not to notice that at some point Mrs. Caldwell had had a face-lifting operation. While Mr. Caldwell was shaking her hand and telling her an anecdote about Jim’s parents, whose path he had crossed in New York, of all places, Patsy looked past him into the room and saw, with a strange shock of surprise, that Eleanor Guthrie was there. It should have been no surprise, for in terms of fortune Eleanor and the Caldwells were peers, and in Texas peers of that class all knew one another. But she was a person Patsy had never expected to see again, and there she was, sitting across the room. The attentions of three men were focused on her, one sitting on each side of her, drink in hand, one standing looking down at her, swirling his drink; but Eleanor’s attention seemed not to be focused anywhere. She too held a drink and seemed to be listening only in the most perfunctory way to the remarks the three men made. She was dressed in brown, and very soberly, and her heavy dark blond hair was combed long.
Patsy was taken and introduced to the two youngest couples there. They were standing in a corner, rather apart, talking of Antonioni. Blow-Up had been the rage two years before and Patsy was a little surprised to find people still talking about it, but she was ever quick with an opinion and chatted pleasantly until dinnertime. One of the men was a broker, the other in oil. Their wives were Eastern girls, smart and very pretty; they fluttered as gallantly as possible in the stiff social shrubbery of Houston. Patsy liked them and hoped they liked her. She felt in need of new friends. But all the while, as she talked, she was slightly conscious of Eleanor Guthrie behind her. What she really wanted to do was go over, cut through the men, and talk with Eleanor. She wanted to, but she didn’t; she didn’t even get to speak to her as they were moving in to dinner. She noticed, though, that Eleanor seemed heavier, not only her body but her face. Her legs seemed thin. Her weight, which she had once worked at keeping well distributed, had gone to her middle, to her stomach and hips, and she moved more slackly than she had. She was seated at the side of her host, Ted Caldwell, and Patsy was almost at the opposite end of the table, next to a bald and very shrewd-looking investment counselor who talked to her learnedly of wines. When he saw that his connoisseurship was boring her a little he grew silent, and to encourage him Patsy told him she had a certain amount of money and wondered if she ought to come to him for counseling. He asked her how much, and when she told him he very tactfully explained why he could not handle accounts of that size. She felt a little deflated, for she had always supposed herself to be a girl with money. Jim’s having so much more had never mattered to her, and it was a mild shock to find that, in comparison to the other people at the table, she had little more financial weight than a ribbon clerk at Woolworth’s.
It was difficult, even after dinner, for her to get near Eleanor, and so far as she could tell, Eleanor had not recognized her, probably because of her short hair. When they left the table the two young Eastern wives caught Patsy again, and the same three men caught Eleanor, and Patsy was afraid she might actually leave without them speaking. Finally she excused herself and went and stood slightly behind the two men and Eleanor looked up from her brandy and saw her. There was a strained expression on her face, the effect of trying to be polite in a situation that simply didn’t reach her.
“Why, Mrs. Carpenter,” she said and stood up and took Patsy’s hand. The men had been like a wall, but when Eleanor stood up they sank back. She managed, merely by the way she spoke to Patsy, to cut them off, to make them understand that a person she wished to talk to had appeared. The men were perfunctorily introduced and moved a little distance away, politely and mutually annoyed, but aware that they were powerless. For a minute or two Patsy was aware of them as slightly antagonistic presences nearby, but then she forgot them, as Eleanor clearly had.
For a second after saying hello they both fell awkwardly silent, Eleanor adjusting to her surprise, Patsy simply not sure what to say. Eleanor recovered first.
“You’ve cut your hair,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t recognize you. I kept thinking as I was eating that I heard a familiar voice, somewhere around the table. How have you been?”
“Oh, fine,” Patsy said. She felt odd and almost regretted having spoken to Eleanor, for where could it lead? They didn’t know each other well enough to talk—not to talk personally—and yet, because of the people, the men they had known, they knew each other too well for dinner party chitchat to be absorbing. She might as well have stayed across the room with the young Eastern women, talking of Antonioni. The men from whom she had taken Eleanor were still there, waiting to draw around her again. Fortunately Eleanor sensed the feeling and knew what to do about it.
“I have to go to the powder room for a minute,” she said. “Would you like to come along? I’ve got so I can’t think in rooms full of people.”
She picked up a small purse from a lamp table and as she turned gave the three men a look of sullen annoyance, as if to warn them away. Patsy followed her to the powder room, which was large, with white walls and a very blue rug.
“God, I don’t like this rug,” Eleanor said. “Every time I come in this room I wish I were a thousand miles away. The rest of the house is nice.” There were two or three chairs and a long mirror and Eleanor sat down in one of the chairs, turning it around first so that her back was to the mirror. She lit a cigarette and for a second her face was concealed by the smoke. She slumped a little in her chair and sighed as if she were very tired.
“Who were those men?” Patsy asked. “They certainly were monopolizing you.”
“Oh, a bachelor and two philanderers,” Eleanor said. “You’ll probably be hearing from one or another of them in a few days.”
“Me? They weren’t paying any attention to me. I think they were mad at me for butting in.”
“That will pass,” Eleanor said.
Patsy looked in the very bright mirror and touched her hair. In the white room, with the good mirror, the shortness of it looked all the more odd. She frowned and took out her comb, but all she could do was rough it out a bit. There was no way it could be made to look like it had. Eleanor turned and glanced at her.
“They were just after me tonight,” she said. “Next week one of them will have a dinner party and ask you. You’re a fresh face. I bet one of the philanderers is pumping Ted Caldwell about you now. You must have noticed that we seem to attract the same men.”
“Ugh,” Patsy said. “Not those, surely.”
Eleanor was looking at Patsy’s hair. She reached up with a frown to straighten her own. “Mine needs thinning,” she said. “I never seem to get around to anything these days. Did Jim’s breaks heal well?”
“Finally,” Patsy said, a little nervously.
“I hear from Joe Percy that the two of you are separated. I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it.”
“I don’t.” She bent over and opened a lipstick but then closed it again without using it and sat down. The room had affected her as it affected Eleanor. It was too bright—not a room to stay in more than five minutes. And yet she didn’t feel like going back amid the guests.
“I wish I’d brought my brandy,” Eleanor said. “If we unscrewed a few light bulbs it wouldn’t be so bad in here.”
“I saw Joe a month or so ago,” Patsy said.
“Yes, he mentioned that when he mentioned Jim. I suppose I may have played a minor part in your troubles, and if so I apologize.”
“Forget it,” Patsy said. “Everybody played a minor part in our troubles. I’m sure we insisted on everyone participating.”
“The sad thing is that Jim is very nice,” Eleanor said. “He doesn’t really dislike anyone. What am I doing? Of all things to say. I’m really not very alert this time of night.”
“No, it’s true,” Patsy said. “Did Joe tell you about his love problem?”
“Yes. He told me. I wouldn’t worry too much about Joe. His real love is dead; it’s why he’s such an invaluable sympathizer. I made him come and hold my hand for a week, when Sonny was killed. Sooner or later I imagine he’ll help the young lady rescue a sister or get over the death of a lover or not feel so bad because her husband’s the way he is. He likes women so much he can cheer anyone up, if he’s given a chance.”
Just then Mrs. Caldwell looked in, obviously a little worried by their disappearance. “Anything the matter?” she asked, concern in her face.
“Oh, no, Beth,” Eleanor said, smiling. “We were just sitting here talking about our friends.”
“You’re welcome to our upstairs den,” Mrs. Caldwell whispered, but Eleanor shook her head.
“No, I’m worn out. I’d like to get back to the hotel.” She stood up and straightened her dress.
“I wish I could go with you,” Mrs. Caldwell said. “Grady’s drunk and letting the niggers have it. We had a scene with him five years ago and I think we’re going to have another one tonight.”
She went out and Eleanor turned to the mirror and looked at her hair but did nothing with it. In the bright light Patsy saw how much her face had changed. It was not heavier—if anything she had lost flesh in the face. It was as if she no longer cared to carry her beauty and was letting it leave her as it would. Some remained, some had fallen away. Eleanor seemed almost indifferent. Unhappiness showed in her eyes and in the set of her mouth; there was no longer any pride in her expression. Boredom, sorrow, disappointment, were things she was no longer attempting to conceal. She took her purse and they left the powder room and said but little more. “I wish you could come and see my son,” Patsy said, but Eleanor did not look interested. She was leaving in the morning, she said.
Several of the party were saying their goodbyes when they came out, and when Patsy said she must leave too, Beth Caldwell arranged for one of the young couples to drive her home. It turned out that Eleanor had an escort, not one of the three pursuers but a short gentle-looking lawyer with a large curved nose. His name was Taylor, and Patsy learned later that he was a widower. They all stepped out into the broad driveway together and Eleanor and Patsy said goodbye as Mr. Taylor was helping Eleanor on with her light spring coat. Though he seemed very nice, Eleanor appeared to be slightly intolerant of him, and when he was slipping her coat on she stepped away and shrugged it on herself; she straightened her collar and swung her head so that her hair hung free. She gave Patsy an odd quick smile as she turned to go, a smile half friendly and half bitter. Then she turned and put her hands in her coat pocket with an authority of movement that, for a moment, brought all her presence back.
An ambulance was screaming up Fannin Street toward the hospital, the wheeaaaw, wheeaaaw of its siren becoming louder and louder as it drew near. While still remote, it was almost a pleasant sound, but it soon became louder and rawer and, for a few brief seconds, was much too loud. Nothing cut the sound: not the wall around Shadyside, not the great trees, not the massive houses. For a moment the sound overwhelmed the pleasantries of farewell, and, despite themselves, the people standing in front of the huge ivied house all looked toward it. Two chauffeurs who had got out of two limousines looked toward it too. None of them could see the spinning red light on top of the ambulance but they all knew when it came opposite them. Then the full reverberation of the sound struck them all and quickly began to diminish.
Eleanor turned and said a final word to her hosts and then turned again and began to walk away, Mr. Taylor with her. The hotel where she was staying was just outside the wall, scarcely two blocks away. Patsy got in with one of the nice young couples. They only had a station wagon, and they steered carefully past the two long black cars parked at the head of the driveway. As they turned into the street they passed Eleanor and Mr. Taylor. He was talking, she was walking silently. Patsy was by the window and the window was down, but she didn’t wave. Eleanor was looking across the long lawn, and the polite tones of Mr. Taylor’s voice, which Patsy heard for a second, seemed more remote from her than they were from Patsy, more remote from her even than they were from the two silent chauffeurs beside the two limousines. Eleanor was inscrutable; she was not to be reached. There loomed beyond the small polite man at her side that other figure, that man who had known her far away from the trees of Houston, in the rougher, rawer country where the two of them had had their life and been, in their strange way, a royal couple.
Her final glimpse of Eleanor made Patsy pensive. To see Eleanor was to remember Sonny. She wondered if she would ever have a man so distinctly hers that she would remind people of him. She doubted it, and it made her sad.
She was not very responsive to the dozens of questions that Miri and Eric asked her about the fancy party she had been to. Later, in bed, she was wide awake. It occurred to her that Jim had been a fool to back away from Eleanor and run away with Clara. But, as Eleanor had said, he was always nice, and he didn’t dislike anyone. She thought about him for a moment, but he wouldn’t stay on her mind. It was just a quick judgment she passed on him and then forgot. The future and the past were on her mind and she would have been glad of a sleeping pill.
Downstairs, Eric and Miri were talking about her—about what was wrong with her, about what she would do, about Hank, whom Miri had not seen and whom Eric had not known. They went on to talk about marriage, how stupidly most people went into it, how foolish they were about it, how simple it would be to have a good marriage if one were only sensible. They speculated about it far into the night, now passionately, now soberly, stopping from time to time to neck. Patsy, could she have heard, would have gone to sleep amused.