That evening, I got in my swim, showered, parted my freshly washed hair neatly on the left, and combed the remainder straight back in imitation of the young Ronald Reagan in his Warner Bros, hey days Not bad. Troy Appleton’s wife wasn’t the only one who knew how to use someone else’s coiffure to win friends and get out the vote.
Satisfied with what I saw in the mirror (I’m very easy with me) I dabbed a bit of my personal and very expensive scent onto the back of my neck, donned a pair of Newport red Bermuda shorts over a matching shade of cotton briefs, and pulled a blue sweatshirt, emblazoned with a foot-long white Y, over my head. I never wear the thing in father’s presence as it evokes stares and sighs of woe that would have neighbors believe the McNallys were putting on a revival of Oedipus with a Greek chorus of one.
Actually, I wore it last winter when I took Connie to a performance of Puns of Steel by the Princeton Triangle Club at the Alexander W.
Dreyfoos Jr School of Arts in
West Palm. Connie was embarrassed but I got a round of applause from the Elis present.
Regardless of the effect the lettered shirt has on the pater, the outfit would never do for family dining were he at home. When breaking bread with the help in the kitchen on a balmy summer night, it was perfect.
I mixed myself a proper Sterling vodka martini in the den before joining Ursi and Jamie. I must say, I am certainly making the most of the master’s absence, which, alas, must soon come to an end. Nothing is forever and rightly so, for I do miss mother.
“Roast chicken with lemon and herbs,” Ursi recited the bill of fare as I entered. Jamie had his nose buried in the evening paper with a bottle of beer before him. “And don’t you look sporty, Archy.”
“Thank you, Ursi. I do have good legs, don’t I?”
This got Jamie to look up, scan my legs, and go back to his paper. A no comment, I’ve always thought, is the most telling comment of all.
“What do we get with the chicken, Ursi?”
“Rice pilaf and a romaine salad with buttermilk dressing,” she answered. “Very light and easy and just the thing for a hot summer night, don’t you think?”
I did think. But, for starters, Ursi couldn’t resist passing around one of her specialties. Miniature pizzas, no more than two bites per munch, with a variety of toppings. Not very light fare, but then they were just to get the juices flowing. Jamie, who drinks his beer straight from the bottle, put aside his paper to concentrate on the tray of finger food his wife had placed on the table.
“Now tell us all about Sabrina Wright,” Ursi said as she puttered around the stove. “Did you find her daughter?”
“Let’s say her daughter gave herself up,” I told them. “The family is now together at The Breakers.”
“And the young man?” Ursi asked, opening the oven from which the aroma of lemon chicken escaped to tantalize my taste buds.
“He’s with her,” I said.
“In the same room?” As she spoke, Jamie reached for a tidbit of bread, cheese, tomato sauce, and anchovy but froze to await my answer.
“No, Ursi. They are in separate but adjoining rooms.”
“Is there a connecting door?” Jamie’s voice so startled us we stared at him as if he were daft. Picking up his mini pizza he popped it into his mouth.
“Don’t be crude,” his wife reproached him. “Besides, connecting doors can be locked.”
“From either side,” Jamie said, scanning the tray for his next assault on the minis.
It was so unusual to hear the Olsons engaged in spirited repartee that I had allowed Jamie to get one up on me on the crusty delights. I had had an anchovy, a pepperoni, and a broccoli. I spotted another anchovy and got there before Jamie. He shot me a look and fished up a plain cheese-and-sauce. That should teach him to keep his eyes upon the food and his mind off bedroom doors.
“So your case is closed,” Ursi said.
“It is,” I answered, knowing I was making a public statement in the privacy of my home just like the musings of the man in the Oval Office.
“Is Sabrina Wright going to allow them to wed?” Ursi asked, removing the chicken from the oven.
“She can’t stop them,” I said. “Her daughter is of age, and so is her beau.”
Under different circumstances I would have gone into more details of the case with Ursi and Jamie, but that would mean hearing the below-stairs gossip regarding Sabrina’s visit. Should the Appleton name wend its way into the conversation I didn’t want to risk having to avoid hearing it. Jamie Olson may be as vocal as a clam but he is also as slippery as an eel. Therefore I was relieved when Ursi announced dinner. “Are you going to have wine, Archy?” she asked, bringing the platter of lemon chicken to the already set table. The chickens had been expertly quartered by Ursi herself, garnished with parsley, and presented with the rice pilaf.
“I think I’ll stick with beer tonight,”I said, unfolding my napkin and placing it on my lap.
In lieu of grace Ursi said a “Bon appetit.”
We had the romaine salad with our meal crisp and cool and dipped into a Dutch apple crumb cake for dessert along with iced Caffe Verona, ground fresh at our local Starbucks. I went up to my aerie sated, got out my journal, and recorded my last conversation with Sabrina Wright, officially ending the case. Having done my duty, I poured myself a marc and lit an English Oval in celebration of not having had one all day. Here, as often happens when I’m alone in my allotted space long past sunset, I ruminated on man’s inhumanity to man and to Archy McNally in particular.
Binky had gotten his own pad, and Connie was, once again, tossing out hints as shrouded as hand grenades that Archy do the same. What she really wanted was to begin the begat, as the Good Book encouraged. I was very comfortable where I was and not yet ready for the dubious benefits of love and marriage.
Last evening, as predicted, we did go back to her place, a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth, a one-bedroom affair with a great view from her tiny balcony. I have been there so often I know she keeps the Absolut in the freezer and that you have to jiggle the handle of the toilet to avoid a perpetual flush.
She played her Spanish tapes, which are Greek to me, and after many passionate kisses which, like a spider’s web, leads to a fly’s undoing, we retreated to the bedroom where a framed poster of the film Casablanca hangs over the bed. We undressed with all the nonchalance of an old married couple.
Sparks didn’t fly, but neither did they fizzle. We knew each other’s erogenous zones and played them like skilled pianists on the closing night of a long tour. Okay, I’m making it sound far worse than it was.
The truth is, it’s sometimes better than the first time but not all the time. Would marriage and a family make a difference? If so, how? For better or for worse? And don’t you just know why the marriage vow covers both possibilities and all the stops between?
When Dora, my sister, visits on the holidays, do I look upon her, my brother-in-law, Ted, and their three lovely children with a wistful eye? Do I grow a little sentimental when I enter the kitchen just as Ursi’s soap is interrupted by a commercial for Disneyland? The answer to both is certainly I do.
However, as the Bard spoke of music’s charm, Archy speaks of our modern-day poets, namely the lyricists, who give voice to the plaintive airs. “Down in the depths on the ninetieth floor’ or ‘high as a flag on the Fourth of July,” these word smiths never fail to come up with a phrase to sum up our sentiments in twenty-five words or less. Lionel Bart said it for me when, in his musical, Oliver, he has Nancy rationalizing the fact that Bill Sikes will never marry her. Nancy says of wedded bliss, “Though it sometimes touches me. For the likes of such as me. Mine’s a fine, fine life.” Charlie D. couldn’t have said it better.