Ammie, Come Home (2 page)

THE KITCHEN WAS WARM AND BRIGHT
,
AND FILLED
with the smell of perking coffee. Ruth was buttering toast when the sound of footsteps made her drop the knife. “Goodness, you startled me,” she exclaimed, as her niece entered. “What are you doing up at this hour? It isn't even light outside.”

“I couldn't get back to sleep.” Sara yawned till Ruth's jaws ached in sympathy. “Here, let me do that.”

“You're still half asleep. Sit down and have some coffee. Unless you want to go back to bed….”

Sara shook her head and slumped into a chair by the table. Her green velvet robe brushed the floor and had full sleeves trimmed with lace. It was obviously one of the contributions of her doting mother, but instead of making her look young and innocent, the rich dark sheen of the material and the medieval sweep of the style gave her a magnificently anachronistic appearance, like something produced by a Spanish court painter of the sixteenth century. The girl's skin was smoothly olive; her black hair, braided into a thick tail for bed, gleamed like polished metal.

With a glance at the clock Ruth poured herself another cup of coffee. It was still early. She always allowed herself ample time in the morning.

“Want some toast?”

“No, thanks.” The phrase was broken by another gigantic yawn.

“Come now; you don't need to diet, and if you haven't had enough sleep you must eat.” Without waiting for a reply Ruth put two slices of bread into the toaster and gave Sara the plate she had prepared for herself. By the time she got back to the table with fresh toast, Sara was biting appreciatively into the golden triangles.

“Good,” she said, and gave her aunt a smile. “Sorry, Ruth. I've got a nerve, I ought to be getting your breakfast.”

“I don't know why you should.” Ruth returned the smile. What a pretty child she was! The long dark lashes were so thick that they made her eyes look enormous, even when they were heavy with sleep; they had the smudgy sultriness which expensive eye-makeup kits are supposed to produce, and seldom do.

The toast and coffee revived Sara to such an extent that she got up and began scrambling eggs.

“I love this kitchen,” she said, stirring.

Ruth cast a complacent glance over her shining kitchen. It looked charming, particularly in contrast to the bleak gray dawn that was breaking outside. The stainless steel of the counter stove, wall oven, and double sinks was as modern as the spotless white door of the refrigerator; but the cabinets had been done in maple, with hammered iron hinges and handles, and the one papered wall had an old-fashioned print of peasants haying, which had been copied from an old French original. The bright red of the workers' shirts and the golden sheaves of grain gave the kitchen a gaiety which was augmented by warm red-brown tile on the floor. Ruth's inherited collection of teapots, in all materials and colors, occupied shelves in a glass-fronted corner cupboard.

“The refrigerator ought to be brown, though,” Sara said.

“I don't like colored refrigerators,” Ruth said absently. They had been through this dialogue several times; it had the pleasant monotony of routine now. “They're decadent.”

“Like colored toilet paper,” Sara agreed, and they both laughed.

“I could tell just by looking at this room that you chose the decorations,” Sara went on. “Was it so bad when you inherited the house?”

“You should have seen it! I suppose Cousin Hattie had been living on boiled eggs for forty years. She didn't care for new-fangled inventions.”

“It must have been ghastly.”

“Some of the furnishings were museum pieces. One of those enormous, black, wood-burning ranges—I don't suppose you've ever seen them. Of course, hers hadn't been used for years, since there was no point in firing up such a monster for one person. She cooked on a kerosene stove with a single burner—terribly dangerous, those things are. It's a wonder she didn't burn the house down.”

“How about an egg?” Sara brought the pan, copper-bottomed and steaming, to the table and waved it invitingly under Ruth's nose.

“Dear child, I've had one breakfast!”

“It's cold outside. And you don't need to worry about getting fat.” Sara put a puffy yellow spoonful on Ruth's plate. “You aren't going to be late, are you?”

“No, that's all right. How about you? When is your first class?”

“Not till eleven. That dull diplomatic history course. But I think I'll go in early and work at the library.”

“Or have coffee with what's-his-name,” Ruth said dryly.

“Bruce. You know perfectly well what his name is; you're just trying to deny the fact that he exists.”

“You sound like your friend Dr. MacDougal,” Ruth said.

“What time
did
you get in last night?”

“None of your business. As for Bruce, I don't have any mental blocks about him. He simply doesn't interest me, one way or the other. But you know what your mother would say about him.”

“He's not as bad as Alan was,” Sara said wickedly.

“Never having seen Alan, I can't say. Your mother's description was pretty ghastly, but I'm willing to allow for exaggeration. People do exaggerate,” she added, realizing that she had just violated the united front of the older generation, “when they are worried about someone they love.”

“That was just Mother being silly. I hadn't the faintest intention of marrying Alan.”

“Maybe that's what she was worried about.”

Sara chuckled; she had a delicious laugh, soft and throaty and contagious, which brought out dimples in both cheeks.

“Ruth, you're marvelous, you really are. I admire your loyalty to Mother—after all, she is your sister. But don't you think her attitude toward sex is positively medieval?”

“That's a subject on which I am not an authority.”

“What, sex?”

“Your mother's attitude toward it. Don't be impertinent.”

Her tone was light, but Sara had a sensitivity for nuances which was rare, Ruth thought, in a girl of her age. She changed the subject.

“Alan was just a temporary aberration,” she explained airily. “A manifestation of adolescent rebellion on my part. If Mother hadn't howled about him so constantly I would have dropped him long before.”

And that, Ruth suspected, was probably true. How many times had she had to bite back the words of advice that popped into her mind when she heard Helen make some maddeningly wrong statement to Sara or one of the boys, some red flag to their bullish emotions. Yes, she reminded herself sardonically, spinster aunts always did know better than parents. And, whatever her mother's minor errors, Sara was a credit to the family—charming, bright, well-mannered, pretty. Then Ruth's smile faded slightly as she studied the girl's face. Pretty, yes, healthy…. This morning there was a change. Something was wrong. What?

“…the fact that he never washed,” Sara was saying. “It wasn't that he couldn't, you know; he lived at home and his parents had an absolutely gorgeous mansion in Shaker Heights, five bathrooms, no less. It was a matter of principle.”

“I never could understand the principle which is expressed by a cultivated filth,” Ruth murmured, only half following the conversation. She was still trying to pin down that elusive sense of wrongness in Sara's face.

“Well, you know, protesting how terrible the world is.”

“Adding one more stench to the world doesn't improve it, surely?”

“Ruth, you're hopeless,” Sara said, with a burst of laughter. “At least you must admit Bruce is immaculate. It's the beard you can't accept.”

“It's not so much the beard as my suspicion that he pastes it on. He isn't old enough to have a beard like Philip of Spain's. Sara, do you feel all right?”

“Sure, I feel fine. A little tired, that's all.”

“You said you couldn't get back to sleep. What woke you?”

Sara's eyes dropped. She picked up her fork and began pushing golden fragments of egg around her plate.

“My conscience, probably. I do have to go to the library. There are midterms coming up.”

“Well, all right…. There is some flu going around and you look a little shadowy under the eyes.”

“After all those eggs can you suspect me of flu? No, dear, leave those dishes, you know that's my job. I don't have to go for another hour. Want me to make spaghetti tonight?”

“Fine. You make good spaghetti.”

“I should, it's the only thing I can cook, besides eggs.” And then, as Ruth collected purse and gloves and started toward the door, she said, “Ruth.”

“What?”

“Don't those people behind us have a dog, or cat, or something?”

“The Owens have a Weimaraner, and someone in back owns a Siamese cat. I've seen the dog exploring the shrubbery once or twice.”

“Weimaraner? Oh, that ghosty-looking gray dog with the red eyes. What's its name?”

“I haven't the faintest idea. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” The hesitation, the sidelong look, were so unlike Sara that Ruth felt a resurgence of her concern. The girl sensed this; she smiled, and said quickly,

“It sounds so silly. But that was what woke me, someone out in back calling, in the middle of the night. I assumed some cherished pet didn't come home for dinner.”

“Calling what?” Ruth said sharply.

“Oh, damn, that's why I didn't want to tell you; I knew you'd start thinking about homicidal maniacs and peeping toms.” Her tone added, “All ‘grown-ups' do.” Aloud she continued, “It wasn't like that at all, it was just someone calling an animal, or a child. I couldn't imagine that children would be wandering around at four
A.M
., so I figured it must have been a missing pet. I used to yell that way for our old tom-kitty when his mating instinct got too much for him.”

“I hope you didn't make enough noise to wake up all the neighbors. I'll have to speak to Mr. Owens.”

“No, don't do that; it was a soft, sort of crooning voice, really. I hope they find poor Sam,” she added. “He's a spooky-looking beast, but he was very friendly last time I talked to him through the fence.”

Halfway out the door, Ruth turned.

“Sam? The dog's name is Wolfgang von Eschenbach, or some such absurdity.”

“It must have been the missing cat, then,” Sara said calmly. “I didn't absolutely catch the name, but it surely wasn't Wolfgang etcetera. It was Sammie, or something like that. ‘Come home, come home'—that's what the voice kept saying—‘Sammie, come home.'”

 

II

“The name,” said the voice at the other end of the wire, “is Pat MacDougal.”

“Impossible,” Ruth said involuntarily.

“I admit it's a funny name. Sounds like a cartoon character. But it happens to be my name.”

“You silly fool,” said Ruth; and blushed scarlet as her secretary looked up in surprise. “I meant, how did you find me?”

“Called Sara and asked her where you worked. The Department of Agriculture has a very efficient information service. What the hell are you doing at the Department of Agriculture—counting apples?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like a dull occupation for a woman of your talents.”

“How do you know—” Ruth began, and stopped herself just in time. “I'm sorry, but I
am
busy today. Can I call you back later?”

“No. Later I'll be at your place, providing, of course, that it's okay with you.”

“Well, it's not okay!”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Let's start all over again. I don't know why you have this effect on me,” said the voice irritably. “I'm generally considered very suave. Mrs. Bennett, my mother is having one of those impromptu dinner parties for which I gather she is famous in Washington. I wouldn't know; she is the main reason why I took up anthropology as a profession. But this time I'm stuck. She asked me to bring a dinner partner, and last night, in the fascination of your company, I forgot to ask you. I know it's damned short notice, but that's my mother's fault, not mine. She does this sort of thing.”

“I'm sorry,” Ruth began, and then the meaning of what he had said finally penetrated. “Your mother…. She isn't Mrs. Jackson MacDougal?”

“Yes, she is.” The voice was defensive.

“Well! I don't know….”

“Damn it, Ruth, you've got to help me out. I can't hurt the old lady's feelings, but those characters she collects drive me nuts. Please?”

“Characters? You mean the most famous conductor in Europe, that Russian ballet dancer who defected, the man who wrote that terrible book, the woman who predicted—”

“Yeah, people like that. I don't know who she's got on tonight. Look, you seem to have heard of her, so you know it's not my fault, this last minute business. She does it all the time—and gets away with it, which is even more fantastic. Please?”

“All right. Thank you.”

“Thank
you.
” There was a gusty sigh of relief from the other end. “Seven thirty?”

“Come around at six thirty for a drink,” Ruth said “I suspect I'll need it.”

“We both will, but not for the reason you're thinking. Hell's bells, darling, it's just a dull party. Bless you.”

“Uh—Pat. What shall I—”

The hollow silence on the other end of the wire told her it was too late. She hung up and turned to find her mascaraed miniskirted secretary regarding her with open-mouthed admiration.

“Gee,” said her secretary. “Mrs. Jackson Mac-Dougal!”

 

III

“Who's she?” Sara asked.

“Only the most famous hostess in Washington. Invitations to her parties are more highly regarded than invitations to the White House.”