Night Extra

At his apartment Terrell made a mild drink, then showered and put on a fresh suit and a cheerful-looking bow tie that failed completely to match his spirits. He was expected for dinner in Crestmount, a suburb of the city, but he was reluctant to leave. For a while he stared out the window, humming to the soft music from the radio, and then he picked up the phone and called Connie’s hotel.

When she answered he said, “This is Terrell again, but I’m not selling anything. Work’s over, and I punched out. So could I talk to you just a second?”

“Yes — but why?”

She didn’t sound so bad, he thought; hardly warm, but not exactly cold. “I’m going to dinner with friends tonight, and I wondered if you’d come with me. It might be a pleasant change for you. They live out in the country, completely surrounded by air. And they’re nice people. Would you like to give it a try? I can get you back early, if that’s a problem.”

“I don’t know — I hadn’t planned anything. Is it a dress-up affair?”

“Good lord, no. This is suburbia. Host in a chef’s hat, hostess in pants. We’ll eat outside and five will get you ten that someone says, ‘This is the life!’ before the second Martinis are served.”

“I’ll need half an hour to get ready.”

“Perfect!” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “Where shall I pick you up?”

“Right here at the hotel.”

“Will that be tactful?”

She said quietly, “You’ll strain yourself leaping at conclusions.”

“Sorry. See you in half an hour.”

She was waiting when he pulled up at the entrance, wearing a black dress with a stole and white gloves. He had called the Hamiltons to tell them he was bringing a date, and he realized that he was a bit eager to show her off. They didn’t talk much on the drive to Crestmount, except to comment on the beauty of the autumn countryside. It was a restful interval; she sat watching the scenery and Terrell didn’t find the silence a strain.

The Hamiltons made a great fuss over them. Bill Hamilton took Connie under his wing with a fine show of avuncular heartiness, the sort of roguish jolliness that married couples consider indicated when bachelor friends turn up with new girls. They had a drink inside and then Mona Hamilton took Connie upstairs to the powder room, and then everyone went outside to the backyard barbecue pit where Bill Hamilton was waiting with a fresh shakerful of Martinis. He said expansively, “Now you cliff-dwellers may be puzzled by a certain aroma in this vicinity. Let me put you at ease: what you are smelling now is fresh air. You probably haven’t noticed any in the city, but it won’t hurt you at all. Breathe as much as you want.”

Another couple arrived in time for the second round of drinks. Their names were Tom and Elsie Brogan, and they were young and attractive, casually chic in country clothes made not for the outdoors but for cocktail parties and brandy milk-punch breakfasts. Tom Brogan accepted a drink and stretched out gratefully in a wicker armchair. “This is the life,” he said with a deep benign sigh.

Terrell caught Connie’s eye and she smiled quickly before timing away to talk with Elsie Brogan.

Bill Hamilton broiled the steaks and Mona took charge of the drinks. Terrell found himself in a critical mood. He wished Bill would stop behaving like a master of ceremonies. Jokes, gestures, flourishes — he acted as if he were introducing the Rockettes instead of serving dinner. And Mona’s stories about her daughter struck him as plain damn silliness. Little Mona didn’t want grown-ups to tell her stories. Oh no! She told them stories. And such imaginative inventions! Mona was going to take them down on the wire recorder some night. They were so charming. No tension in them at all. Just freeform happiness.

The Brogans had children, too. Elsie Brogan indicated that she was a serious but liberal mother by suggesting that her five-year-old son might need. a psychiatrist if his adjustment to kindergarten continued unsatisfactory.

Tom Brogan began a long story about a lady analyst but decided not to finish it; the punch line wouldn’t do in the present company, he said, smiling, and obviously pleased with himself and his erotic secrets. Nothing would make him change his mind. “My masculine intuition tells me to stop,” he said, grinning broadly.

After dinner they went inside and Bill Hamilton touched a match to the logs stacked in the fireplace. Over brandies the talk switched to politics.

“It looks like Caldwell’s a dead duck, eh, Sam?” Bill Hamilton said.

“He’ll need a miracle,” Terrell said.

“He won’t get it, you watch,” Tom Brogan said. “It will be Ticknor again, and Ike Cellars and the rest of that miserable crowd. And the people couldn’t care less. They’re stupid for one thing, and they don’t give a damn for another.”

“I’ll grant that for the sake of argument,” Terrell said. “But how about you people who aren’t stupid. You don’t give a damn either. It seems to me that’s considerably worse.”