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Authors: Edward Streeter
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dreamily. “Like wood nymphs in glades.”
“Sort of on the idea of the White Rock girl,” suggested Mr. Banks.
“Light green pastel with three-quarter sleeves—and a tight bodice and a bouffant skirt,” said Kay.
“That’s it,” said Mrs. Banks. “And wreaths of natural flowers.”
“You girls ought to work for Billy Rose,” offered Mr. Banks.
Kay’s face fell. “Mom, can you picture Jane Bloomer in that dress! Why, she’ll look like an elephant in a ballet skirt. Oh, dear. This is a mess. Wouldn’t you know she’d accept.”
It seemed to him that he was always struggling through violent rain and sleet storms.
And so it went while Mr. Banks browsed absentmindedly through the evening paper and wondered what would happen if he suddenly began to make queer noises and froth at the mouth. The incident of the champagne was still too recent, however, to make free speech advisable.
“Oh, Kay,” exclaimed Mrs. Banks, “there’s one thing we’ve forgotten. Mrs. Pulitzski. Remind me to phone her. She’s simply got to be at the church to straighten you out before you go down the aisle.”
Mr. Banks lowered his paper. “What’s the child going to do—have the bends?”
“Oh, men never understand. Don’t you see, dear, somebody’s got to be there to arrange Kay’s train and veil before she starts down the aisle with you.”
“I think I’ll go to bed,” said Mr. Banks.
• • •
It has been said that a man’s home is his castle. Mr. Banks began to realize that his should have been nothing less in order to take care of the traffic that now began to flow daily through 24 Maple Drive. Joe Marvin, the architect, had certainly not designed it for a public institution.
In the pre-engagement days it had been Mr. Banks’ pleasant custom to give out a cheerful “Hi” each evening as he entered his front door. And from somewhere in the house there was sure to come an answering “Hi.” It was comforting and warming after an embattled day in the city.
Now, as he entered the house, he was more apt to be greeted by a din of youthful voices from the living room. There was no use calling “Hi.” No one would have heard him.
It was not intentional. In fact, they were all so polite they embarrassed him. As he entered the room the young males rose in a body and mumbled something ending in “sir.” Then Kay would embrace him dramatically, one foot raised slightly behind her, and say “ Pops! We were waiting for you to make us a cocktail.”
It was no time to protest. Mr. Banks would take a hasty inventory and retire to the pantry. It seemed to him that each night another empty went into the garbage pail, where Delilah observed it glumly, brooding obviously on her rather meager salary.
Sam, of the Fairview Manor Wines and Liquor Company, became steadily more enthusiastic. “Nice wedding you have,” he would remark cheerily, his deft fingers wrapping up another three bottles. “Sure I charge. Against law. You bet. Come again.”
In the front hall someone was always sitting at the telephone table making a long-distance call. As far as Mr. Banks could observe none of Kay’s friends had any local acquaintances. They would nod pleasantly to him as he passed.
Occasionally he would find a dime and several odd pennies beside the phone. At other times there would be a note scribbled on the memorandum pad—
Each day there were several frantic messages from Buckley’s family about V.I.P.s who had been overlooked and must be invited immediately. It was Mr. Banks’ job to get these belated invitations into the mailbox on the corner before going to bed. As he remembered it in after years, it seemed to him that, like a figure from a Brontë novel, he was always struggling through violent rain and sleet storms on these profitless errands.
He scuffed doggedly through unseen rain puddles. Wet branches sprang out of the darkness to slap at his eyeglasses. It would have been so easy to drop the
“Sort of on the idea of the White Rock girl,” suggested Mr. Banks.
“Light green pastel with three-quarter sleeves—and a tight bodice and a bouffant skirt,” said Kay.
“That’s it,” said Mrs. Banks. “And wreaths of natural flowers.”
“You girls ought to work for Billy Rose,” offered Mr. Banks.
Kay’s face fell. “Mom, can you picture Jane Bloomer in that dress! Why, she’ll look like an elephant in a ballet skirt. Oh, dear. This is a mess. Wouldn’t you know she’d accept.”
It seemed to him that he was always struggling through violent rain and sleet storms.
And so it went while Mr. Banks browsed absentmindedly through the evening paper and wondered what would happen if he suddenly began to make queer noises and froth at the mouth. The incident of the champagne was still too recent, however, to make free speech advisable.
“Oh, Kay,” exclaimed Mrs. Banks, “there’s one thing we’ve forgotten. Mrs. Pulitzski. Remind me to phone her. She’s simply got to be at the church to straighten you out before you go down the aisle.”
Mr. Banks lowered his paper. “What’s the child going to do—have the bends?”
“Oh, men never understand. Don’t you see, dear, somebody’s got to be there to arrange Kay’s train and veil before she starts down the aisle with you.”
“I think I’ll go to bed,” said Mr. Banks.
• • •
It has been said that a man’s home is his castle. Mr. Banks began to realize that his should have been nothing less in order to take care of the traffic that now began to flow daily through 24 Maple Drive. Joe Marvin, the architect, had certainly not designed it for a public institution.
In the pre-engagement days it had been Mr. Banks’ pleasant custom to give out a cheerful “Hi” each evening as he entered his front door. And from somewhere in the house there was sure to come an answering “Hi.” It was comforting and warming after an embattled day in the city.
Now, as he entered the house, he was more apt to be greeted by a din of youthful voices from the living room. There was no use calling “Hi.” No one would have heard him.
It was not intentional. In fact, they were all so polite they embarrassed him. As he entered the room the young males rose in a body and mumbled something ending in “sir.” Then Kay would embrace him dramatically, one foot raised slightly behind her, and say “ Pops! We were waiting for you to make us a cocktail.”
It was no time to protest. Mr. Banks would take a hasty inventory and retire to the pantry. It seemed to him that each night another empty went into the garbage pail, where Delilah observed it glumly, brooding obviously on her rather meager salary.
Sam, of the Fairview Manor Wines and Liquor Company, became steadily more enthusiastic. “Nice wedding you have,” he would remark cheerily, his deft fingers wrapping up another three bottles. “Sure I charge. Against law. You bet. Come again.”
In the front hall someone was always sitting at the telephone table making a long-distance call. As far as Mr. Banks could observe none of Kay’s friends had any local acquaintances. They would nod pleasantly to him as he passed.
Occasionally he would find a dime and several odd pennies beside the phone. At other times there would be a note scribbled on the memorandum pad—
Each day there were several frantic messages from Buckley’s family about V.I.P.s who had been overlooked and must be invited immediately. It was Mr. Banks’ job to get these belated invitations into the mailbox on the corner before going to bed. As he remembered it in after years, it seemed to him that, like a figure from a Brontë novel, he was always struggling through violent rain and sleet storms on these profitless errands.
He scuffed doggedly through unseen rain puddles. Wet branches sprang out of the darkness to slap at his eyeglasses. It would have been so easy to drop the
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