Read Online Ordinary People by Judith Guest - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Guest
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as Anhinga Hill. The contractor, a Floridian transplant, named the streets after a host of Everglades birds—Bittern, Egret, Cormorant, Anhinga. Their own, Heron Drive. Eight basic designs of houses; twenty-four elevations. Each one carefully, artfully different. The subdivision has won prizes. Neatness, originality, aptness-of-thought.
“Here they arel” Sara Murray sweeps them inside. “How’s that? Three blocks away, and the last ones to arrive! It’s positively insulting. Here are the coats, darling.” She ushers them into the large, elegantly furnished living room, done in shades of champagne and white. As is the hostess. A long, silky gown with a deep neckline. She is a tiny woman; nearly a head shorter than Beth. “Ed, move over, will you? Make room for Beth.”
“Come here, you gorgeous thing,” Ed Genthe says, reaching up to take Beth’s hand and pull her down beside him on the couch.
“Edward, Edward,” she says, laughing. “Control yourself!”
Gracious as always, but Cal knows she doesn’t like this. She is wearing a white-knit pantsuit, a long-sleeved black blouse, her hair tied back from her face with a black silk scarf. She does look gorgeous.
“Cal, what would you like?” Phil asks. “Scotch?”
“Yes, please. Just a short one.”
“Short on water?” Phil laughs. “Short on scotch?”
“Hey, c’mon, it’s a party,” Ed says. “Hey, somebody, how about a Dewar’s ad on this guy? What’s the latest book you’ve read, Cal?”
“How about The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, the first hundred pages,” Beth says. “Four times. Will that do?”
Call says, “Not funny.”
“How about a quote?”
He thinks a minute. “ ‘The only way to deal with absurdity is to recognize it.’ How’s that?”
“Pretty good. That yours?”
“Hell, no. You think anybody uses his own quotes in those things? Who talks like that?”
Sara comes in from the kitchen, a tray of cocktail snacks in her hands, all gracefully arranged in rows: sausages and mushrooms in tiny, fluted pastry shells; crusty little pillows bulging with some unidentified, gooey filling; hot puffs of cheese-flavored dough. She passes the tray around. “Come on, take lots.”
“Cal, you playing in the Lawyers’ Invitational next spring?” Mac Kline drifts over to where he is standing, beside the mantel.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I posted enough scores this year to qualify.”
“You ever won that thing?” Ed asks.
“Are you kidding? Too many lawyers play golf.”
“Too many lawyers play golf is right,” Phil says. “Try to get on that course on a Thursday afternoon. Hey, that reminds me—” and he is off on another crooked-lawyer joke.
Sara jockeys in between Cal and Mac with the tray. Her breasts swell provocatively from the V of the gown. He studies the tray in stern concentration. To raise his eyes a mere three inches would be to give her what she wants; she would like to catch him sneaking a look, he can feel it, and he would do it, too, if it were not for a frenetic-butterfly manner that she radiates. It grates on his nerves. She has an endless supply of nervous energy. Tiny women are often like this, he thinks. They never run down. They overwhelm him, make him feel lumpish and stupid. Too large. He glances at his wife, who is not that type at all. She is cool and quiet and relaxed at parties. He would prefer sitting next to her, talking to her. That is often the case with him. He likes women, but not nervous women. He has tried to like Sara and, at times, he has almost succeeded. So long as he doesn’t have to see her often. No, he would not like to be married to a damned butterfly.
“I saw Conrad the other day,” Marty Genthe says. “Uptown. It’s nice that someone that age still believes in courtesy. Most of Donald’s friends remember my face, but they can’t be bothered putting a name to it. It’s just, ‘Oh, hi there.’ ”
And suddenly, everyone is listening.
“How
“Here they arel” Sara Murray sweeps them inside. “How’s that? Three blocks away, and the last ones to arrive! It’s positively insulting. Here are the coats, darling.” She ushers them into the large, elegantly furnished living room, done in shades of champagne and white. As is the hostess. A long, silky gown with a deep neckline. She is a tiny woman; nearly a head shorter than Beth. “Ed, move over, will you? Make room for Beth.”
“Come here, you gorgeous thing,” Ed Genthe says, reaching up to take Beth’s hand and pull her down beside him on the couch.
“Edward, Edward,” she says, laughing. “Control yourself!”
Gracious as always, but Cal knows she doesn’t like this. She is wearing a white-knit pantsuit, a long-sleeved black blouse, her hair tied back from her face with a black silk scarf. She does look gorgeous.
“Cal, what would you like?” Phil asks. “Scotch?”
“Yes, please. Just a short one.”
“Short on water?” Phil laughs. “Short on scotch?”
“Hey, c’mon, it’s a party,” Ed says. “Hey, somebody, how about a Dewar’s ad on this guy? What’s the latest book you’ve read, Cal?”
“How about The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, the first hundred pages,” Beth says. “Four times. Will that do?”
Call says, “Not funny.”
“How about a quote?”
He thinks a minute. “ ‘The only way to deal with absurdity is to recognize it.’ How’s that?”
“Pretty good. That yours?”
“Hell, no. You think anybody uses his own quotes in those things? Who talks like that?”
Sara comes in from the kitchen, a tray of cocktail snacks in her hands, all gracefully arranged in rows: sausages and mushrooms in tiny, fluted pastry shells; crusty little pillows bulging with some unidentified, gooey filling; hot puffs of cheese-flavored dough. She passes the tray around. “Come on, take lots.”
“Cal, you playing in the Lawyers’ Invitational next spring?” Mac Kline drifts over to where he is standing, beside the mantel.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I posted enough scores this year to qualify.”
“You ever won that thing?” Ed asks.
“Are you kidding? Too many lawyers play golf.”
“Too many lawyers play golf is right,” Phil says. “Try to get on that course on a Thursday afternoon. Hey, that reminds me—” and he is off on another crooked-lawyer joke.
Sara jockeys in between Cal and Mac with the tray. Her breasts swell provocatively from the V of the gown. He studies the tray in stern concentration. To raise his eyes a mere three inches would be to give her what she wants; she would like to catch him sneaking a look, he can feel it, and he would do it, too, if it were not for a frenetic-butterfly manner that she radiates. It grates on his nerves. She has an endless supply of nervous energy. Tiny women are often like this, he thinks. They never run down. They overwhelm him, make him feel lumpish and stupid. Too large. He glances at his wife, who is not that type at all. She is cool and quiet and relaxed at parties. He would prefer sitting next to her, talking to her. That is often the case with him. He likes women, but not nervous women. He has tried to like Sara and, at times, he has almost succeeded. So long as he doesn’t have to see her often. No, he would not like to be married to a damned butterfly.
“I saw Conrad the other day,” Marty Genthe says. “Uptown. It’s nice that someone that age still believes in courtesy. Most of Donald’s friends remember my face, but they can’t be bothered putting a name to it. It’s just, ‘Oh, hi there.’ ”
And suddenly, everyone is listening.
“How
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