Hanno’s Doll (8 page)

Then he and Puppchen, his arm around Puppchen, had gone that evening to see Philip and Miss Mildred off. Puppchen had shivered in the bright November cold.

“I think we'll have a white Thanksgiving,” Philip had said, looking up at the sky.

“White for weddings,” he had thought, like a sentimental Viennese, but thought also, white page, fresh white page, thank heaven, a white beginning. Miss Mildred would not start a hunt for the boy;
he
could start fresh.

Then he had thought, Why send Miss Mildred back with another whole night for Miss Metal to pry in? Why take a chance that tonight Miss Metal wouldn't finally hear about the boy last summer in dramatic school, and how he had appeared at Bradley and said he would come back to the office and then had disappeared? Wasn't it a real possibility that Miss Mildred, feeling safe from disgrace, might tell Miss Metal, might weep and talk tonight?

And might not Miss Metal say he, Hanno, was wrong, the marriage to Philip a mistake? Might she not say the boy should be found, not forgotten?

Why give it a chance to happen? Why endanger safety?

So he had released Puppchen's shoulder and walked across the terrace. He had suggested their leaving then and there. Quickest done soonest mended. He would take Philip's rehearsals. He would manage without Miss Mildred's secretarial services. Philip and Miss Mildred were to take the station wagon and go to their rooms and pick up whatever they needed and leave then. They would be much more comfortable in the station wagon than in Philip's old Chevy.

Use the Park Avenue apartment tonight. Why not? Elopements are made at night.

Philip looked at Miss Mildred. Miss Mildred looked at Philip. Both of them looked the quickest done the soonest mended, poor children.

They left the Chevy where it was. “Bon voyage,” he had called and stayed in the cold to watch Philip turn the big car. He watched it start back toward the college.

Inside, later, he had said to Puppchen, drinking the whipped hot chocolate he had made for her because she had looked so forlorn, that it wasn't many couples who were going to be given a divorce for a wedding present.

She said, “Right away? Are they going to start getting a divorce right away?”

He laughed at her. “Not before they are married, Puppchen.”

She said, “Well, a divorce takes time, Hanno.”

She wanted them married and divorced at the same time. Their Thanksgiving plans had been built to include Philip, who would now be in New York being married. She wasn't enjoying the whipped chocolate.

He had pulled Puppchen toward the big leather chair and settled her on his knees, against him. He had touched his finger to the drooping line of her lip because he could not bear to see it or to hear her faint, sad sigh. He spoke about the Thanksgiving dinner they would have. Roast goose, he said, rather than the eternal American turkey, but her response was politeness only. Then, even though it made him very uncomfortable—that dead boy had spoiled the student evenings for him—he went on to include students in their Thanksgiving dinner. They would ask whatever boys from the Drama Department that weren't going away over the holiday.

Then she did cheer up. They talked about what she would wear. Her red
peau de soie
would have been right against the snow Philip had predicted, but he decided against it. She should wear her white brocade with her Momma's diamonds. (Hard and glittering as Puppchen's Momma.) Normally he detested Puppchen in the diamonds, but he had wanted her to be the Snow Queen on Thanksgiving, because of the boys. He had wanted the boys to understand that if they dared approach beyond the line set for them, the Snow Queen would freeze them, that she was warm only for him, for Hanno. It was not the way that dead boy had said it was: “You can give her anything but love, baby. You do give her anything but love. That you leave to the college boys.”

It had not snowed on Thanksgiving, however; it had rained, was sodden underfoot. Autumn had changed from a gorgeous slut to a penitent drab. Autumn mourned in grounds turned into a cemetery.

And it had been the red
peau de soie
after all. The diamonds had been a silly notion. He had listened carefully when he telephoned the students to invite them for any echo of the dead boy, but, “Gee, thanks, Mr. Dietrich.” “Gee, that'll be swell, Mr. Dietrich.” He heard nothing but innocent gratitude at being rescued from the college-cafeteria Thanksgiving, or the machine-thin slices of turkey and geometric pats of cranberry at the Green Lantern.

Four of the boys who had stayed in college because of the hope of snow accepted.

Philip had called from New York at ten-thirty Thanksgiving morning to wish them season's greetings. Everything was fine, he said. He and Miss Mildred were going to be married in New Jersey, which was apparently where it could be done most quickly. There was a doctor there who had a private lab which would process the blood tests more quickly than in New York. Oh, and Milly wondered if Hanno would telephone Grace Metal for her. Grace had been asleep when Milly came in the night before to pack, and she hadn't wanted to wake her.

A bit more talk from Philip, not much more. (And now he remembered Puppchen smiling when he came from the telephone and told her that he thought Philip must have had a drink. “And before sundown, Puppchen, think of that!” The reason Puppchen had smiled was because he had said, “One night with Miss Mildred and Philip takes to drinking in the
A
.
M
. Aie!”)

And then he had telephoned Miss Metal. “Good morning, Miss Metal. I wish you a good holiday. I am Cupid, Miss Metal. I bring you merry Thanksgiving greetings from Miss Mildred.”

“Where is Milly?”

“I just spoke to her in New York.”

“Oh. Oh!”

“Last night Miss Mildred and Philip Scott eloped to New York. That is why I am Cupid, Miss Metal.”

She had said, “Cupid! Cupid!” She had hung up.

Well, he did look more like Gargantua than Cupid.

After that, they had forgotten the sour Metal, and forgotten Miss Mildred and Philip also. How busy they had been with preparations for that Thanksgiving dinner. Mrs. Brown prepared the goose from the deep freeze for roasting. He had done the liver, chestnut and oyster stuffing à la Dietrich. Puppchen had made rather lopsided kindergarten grapefruit baskets and strung the ruby cranberries to make a necklace for the goose.

When all was prepared, Puppchen, glowing in the red
peau de soie
and the antique garnets he had picked up for her at a Parke Bernet auction, had played to him while he rested and read.

He remembered looking up from Montaigne to what he could see of Puppchen through the ebony triangle of Felix's Bechstein, and it had occurred to him to try to find her a harpsichord like the ones in the Metropolitan Museum of Art since, at the great shining Bechstein, even a Puppchen couldn't help slipping into music well over her head, music too mature for a Puppchen, too grave, then too wild, so tumultuous that it offended him, as if she had been wearing black satin, or had hidden her doll's face behind a mask of tragedy. He had asked her to play something “tinkling,” and after that … oh, she was quick, she was quick … she had paddled obediently in the shallows of Chopin.

He remembered that he had turned the pages to the essay “Of Presumption” in his Montaigne: “That our actions should be judged by our intentions.” On that Thanksgiving morning, he had asked that his action be judged by his intention. He had not intended to kill that boy.

Nor had he intended to kill Philip Scott or Miss Mildred, but they had died on what he had considered a day of thanksgiving, while he and Puppchen were drinking a Thanksgiving toast with the four students.

The police had telephoned him, in Bradley, because it was his station wagon piled up on Route 3 between Secaucus and Lyndhurst. There had been some choice about what to do with what was left of the station wagon, but none, of course, about the two smashed young bodies. They had been taken to a funeral parlor in Secaucus to await word from Philip Scott's mother in Montreal, Canada, and Miss Mildred's parents in Clifton, Idaho. (She had died “Miss” Mildred; the accident had occurred on the way to wherever the marriage was quickest done in New Jersey.)

The four students had put down their champagne glasses and gone away, the tragedy lopping years off them; children again, backing awkwardly out of the house, falling over their feet and over their words of condolence, poor boys. And Puppchen—

“He won't come back! He won't come back!”

He had been trying to comfort her, with his hands, with his voice, pressing his great bulk between her and death, but she had pushed his hands off as if they were nothing, as if his bulk were nothing, as if, by Philip's death, he had betrayed her, and now nothing stood between her and death. She had put her hands at either side of her head. (He remembered that because it was such an angular, uncharacteristic gesture.) She had looked from him, the great goose, to the shining, decapitated goose on the table, as if they were the same. And he had been a great goose. How could he comfort her when he was fifty-seven, when she had once already almost lost him to death? And then she had looked around the big room as if it was strange to her, and as if she did not feel safe in it either.

Poor Miss Mildred was dead by Thanksgiving Day. There was no chance that she could change her mind about wanting the police to find the boy. (“That our actions should be judged by our intentions,” Montaigne had written.) He had not intended that Miss Mildred should die so that he would not have to fear her change of heart, but then he became afraid that Puppchen would have a change of heart about Bradley. (“He won't come back! He won't come back!”) He could not have her discontent come to the point of speech. What would Puppchen think if she asked him to leave Felix's house and he refused?

There was only one thing to do.

He went to the dean and requested a new assistant. “Poor Philip Scott!”

“Poor Phil Scott!”

“Poor Philip, but poor Hanno Dietrich if I try to do without help. I don't like to press you, but—” He told the dean how he had collapsed from overwork in New York City just before he came to Bradley. “I mustn't let that happen again.”

“Of course not! Good heavens, no!”

“My wife is becoming quite concerned.…”

“Naturally, naturally …”

“She comes to every rehearsal of the Christmas play, so frightened I'll overdo and get sick again. I particularly don't want her worried now. You understand what I mean—my dear wife is
enceinte.
”

“She certainly mustn't be worried at such a time—we'll do the best we can for Mrs. Dietrich.”

He had held as many rehearsals as he could manage. Sitting there, Puppchen could hold her little court while the girls from the local conservatory who played the female parts were ignored, but the students weren't enough and never had been. They were to giggle with, to flirt with, but she had always needed something more and he knew it. “So, if you will look into this as soon as possible …”

“My dear Hanno … Immediately. We value you far too much. We're so grateful for what you're doing for us.”

On the evenings when he had not been able to call a rehearsal—even the most ardent of drama students had other commitments, Puppchen had been a little—well, a little all dressed up and nowhere to go. It was all very well for Puppchen to believe she hated New York City, but it was the city as a rival attraction, as a rival to her attraction that she had disliked. After Thanksgiving, he could have used the city as a playground for Puppchen; in Bradley there was nothing.

He was very relieved, therefore, when he was notified that a new assistant had been found and would be there for the beginning of the next term. He told Puppchen the news at dinner and then asked her whether they should ask the new young man to come and see the Christmas play. “Shall we have a party, Puppchen? After the performance? Invite the cast and this new assistant?” He looked at the name. “Mr. Frank Ford?”

“Oh, yes, Hanno.”

“I will write Mr. Frank Ford tomorrow and invite him.”

“I will type the letter for you,” Puppchen had said, because he had no new secretary to replace Miss Mildred. (The school to which the lawyers had sent Puppchen had taught her typewriting.)

He remembered Puppchen on tiptoe, putting the Christmas-tree ornaments where he said they should go, Puppchen sucking her pricked finger from helping to make the swag of evergreens for over Felix's fireplace, then, on Christmas Eve, Puppchen in the “Portrait of a Lady” dress he had decided she should wear for the new assistant. (He had been afraid that it might remind her of putting on the Infanta dress for Philip Scott, but her pleasure had seemed unclouded.)

He remembered Puppchen in the van der Weyden Lady dress calling him from her room to say she was ready to be approved. He had pulled the stiff white organdy headdress so that it came just to the curve of her eyebrows. He had put a smear of green-blue shadow on the outer corner of her lids, thickened the mascara on the outer lashes, farther extended the line with pencil, and then wiped it off. She never even looked into the mirror to approve his finishing touches. What he said she should wear, she wore. What he put on her face, went. (He thought of Anni, agreeing that he did know better what to wear than she did, but insisting on her own wrong way, all the same. Anni!)

When the doorbell rang at six promptly, he had placed Puppchen dead center of the big room. He would go to the door by himself, he whispered to her. “Let him come on you gradually. Let you not overcome Mr. Frank Ford. It will be safer for him that way.”

Puppchen smiling and then grave, her head bent as in the portrait and her eyes cast down.

“Welcome, Mr. Ford, welcome!” He had waved the young man in toward Puppchen, but the young man, instead of stepping forward, had stepped back, and out of the darkness came a young woman, a bouncy, bosomy, blond young woman.