People Like Us (43 page)

Elias unlocked the door that connected the small room with the pool room beyond, and, together, the two middle-aged men carried the body of Ormonde Van Degan from one room to the other.

“Lift him up on the pool table,” said Lord Biedermeier, sweating.

“That’s an antique,” said Elias. “That pool table belonged to Edward the Seventh.”

“Put the carpet on the table, and we’ll lay him on the carpet,” said Lord Biedermeier. “And turn up the air conditioner.”

“And lock the door,” said Elias.

At that moment there was a knock on the door. The two men looked at each other, and Elias signaled to Lord Biedermeier not to reply.

Again there was a knock on the door.

“Elias,” said Gus from the other side of the door. “Ruby wanted me to tell you that the First Lady is arriving and wants you to meet her at the front door.”

“Holy shit,” whispered Elias.

“We better get out of here,” said Lord Biedermeier.

“Stinks in here,” said Elias.

When Elias and Ruby Renthal reentered their ballroom with the First Lady between them, amid musical flourishes from the society dance band, their four hundred guests rose to applaud. What each knew, even those, like Lil Altemus, who found it difficult to accept any of the New People, was that he or she was at the most important party being given in the country, or possibly the world, that evening, and that each was a part of it. The Renthals, whom no one had even heard of only a
short time ago, had pulled off the social feat of the decade.

When the orchestra played “The First Lady Waltz,” which Ruby had had specially written for the occasion, Elias took the wife of the President to the dance floor.

“So pretty,” said the First Lady, looking about as she danced, at the weeping willow trees, and the orchids and tulips and lilies that filled the room.

“Just wait,” said Elias, as he twirled her around. “More to come.”

Nearby Mickie Minardos danced with Loelia Manchester, and not a soul who saw them could deny that they were in love. Nowhere was Mickie more at home than on a dance floor, and Loelia seemed to float in the air as she followed every intricate step he led her through. Loelia had never seen Mickie happier, receiving compliments from every direction on the beauty of his artistic designs.

“Is everything ready with the butterflies?” Loelia whispered in his ear.

“At twelve sharp,” whispered Mickie back.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“Hidden in the clouds,” he said. She looked up and saw the billowing clouds made of tulle and silk that swung back and forth on wires from the ceiling.

“You’re a genius, Mickie,” said Loelia.

Just then Ezzie Fenwick cut in on the lovers, and Mickie excused himself to see that his team of workers were at their stations to carry off the job when the hour came.

Although he was stout, Ezzie Fenwick was a superb dancer, and his little feet, encased in black patent-leather pumps with black grosgrain ribbons, could pick up the rhythm of whatever kind of music was played and twirl the prettiest ladies in New York, and very few were as pretty as Loelia Manchester, around the dance floor. When Loelia whispered to Ezzie during their dance, and made him promise not to repeat it to anyone, that the First Lady had been warned not to attend
the Renthals’ ball because Elias was under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission for financial malfeasance, Ezzie, a consummate actor, hooted with laughter and pretended to consider the matter just as absurd as Loelia considered it. But, at the same time, he had to admit, while not missing a samba beat, that Elias Renthal had accumulated one of the greatest fortunes in America in record time, and the White House would not willy-nilly give the First Lady such a warning unless there were some cause for concern. Although he enjoyed a reputation as a secret keeper, Ezzie Fenwick had never, ever, in his whole life, been able to keep a secret.

“And you know, darling Ezzie, when Ruby asked Mickie to design her ball, Mickie’s first thought was, you guessed it, butterflies, and he said—”

Ezzie’s need to repeat the news that he had just sworn never to repeat was so strong that he ceased to hear Loelia, to whom he usually listened avidly, going on and on about Mickie’s accomplishments, a subject on which she was becoming quite boring, Ezzie felt. His nimble feet, so alert to all the latest dance steps, felt suddenly clodlike, his need to escape the dance floor and repeat Loelia’s news was so great, even though he knew, from firsthand experience on such matters, that the person he found to repeat it to would swear to him never to repeat it, just as he had sworn to Loelia never to repeat it, and then not be able to contain himself from telling just one person, and that person would tell just one other person, and soon everyone would know that Elias Renthal was under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission, even while they were supping on his lobster and sipping his champagne.

“What a dancer you are, Loelia!” he cried. “I’m exhausted!”

Loelia laughed, and they left the dance floor hand in hand.

“That conversation was just between us, Ezzie,” said Loelia.

“Oh, darling, my lips are sealed,” said Ezzie.

At that moment Dolly De Longpre walked by. “Hello, Ezzie, darling,” said Dolly. “Isn’t this all too magical?”

“It’s De Lightful, it’s De Licious, it’s De Longpre,” sang Ezzie, twirling Dolly around, at the same time wondering if Dolly, to whom he sometimes told bits of gossip for her column, should be the recipient of his news.

“Oh, Ezzie, you’re mad!” screamed Dolly, thrilled with his attention. “Help me, Ezzie. You’re so good at these things. Exactly what color would you call the First Lady’s dress?”

“Magenta,” answered Ezzie.

“Magenta. Absolutely. I couldn’t think of the word. I’m counting on you to call me in the morning, Ezzie,” she whispered to him. “You always remember what everyone wore and who sat next to whom.”

“Say, Dolly,” Ezzie said in a confiding voice, so ecstatic with the treasure trove within him that he couldn’t wait until morning to fill her in. Just then he looked up and saw Florian Gray, Dolly’s young rival. Ezzie realized that Florian Gray, still making his name, would run with such a rumor, while Dolly, dear Dolly, everybody’s friend, would cry, “Nonsense!” and dismiss the ugly tale out of hand, or, worse, would first call the White House to check out the story, or even, horrors, ask the First Lady herself if it was true, in a good-hearted effort to show that it wasn’t.

Dolly turned to see who Ezzie was looking at and saw Florian Gray retreating toward the men’s room. With a dismissive shake of her head, she said, “I can’t imagine why Elias and Ruby asked him.”

“Oh, Dolly, he’s not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment,” said Ezzie.

Wishing to talk with Florian Gray, but not wishing to be seen talking to him, especially by Dolly, Ezzie spoke hurriedly to him in the men’s room and arranged
a rendezvous in a small room on the second floor that was used for cigar smoking and poker playing.

When he entered the room ten minutes later, Ezzie found Florian already there waiting for him.

“Stinks in here,” said Florian.

“Cigars, probably,” said Ezzie.

“Let me open this window.”

“You mustn’t say that you learned this from me,” said Ezzie in a lowered voice, although there was no one but the two of them in the small room.

“Yes?” said Florian, eagerly. The sheer beauty of the notion that Ezzie Fenwick, the clandestine supplier of society news to Dolly De Longpre, should be giving him what could only be a hot story was not lost on the youthful professional gossipist.

And then, as if thinking better of his rash act, Ezzie hesitated, but Florian prompted him on.

“You don’t mean about the workman who was killed raising up the weeping willow trees, do you?” asked Florian.

“No, no, I didn’t know that,” said Ezzie.

“What then?” persisted Florian.

“Oh, listen, the waltzes are starting,” said Ezzie, again regretting that he was here with Florian. “I specifically asked Ruby to set aside twenty minutes for waltzing, and she remembered, with all she has to remember. Marvelous woman, isn’t she? I’ll arrange for us to meet later.”

Florian understood that Ezzie was having second thoughts about revealing whatever it was he was going to reveal and knew that, once lost, the moment would never be reinstated.

“You mean about someone having a heart attack?” asked Florian.

“Someone had a heart attack? Here at the party? No, I didn’t know that. Who?” asked Ezzie.

“I haven’t found out yet,” said Florian.

“I must get back, really. They’re going to release the butterflies, thousands of them, all yellow and orange, on the stroke of midnight. They’ve been flown here from Chile. We can’t miss that.”

“Tell me, Ezzie,” insisted Florian.

“They’re going to indict Elias Renthal for trading on insider information,” whispered Ezzie, drawing closer to Florian to indicate the confidentiality of his information.

“No!” said Florian, eyes wide, knowing a scoop, a scoop of scoops, was coming his way, more important by far than yellow and orange butterflies flown up that day from Chile, the kind of scoop that might be frontpage news, superseding not only his own column but the financial page of his newspaper as well.

At that moment the door of the small room opened, and Lil Altemus walked in, with Dodo Fitz Alyn Van Degan, looking for Ormonde Van Degan, whom they both felt certain would want to see the release of the butterflies before they took him home to bed. As if caught out in something nefarious, Ezzie and Florian leaped back from each other, blushing.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Lil, with great ceremony.

“Quite all right,” said Ezzie. “I was just giving this young man the names of the out-of-town guests he doesn’t know.”

“Yes, of course,” said Dodo, with a wink.

“You haven’t seen my father, have you, Ezzie?” asked Lil.

“He came up here for a cigar over an hour ago, and we can’t find him,” said Dodo.

“I haven’t seen him,” said Ezzie.

“Nor I,” said Florian.

“What’s in that room?” asked Lil.

“Where the pool table is,” said Ezzie. “Apparently it’s off bounds tonight. Elias didn’t want anyone putting drinks on it. Old felt, or something.”

“It’s locked,” said Dodo, who was trying the door.

“He must be in there. There’s not another room in the house we haven’t checked,” said Lil. “Look in the keyhole, Dodo.”

Dodo knelt down on the floor and squinted one eye, while placing the other next to the keyhole.

“Look! He’s asleep, right on the pool table. It’s too
sweet,” she said, with musical intonations in her voice, like a bird cooing. “Look, Lil, at your father.”

“I’m going down to see the butterflies,” said Ezzie.

“Me too,” said Florian.

“Let me look, Dodo,” said Lil, kneeling down to peek through the keyhole.”

By now all four hundred guests had heard about the ten thousand butterflies, yellow and orange, just arrived that day from Chile, that were going to be let loose at midnight during the waltzes to flutter about hither and yon in the bowers of flowers and weeping willow trees. Those nondancers who had been sitting out the evening in the drawing room and library in conversation, gossip, or cards, preferring the soothing strains of gypsy violins to the strident beat of society dance music, now descended the stairs into the ballroom, like New Year’s Eve revelers awaiting the countdown until midnight.

Mickie Minardos, with Loelia Manchester by his side, issued last-minute instructions to his staff. Ruby and Elias, with the First Lady, the Earl and Countess of Castoria, and Faye Converse, grouped together in a trellised gazebo. Waiters in green jackets, designed by Mickie to blend with the flora, raced about replenishing champagne. Ezzie Fenwick was back on the dance floor, whirling Adele Harcourt about. Laurance Van Degan was dancing with Janet. The band played society music. Excitement was high.

The ballroom lights dimmed, and the partygoers gasped at the beauty as the regular lighting was replaced by pink-and-turquoise fluorescent light, giving the illusion of total fantasy. Then, with a pull of a golden rope, the clouds above burst open, and butterflies, thousands of butterflies, descended from the ceiling of the ballroom, fluttering here, fluttering there.

“Oh, heaven!”

“Divine!”

“Spectacular!”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” cried
Ruby Renthal. Ruby reached out and took hold of Elias’s hand, and he, in turn, clasped his hand over hers. They looked at each other and knew that they had made it, as they always knew they would, but beyond their wildest dreams.

“Too marvelous for words,” said the Countess of Castoria.

“Oh, look,” said the First Lady, clapping her hands in delight.

Ezzie Fenwick, who knew beauty when he saw beauty, had tears in his eyes. “Divoon,” he said.

People raced for the dance floor. Everyone wanted to dance. Abandon was the order of the night, as couples gave themselves over to the music and beauty of the Renthals’ ball. The dance floor was full when the first scream came, from Rochelle Prud’homme, followed by screams from Matilda Clarke and Violet Bastedo, as the ten thousand butterflies, yellow and orange, flown up from Chile only that day, began dropping to their deaths, having been fried by the pink-and-turquoise fluorescent lights. Secret Service men rushed in past the dancers, who were now wiping dead butterflies from their hair and backs and shoulders, to rescue the First Lady before total pandemonium broke out.

“The
odor!
” cried Ezzie, waving his hand in front of his nose like a fan, as the dying butterflies kept descending.

“Turn out those fucking fluorescent lights!” screamed Elias.

“Don’t say
fucking
, Elias,” whispered an agitated Ruby into her husband’s ear.

Mickie, nervous sweat pouring off his brow, pulled the switch that turned off the pink-and-turquoise fluorescent lights, and the ballroom was plunged into total darkness. Fernanda Somerset screamed. On the crowded stairway, an enormously fat Albanian princess fainted and, falling, knocked over several people.