The Dinner Party (3 page)

“No! The lamb will be here in an hour. Put it to marinate as soon as it comes.” And then, ashamed of the sharpness of her response, she hugged Ellen and said, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I guess this is my bitch morning.”

“No, no, not at all. You always get a little up tight when your folks come.”

“It is not my folks,” Dolly said, breathing deeply, “it's the whole weird business of this dinner party tonight, and then on top of it this silly charade of changing the meat. Did I tell you who's coming?”

Ellen shook her head. Dolly treated her sometimes like a sister and sometimes like a servant; it made her subject to intimacies she did not seek and frequently did not welcome, yet there was the pleasure of being leaned on and depended on. Ellen was a giving woman; giving enriched her; and in her own way, she loved Dolly as much as a black woman could love a white woman who was her employer. But always there was that nugget of ice that forms in the craw of an intelligent poor person listening to the “sufferings” of the rich.

“Well, if it's not distinguished, it's important. We're having Webster Heller, Mr. Secretary of State, and that idiot wife of his, Frances, and we're having Bill Justin, Heller's assistant, and add to that Pop and Mom, whom the White House hit squad desires to see, and which is no reason for them to enter the enemy camp, unless Richard has decided that he's no longer their enemy. And Bill Justin is bringing wife Winifred, who is a malignant brilliant cat in human form—they say she runs the man—and of course Pop will insist that both kids be at the dinner table, and you know my father.”

“I certainly do,” Ellen replied. “But you mentioned yesterday that there would be ten at the table. That's no problem.”

“Or eleven?”

“Oh? But that ain't a problem either. That's a big table. When Mac puts in the three boards, it sits sixteen comfortably.”

“When they're people,” Dolly agreed. “But I'm not sure at this point that politicians are people, and this number eleven is a friend of Leonard's from Harvard, a brilliant young man, they tell me, and his name is Clarence Jones and he just happens to be black.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, you can say that again.”

“Does the senator know?”

“I don't think so. They came in at about ten, exhausted. You had gone to bed and Richard was not home yet. We put him in the middle guest room. Any sound from there?”

“Not yet.”

“They're probably sleeping late. Hope so. Where's my husband?”

“Breakfast on the terrace.”

“There I am bound. Just toast, cottage cheese, and a cup of coffee.”

FOUR

R
ichard Cromwell, already at the breakfast table on the terrace, hunkered over a plate of six small sausages and three eggs, the eggs fried sunny-side up, crisp edges, just the way he liked them, and with this he had toast and imported ginger marmalade. Dolly was constantly amazed at the amount of food he consumed, three large meals, dessert, rich pies and puddings—all in open contempt of the recent nutritional discoveries, which in private he would refer to as “cult junk.” He supported the beef industry, which, he felt, had been cruelly damaged by “unproven” propaganda against red meat, “the guts and strength of America,” as he had once put it. With all of this, he was not fat but well built, tall enough to carry thirty extra pounds without showing it, and as yet undamaged by his diet. For a while, years before, Dolly had tried to change his eating habits, but that only served to annoy him and make their relationship a little worse than it had been; whereupon she simply gave it up and provided him with the foods he cherished. This was no great imposition on the household, since even during summer days when Congress was not in session, the senator ate few meals at home. Occasionally, Dolly felt that she was watching a slow but determined suicide.

Today, as she joined her husband, carrying her plate of dry toast, she made no comment about his breakfast, and by a hard hammered-out agreement, he did not mention her toast. The senator felt good, open armed, so to speak, filled with the beauty of this part of the world, the low, swelling hills, the green meadows, the song of birds and the hum of insects—and the curious sense of virtue and righteousness that comes to runners, the feeling that God and the world has lifted the mantle of guilt that hangs like a sweaty blanket on most decent people. He put it into words:

“Morning, Dolly. Isn't this just one remarkable son of a bitch of a morning?”

“You might say that.” She gave him twenty seconds or so to think of pouring her a cup of coffee, and then did it herself. Understandable; Richard was filled with himself. His manners were not his weak point. His father had been an underpaid bank teller, and early on Richard had been taught to rise when a woman entered the room, and to cut his meat with his right hand and then switch to his fork. His mother had been Irish, born there and come to America from Belfast as a small child, and where his constituents were Irish, Richard could put on a mellow brogue and beg that if his sainted mother had been forgiving enough to marry a man called Cromwell, surely his voters could see their way to voting for him. For his mother, manners were strong evidence that she had not succumbed to the bitterness of poverty, and if she had seen her son ignore his wife's need in this manner, she would have been furious.

Dolly was less than furious—indeed, she was not bothered at all. If her relationship with her husband puzzled her friends, it puzzled her equally; but today there would be no time for introspection, too much to do. Having poured her coffee and sipped it, Dolly said, “Richard, what possessed you to cancel my meat order and substitute fresh ham?” She was not hostile, but utterly intrigued. “I never suspected that you knew we had a kitchen, much less a butcher. How on earth did you find out who our butcher was?”

“I asked Ellen.”

Mock humility. “I am silly. Of course you asked Ellen. And I suppose the mystery of the meat is just as simple?”

“Oh, absolutely. You're not angry, are you?”

“Suppose you explain.”

“Simple,” the senator assured her. “Just think of the fact that Webster Heller, the secretary of state, is dining with us tonight. First time. Well, that's not important—what is important is his desire to see your father, and that must be damn important or he wouldn't drag his assistant for Central America with him. On the other hand, it's my house that makes the connection, our dinner table, and whatever it has to do with your father, it's equally important to me.”

“For heaven's sake, Richard, they're not our party. If one wanted to be overdramatic, one could call them the enemy. They are guests who want to harangue Daddy. They will be greeted with hospitality. They will be given as good a dinner as this house can provide. But there my responsibility ends. And I still don't know why you bought that damned ham.”

“Will you listen? Will you listen one moment. I am coming up for reelection, and that will put me in the position to have at least one dim shot at the Oval Office. I've dreamed about that long enough, but there's one issue that's very important to me. If I bring it up in the House, it will mark me too left. I need the center for the election.”

“Why on earth should you even think that the election is in question? You're finishing a second term in this state. It's our state.”
Ours
. In what way, she wondered, even as she spoke? What does
ours
mean anymore? Sitting in the sunken, brick-floored terrace, the clipped hedges enclosing things so neatly and precisely, the terrace, beyond the hedges the herb garden, with its careful patches of basil and dill and chives and mint and thyme and parsley, the big Colonial house, one small corner of which was two hundred years old, she realized that the world was not this—no longer this, no longer even aware of this.

“Oh, no,” Richard said. “Not so quick. You've heard of targeting. These bastards have all the money in the world, and they use it. They pick a senator they want to destroy, and they target him. They drown him in television commercials, they dig up his past and if he doesn't have a past, they create one. Well, I don't want it to be Richard Cromwell.”

“And you're going to tame the beast tonight?” she asked, smiling.

“Maybe. Maybe neutralize him a little bit …”

“How? Good heavens, how?”

“Appeal to compassion. Anyway, I didn't invite them here—I mean it wasn't my gesture. Bill Justin—”

That pissant, Dolly thought. She found it difficult to voice crude language, as much as it was the manner today, and even the name of the assistant secretary rubbed her nerves as a coin scraped on glass.

“—well, Bill Justin called Joan and mentioned that Webster Heller was staying at his home for a week or so, and that—”

“I know how he happens to come here.”

“But you see, Dolly, it makes a connection. I might even say a basis for quid pro quo now exists. They want something damned important from your daddy. I want a small but important favor from them. It's an opportunity for me, and I need it.”

“Well, be that as it may, I have a dinner party to prepare for, and I want to know why on earth you ordered the ham?”

“It's Webster Heller. He's crazy about fresh roasted pork, and I remembered that a couple of months ago I overheard one of his assistants telling someone how much Heller liked fresh roast ham, and how it was these days that you never see a fresh roast ham, only the smoked and the boiled; you know, you're standing around on the Hill, and you overhear something. You're not listening, you just overhear it, and I thought to myself what a neat ploy to just happen to serve Heller with his favorite meat. You know, nothing earthshaking but one of those small touches that goes right to a man's heart.”

“The small touch is fourteen pounds—”

“I know I should have spoken to you, but you weren't around, and—”

“And the brilliance of your notion overwhelmed you, and you acted.”

“Hey, are you angry?”

“Not a bit. I just tore into town, practically got Schiller out of bed, and then like a true idiot had to lug the ham back with me. However I did order the meat I had planned to serve and thank heavens he had it.”

“You mean that damn filleted lamb.”

“Just about the most delicious meat money can buy.”

“Dolly,” the senator said, “before we get into a real squabble, tell me why you won't serve the ham? Does it louse up your menu?” His question was plaintive, and when he was plaintive, with just the edge of a whine in his voice, she pitied him. It was a side he revealed to no one else, a small boy in a large, confusing world, where he just happened to be a member of the most important club in the world; or at least this was Dolly's measure of her husband, and with it went a suspicion that more than one member of the United States Congress built the same façade of knowledge and power over inner fear and stumblings that were not unlike the reactions of a small boy.

“My father and mother are coming,” she said gently. “They are Jewish. You may have noticed, I have never served ham to a Jew at my dinner table.”

“What!” His exclamation was so intense that Dolly burst out laughing. Now Richard was angry and indignant. “You're telling me that in the past twenty-three years, in which time we sat at the dinner table with maybe five, six hundred, maybe a thousand Jews, you never served ham?”

“No, I never did. And you never noticed.”

“Why? I never knew a Jew who didn't eat ham.”

“You might have,” she said quietly. “You don't know, really.”

“Are you talking about those dietary laws? Dolly, I don't think you even know what Jewish dietary laws are.”

“Richard, it's not a matter of the dietary laws. It's a matter of a decent respect for what might or might not be your guests' preference—without prying into their belief.”

“But it's your father and mother.”

“Exactly.”

“But, Dolly, I just happen to know what their beliefs are. I've had lunch and dinner too at your father's club and at mine, and I've seen him eat ham and bacon.”

“That was not my house.”

“Dolly, your mother is not Jewish; as far as I know, you never set foot in a synagogue, and now you're throwing this Jewish thing at me.” Grimly serious, he said, “Don't ever throw this kind of thing at me. I have faults. Anti-Semitism is not one of them.”

“I wish you could understand.”

“Oh, the hell with it …” And then his voice trailed away. Around the back of the house and toward the swimming pool, in their bathing suits, three people appeared, two young men and a young woman, and one of the young men was black.

“Who is that?” he asked blankly.

“The black kid?”

“I know who the others are.”

“Well, that young man's name is Clarence Jones. He's a student at Harvard and a close friend of Leonard's. He's there on scholarship—not one of those special preference things, but the old-fashioned kind that you win by having more brains than the other kids.”