Father of the Bride Page 3

  Mr. Banks snorted. “That’s a fine remark, I must say. I intend to have a talk with him, all right. We might just as well have it out.”

  He sat on the edge of his bed radiating aggressiveness. Mrs. Banks thought he looked rather gray and tired.

  By the time he reached home that evening he had decided not to make a direct approach. No use scaring the boy to death. Instead he told Kay that he wanted to have a little talk with Buckley about finances. You know—what he was earning and all that sort of thing. As a sop to liberalism he indicated that he thought Buckley was entitled to know something about his affairs.

  Kay accepted this with irritating patience. She said O.K. if that was what he wanted. Buckley was big enough to take it. She knew what he was making and that should be all that was necessary, but if Pops wanted to go into all that old-fashioned rigamarole—O.K. She’d give Buckley the message.

  Several nights later Buckley arrived for dinner carrying a bulging briefcase. Mr. Banks eyed it dubiously. What did the fellow think he was—a C.P.A.? On the other hand, if he had enough papers to fill that thing, the picture might not be as grim as he had feared. Rather decent of the boy to take it so seriously.

  Mr. Banks had visualized a quiet, dignified conversation during which he would be seated in a large armchair and Buckley in a straight chair facing him. Instead he found himself sitting beside Buckley on the livingroom sofa making old-fashioneds.

  He finished his quickly. Somehow he felt the need of fortification. After a while Ben and Tommy drifted off on their own affairs and a few minutes later Mrs. Banks and Kay disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. It was Delilah’s night out. Mr. Banks was glad of this. Buckley would see that they were a quiet, simple family, well able to take care of itself, but not equipped to assume extra burdens.

  They were alone. The time had come. Mixing himself another old-fashioned, he plunged.

  “I guess Kay has told you,” he said, “that I wanted to have a little financial chat with you.” He thought this rather a footless opening in view of the briefcase resting at Buckley’s feet.

  Buckley continued to regard him like a family doctor.

  “Yes, sir,” said Buckley, reaching for the briefcase.

  Mr. Banks raised a delaying hand. “In the old days,” he continued, “fathers used to say to prospective sons-in-law, ‘Are you going to be able to support my daughter in the manner to which she’s accustomed?’ ” Unintentionally he gave a throaty laugh. Buckley did not even smile.

  “I know what you kids are up against, though, and I’ve got modern ideas about these things.” He stopped himself from adding, “although I may not look it.”

  Buckley nodded understandingly. He reminded Mr. Banks more and more of a family doctor paying a professional visit.

  “What I mean is I know what you young people are up against. You all need help and I believe parents should give it as far as they are able.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Buckley.

  “What I was going on to say,” continued Mr. Banks hurriedly, “is that parents are also up against it these days.”

  “They certainly are,” said Buckley.

  “You know what I mean—with high taxes and high prices and one thing and another.”

  Buckley nodded sympathetically.

  “The long and the short of it is I think you’re just as entitled to know where I stand as I am to know about you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Buckley, reaching for his briefcase.

  Mr. Banks hurried on. “So here’s what I propose. I’ll start out and tell you a little about my own setup. You and Kay ought to know just how much you can count on us for help in the pinches—and just how much you can’t. Then you can go into your financial picture. How about it, eh?”

  Buckley continued to regard him gravely.

  “What I mean is, we ought to know about each other,” added Mr. Banks.

  “Yes, sir,” said Buckley.

  Mr. Banks took a thoughtful drink. “I’ve often wished my father-in-law had sat down with me before Kay’s mother and I were married and told me more about himself. Young people are so apt to take things for granted and expect things that aren’t possible.”

  “That’s right,” said Buckley.

  Mr. Banks glanced at him quickly, but Buckley was fumbling with the catch on his briefcase.

  “Well, to begin with—” said Mr. Banks nervously.

  At the end of fifteen minutes Buckley knew more about Mr. Banks’ affairs than Mrs. Banks had been able to dig out in a lifetime. He listened with grave attention and nodded understandingly from time to time. Mr. Banks’ feeling that he was consulting his doctor became stronger as he went on. When he had finished if Buckley had pulled a stethoscope out of his briefcase and asked him to strip to the waist he would have complied without question. Instead Buckley removed a large sheaf of papers from the briefcase.

  “I’ve brought some papers,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “Soup’s on,” cried Mrs. Banks from the livingroom door, in her gayest company manner. “My, you two look solemn. Come now or it will get cold.”

  “That’s all right, my boy. We’ll do your side later.”

  • • •

  Kay jumped up from the table before they had finished dessert. “Come on, Buckley, we’re late. Sorry, Mom, we promised to meet the Bakers and go to the movies. Pops kept Buckley talking too long. You don’t mind if we skip the dishes do you?”

  “Of course not, dear. Run along.”

  • • •

  “Did you have a good talk with Buckley?” she asked as they cleared the dining-room table.

  “Very satisfactory,” said Mr. Banks moodily.

  4

  THE NEWS IS BROKEN

  It had been agreed that only a few intimate friends and members of the family were to be told before the engagement was formally announced in the papers. Kay said this involved a cocktail party for everyone but the relatives. She would write them when she had a chance.

  The news was too big, however. It was more than she could cope with. She told everyone she met—in absolute confidence, of course—with the result that in twenty-four hours the only ones who did not know were those who would be mortally hurt if not told first.

  Mr. Banks said that, under the circumstances, the cocktail party was about as necessary as a G. I.’s pajamas. Kay said that was ridiculous. She had only told a few people and they had promised to say nothing about it and everybody announced their engagement to their close friends at a cocktail party whether they knew about it already or not.

  And so it was that, a few days later, Mr. Banks came out from town on the three-fifty-seven, composing an informal and, he hoped, dryly humorous little speech. It was to be about Kay as a little girl, Kay growing up and finally, in a big surprise climax, Kay announcing her engagement.

  . . . Composing an informal and, he hoped, dryly humorous little speech.

  She had estimated that there would be between twenty-five and thirty people at the party. Experience had taught him that on this basis he could expect between thirty-five and fifty. In the pantry he stared with a sinking heart at the neatly arranged phalanxes of glasses that Mrs. Banks had borrowed during the day from unwilling friends. Clearly he hadn’t thought this thing through. How was any one man to make drinks for a crowd like that? It would take a trained octopus.

  However, this was no time for panic. Decisive action was called for. Martinis for everybody. That would be simplest. With perhaps just a few old-fashioneds ready for those allergic to gin. He pulled two large pitchers from a cupboard and went to work.

  Mr. Banks was a hospitable man and in many ways a generous one. There were limits, however. He groaned with pain as he listened to one bottle after another of his best gurgle its lifeblood into the pitchers. But when it was all done and he stood back to inspect the result, he realized that it had been a labor of love. He cherished a special fondness for these kids who had been running through his house for twen
ty years and whose names he could no longer remember now that they had suddenly grown up.

  The early ones were arriving. He could hear the high-pitched entrance screams of the females. He wiped his hands on a dishcloth and was about to go out and greet them when the pantry door was blocked by a rosy-cheeked young man with a disarming smile.

  “How are you, sir?”

  “I’m fine, how are you?” said Mr. Banks, trying to remember where he had seen him before. “Are they starting in already?”

  “That’s it, sir. I was wondering if I could have four old-fashioneds.”

  “No martinis?” suggested Mr. Banks.

  “Oh, no indeed, sir. That’s very kind of you. Just old-fashioneds.”

  Mr. Banks filled four of his emergency glasses with ice cubes and pushed them down the pantry shelf. “Thank you, sir. That’s service,” said the young man. His place was immediately taken by a stout youth with horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Sir, four old-fashioneds and one scotch and soda.”

  “I haven’t any scotch,” said Mr. Banks. He hoped that his voice did not betray the fact that he had just hidden three bottles in the end cupboard behind Mrs. Banks’ flower vases.

  The stout young man looked nonplused. He was silent for a moment as he considered this unexpected situation from every angle.

  “I don’t know, sir. I guess bourbon and soda will do.”

  Mr. Banks, irritated by a sense of guilt, poured a highball from a bottle labeled “Whiskey—A Blend.” “Wouldn’t those people like martinis?” he asked.

  The stout young man looked nonplused.

  “Oh no, sir. This is plenty.”

  The doorway was now filled with young men who observed him gravely. “Sir, four old-fashioneds, no garbage in two, if you know what I mean. One on the rocks and one with a dash of sugar and no bitters.”

  “Good God,” said Mr. Banks, “do they think I’m filling out prescriptions in here?”

  A tall young man with a long neck peered around the frame of the door. “Good evening, sir,” he said cordially. “Looks as if it was going to be a nice party.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” said Mr. Banks testily. “What would you like? Half a dozen frozen daiquiris?”

  “Oh no, sir. Just a couple of martinis.”

  Mr. Banks stared at him delightedly. “You mean martinis?”

  “Yes, sir. Can I help you, sir? It’ll speed things up a bit.”

  “No thank you,” said Mr. Banks grimly. “I enjoy doing this. It’s my hobby.”

  For half an hour he sloshed around frantically, trying to keep up with the demand. Then there was a sudden lull in business. “To hell with it,” he muttered. Mopping his suit off as best he could, he took a martini and made for the living room, from which there now came a steady roar, like the beating of surf on rocks.

  He shouldered his way into the room. Except for a few absentminded smiles, no one paid the least attention to him. He found himself a bit of standing room in the corner by the bookcases. An intellectual type with black bangs and lovely eyes appeared before him.

  “You look like a nice sort of person,” she said. “Do you mind if I talk to you? I’m visiting and I don’t know anyone.”

  “Neither do I,” said Mr. Banks.

  “These things can be pretty grim rat races if you don’t know anybody,” she said sympathetically. “I like to study types, though. Don’t you?”

  “It’s a passion with me,” said Mr. Banks. “Have you located any?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “At a party like this it’s a cinch. Now, for instance, there are just two female types here—those who are married and the still unasked. You can spot them a mile off.”

  “How?” asked Mr. Banks.

  “Oh, it’s the way they’re enthusiastic about the news,” she said. “You see, with the married ones it’s more relief than enthusiasm. You know. Like the way you feel when somebody you’re fond of, that’s sort of backward, passes an exam.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Banks.

  “And those who are still among the unasked are full of beans in that fine old Playing-Fields-of-Eaton sort of way. You know. You’re a better man than I am Gunga Din and pip pip.”

  “I think you’ve got something there,” said Mr. Banks.

  At this moment they were caught in an eddy that swept the black-banged girl out of sight. Mr. Banks found himself in a group which was being addressed with gestures by the stout young man with bone glasses.

  “Oh, Mr. Banks. Joe’s telling us a story. It’s a scream. Start it again for Mr. Banks, Joe.”

  “Well, it’s a very old story, sir. I’m sure you’ve heard it. It’s about a caliph’s daughter.” This struck the girl beside Mr. Banks as excruciating. She began to giggle hysterically. “It seems that many years ago in Persia there was a caliph who had a beautiful daughter. Have you heard this, sir? Well, one day a traveling salesman—”

  “Stanley, where have you been? Doris and Herbert are here.” It was Mrs. Banks.

  “Doris and Herbert who?” he asked.

  “Well, well, well. Glad to see you, Stanley,” boomed Mr. Dunstan. “Sorry to be so late. We got lost. Doris always insists—”

  “Now go and get Doris and Herb something to drink,” said Mrs. Banks.

  “Would you like a martini?” asked Mr. Banks hopefully.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Stan, we’ll take old-fashioneds. Can’t I help you?”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Banks. “It won’t take a second.”

  No one paid the least attention to him.

  He didn’t get back to the pantry a minute too soon. A group of thirst-crazed young men were just about to take the matter of service into their own hands. He sent the drinks out to the Dunstans and for the next hour he worked like a dike mender. The only compensation was that the guests now seemed less fussy about what they got. The roar from the living room sounded like a mob scene in a Cecil B. de Mille superspectacle.

  Then the crowd began to thin. The roar subsided. He could hear the die-hards gathering in the front hall for a final stand. Mr. Banks closed down his dispensary and rejoined the remnants, outwardly a genial host, but at heart a professional bouncer.

  “You’re a help,” said Mrs. Banks. “Good-by, dear. You were sweet to come.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing? Playing pool?”

  “I know. But why must you always leave the whole thing on my shoulders? Good-by, Helen dear. You look sweet in that hat.”

  He considered the first part of her remark as unjust as the last was untrue. “Where are the Dunstans?”

  “They’re all right. They’re talking to Uncle Charlie or vice versa. Good-by, Sam. Glad you could come.”

  He found himself facing a blond young woman with big deer-like eyes. To his dismay she suddenly burst into tears. She was sorry, she sniffled, but this sort of thing did something to her. The thought occurred to Mr. Banks that it usually did if you took enough of it. He turned to help a highly pregnant young woman into her coat.

  She was joined immediately by the young man with horn-rimmed glasses who appeared to be her husband. “Hi, hi,” he said. “What’s going on here? What’s the idea? Who’s leaving? Party’s just warming up.” He raised his glass to Mr. Banks, who noted with dismay that it was a fresh one. “Sir, the best party ever. And that reminds me, you never heard the end of that story. It was about the caliph’s daughter. Remember? Well it seems a traveling salesman came to the palace. O.K., June, we’ll be on our way in a minute. I just want to tell Mr. Banks something. Well, as I say, this salesman came to the palace and he fell in love with the caliph’s daughter. Have you heard this one, sir?”

  A carefully manicured hand plucked his sleeve. “Mr. Banks. Please. I’ve lost an earring and Grace can’t find her gold compact and we’re absolutely sick about it. We’ve looked everywhere. It’s very peculiar.”

  Something in her voice gave Mr. Banks the feeling that he was under suspicion. Then he saw Mrs. Ba
nks cornered underneath the curve of the stairs by a blond giant. She had her distress signals flying.

  “Don’t give it a thought,” he said, patting the manicured hand. “We’ll find everything later—after you’ve gone,” he added hastily. The blond giant was explaining to Mrs. Banks how lucky any man would be to have her for a mother-in-law. Mrs. Banks was obviously lapping it up like a kitten. Yet she had called for help. Queer things, women, mused Mr. Banks, as he moved in.

  Like an old cattleman cutting calves from the herd, he disentangled his guests one by one and propelled them through the front door with such light-handed skill that they were unaware of his treachery until they found themselves in the open air.

  The young man with the bone glasses was still working on the story about the caliph’s daughter. His audience had shrunk to his pregnant wife and Mrs. Banks, both of whom seemed to have an allergy for Oriental folklore. Placing a fatherly arm about his shoulder, Mr. Banks removed the glass from his cramped fingers.

  “Good night,” he purred. “Good night, my boy. You were both swell to come.” As the door closed after them he instinctively placed his back against it. With a sick heart he surveyed the wreckage of what had once been his home. It occurred to him that he had forgotten to announce the engagement.

  Somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

  5

  THE FAT IS IN THE FIRE

  The only step remaining to make the whole thing irretrievable was the announcement of the engagement in the papers.

  Mrs. Banks considered the wording of the notice of vital importance. Her brother, Uncle Charlie, had worked on a Chicago newspaper for several weeks when he was a boy. Since then he had been regarded as an authority on all matters concerning the press. He was now called in as a consultant.

  Uncle Charlie said it didn’t make a damn bit of difference how you wrote the notice. The Society Editor would hand your copy to the office boy, who would bitch the whole thing up anyhow.