Complete Stories - Dorothy Parker Part 32

"My dear, let's not go into the beautiful love life of the Linehams." Thelma said. "We're supposed to be thinking up things for the other side to guess."

"Well, I never saw anything like it," Mrs. McDermott said. "I actually feel we're all b.u.t.ting in on them. We ought to leave them alone."

"Really?" Thelma said. "Let's see, what were we doing?" She wrote "Billion Dollar Baby" on a slip of paper and folded it.

There came shouts from the other room. "Hey, what are you doing in there? We've been ready for hours."

Mrs. McDermott called back, "All right, all right, just another minute."

"We are taking much too long," Thelma said. "We haven't any quotations, have we? What was that thing from Hamlet? 'Too much of water hast thou . . .' Oh, yes." She began to write.

"You're not going to use that one, are you?" Mrs. McDermott said.

"I'm just putting it down in case we can't think of anything else," Thelma said.

"Everything I've thought of is wrong," Mrs. Bain said. "You can't mention water, you can't mention rich girls, you can't mention second marriages. What can you do?"

"Oh, here's one," Thelma said. "More Shakespeare." She wrote hurriedly.

There were renewed shouts from the other room.

"Oh, bless you, Thelma," Mrs. McDermott said. "What is it?"

"I'll tell you when we get in there," Thelma said. She raised her voice and called, "We're coming."

They went into the other room where the opposing team awaited them, looking patient. Their group too had had certain difficulties in making their selections. Sherm had had a bit of Mrs. Bain's compulsion trouble. He had urged that they choose the song "Don't You Remember Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?" and sought to advance his cause by singing it over and over. Nervously quelled by Mr. McDermott, he then suggested "Asleep in the Deep," and finding no enthusiasm went on to "Roll Out the Barrel." It was then that Emmy had replenished his drink for him.

The captains exchanged papers, and the teams sat down facing each other. When Sherm was a player, it was understood that his side was to take precedence. More, it was accepted that Sherm was to be the opening actor. It was imperative that he perform his solo before he fell asleep.

Sherm, happy and confident, drew a folded slip of paper, faced his team, and bowed so low that helpful hands were outstretched toward him and solicitous voices cried, "Whoo-oo-ps!" He regained his balance and, at the word "Go" from his chieftain, unfolded the slip. He accomplished this one-handed, for his other hand was curled about his gla.s.s. He read what was written on the paper, and went into his act.

After some time, his team gathered that he was attempting to convey the idea that he was to interpret a song. He did this by opening his mouth and pulling something invisible, possibly music, out of it. Then inspiration came to him; he went through a pantomime as if he were lathering his face and sc.r.a.ping his beard. It was difficult, however, for his comrades to divine his purpose, as the hand that held the gla.s.s obscured what the other hand was doing. They sat with their elbows on their knees and their chins in their hands, watching with varying degrees of frustration, until Mr. Bain, the timekeeper, called gaily, "All right, Sherm. Time's up!"

"What's the matter with you?" Sherm inquired in a hurt voice. "You all asleep or something?" He turned to the enemy for support. "It was perfectly clear what I was doing, wasn't it?" he said. "First I acted 'song,' and then I acted the name of it. Besides, it wasn't fair, anyhow."

"Certainly it's fair," Mr. Bain said. "It's 'Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba, Chi-Wawa. ' Every kid in the street sings it. Only what in heaven's name were you doing to your face?"

"That was shaving," Sherm said with dignity. "I was a barber."

Cries of derision arose from all over the room. Sherm retired moodily to the liquor tray.

Mrs. McDermott volunteered to go first for her side. She opened her paper, gave the conventional blank look to the opposition, indicated that she was going to do an excerpt from a poem. In a matter of seconds her side guessed that the selection was: " 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe."

This speed was due less to Mrs. McDermott's dramatic gifts-although she did gyre and gimble quite acceptably-than to the fact that a bit of the "Jabberwocky" is an almost inevitable part of any session of The Game. The contestants are always ready and waiting for it.

"Wonderful, wonderful," Sherm p.r.o.nounced bitterly. "I never draw a pushover like 'slithy toves.' Oh, no, I have to get 'Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba, Chi-Wawa'!"

Then Mr. McDermott got up, weighted with the responsibility of retrieving the honor of his team. He read his directions, gave the accepted sign, indicating he was to perform a t.i.tle of a play, that it was in three words, and it was his intention to do the last word first. He folded his arms and rocked them gently.

"Belly-ache," Sherm said.

The others of the team fired guesses at Mr. McDermott.

" 'Lullaby'? Is it 'lullaby'?"

" 'Child'? 'Infant'? 'Baby'? . . . It's something something baby!"

Mr. McDermott giddy with his quick success threw precedent to the winds and essayed to do two words at once. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over his fingers. n.o.body guessed that this was a symbol for money. n.o.body guessed anything. Mr. McDermott sought to make matters plainer by moistening his thumb and moving it rapidly across the palm of his other hand in imitation of one who counts bank notes.

" 'Money'? Is it 'money'?"

Mr. McDermott stopped just short of paroxysms in pantomiming to his comrades that they were warm.

"No, it can't be 'money.' How can it be 'money'? It's got 'baby' in it. He's doing something about a 'baby.' "

Mr. McDermott counted more invisible money in savage abandon.

"Billion Dollar Baby," Emmy said suddenly.

Mr. McDermott threw out his arms to her and relaxed.

There were cries of "Wonderful! Why, she's wonderful!" and Bob, beaming with pride, kissed her as if they were alone in the room.

From the sofa opposite, Thelma Chrystie watched them.

"Why, I didn't do anything," Emmy said, when Bob released her. "It was just an accident."

"Oh, no, Emmy," Thelma said, "there are no such things as accidents. Are there, Bob?"

It was strange that the slow quiet words should have made Bob start as if she had screamed them at him.

Next, Mrs. Bain took her turn. After the conventional preliminaries, she indicated to her teammates that she had been allotted a quotation of eight words, and she was about to dramatize the first one. She vigorously and repeatedly pointed downward. The guesses came in a rush.

" 'Floor'?"

" 'Carpet'?"

" 'Earth'?"

Mrs. Bain pointed insistently, seeming to suggest greater depths.

" 'Underground'?"

"h.e.l.l hath no fury like a woman scorned," Thelma said, so rapidly the sentence sounded like one long word.

The players awarded her the highest of all praise, a stunned silence. When they found their voices, their cries ranged from "Marvelous!" to "I'll be d.a.m.ned!"

"Honestly," Emmy said, "it's absolutely scary."

Thelma smiled at her. "Well, it really wasn't all guess work," she said. "I recognized Mr. Lineham's gentle touch. The quotation was his idea, wasn't it?"

"Why, yes," Emmy said. "How on earth did you know?"

Thelma smiled again. "You see," she said, "Bob and I have played together so much."

Sherm, who had risen to pay a visit to the liquor tray, found tragedy there. "The brandy's all gone," he said. "Now, who could've done a thing like that? Oh, well, I'm the Spartan type. I'll pig it with whisky."

"Do you want to go next, dear heart?" Bob asked Emmy.

"No, you," she said. "I want to put it off as long as possible. I'm frightened to death. Why, darling, you look frightened too . . . Look at Bob, he's absolutely white!"

Bob regarded the two remaining slips of paper, hesitating between them.

"Take either one, my dear," Thelma said, "they're both just made for you."

"Hey," said Mr. Bain, "you mustn't talk to him. You mustn't have anything to do with him. It's against the rules."

"Ah, yes," Thelma said. "This year's rules." She went over to the liquor tray and filled her gla.s.s.

Bob chose one of the slips and, at the command to go ahead, he opened it and read what was written on it. In the customary manner he immediately turned toward the other team, but he did not include the whole troupe in his glance. He looked only at Thelma. She smiled at him her slow smile that showed her beautiful teeth, but there was something different about it; there was something different about all of her. Her glow, her own peculiar glow, was gone; it was as if the radiance that came from within her had suddenly been quenched and, as is always so when a precious light goes out, the new darkness was cold and menacing.

Bob turned back to his team, lifted his fingers to signify a quotation, then dropped his arms. "I-I can't-do it."

A great complaint rose from his own ranks. "Oh, Bob, what do you mean, you can't?" "Sure you can, go ahead," and over them all, Emmy's little voice calling, "Why, darling, you can do anything."

"Sorry," Bob said, "it's too hard."

"What's so hard about it, Bob, ole boy, ole boy, ole boy?" Sherm said. "Look what I got. I had to do 'Chi-klobba, Chi-blobba, Chi schmobba.' Whatever you've got, you're on velvet."

"How many words?" Emmy said.

He held up ten fingers, then four.

"Look, I quit," he said, and his voice shook. "It's all right to play The Game decently, but this kind of stuff I'm d.a.m.ned if I'm going to stand for."

The opposing side immediately went into action.

Mr. Bain rushed to Bob and s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from his hand and read the words on it. "Is this what all the excitement's about? What's the matter with you, Bob, anyway? It's a quotation from Hamlet. Any school child knows it. It's perfectly fair."

"The h.e.l.l it's fair!" Bob said. "n.o.body has to take this stuff."

The company sat in silent discomfort. Slow and smooth and sweet, Thelma came and looked at the paper.

"Oh, that's the one he got," she said. "Listen," she said to Bob's teammates, "I ask you. It isn't very nice to be called unfair, you know, particularly by someone who for years was your-particularly by an old friend. Here's the quotation. It's where they break the news that poor little Ophelia's dead. 'Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears.' " She turned to Emmy, "Now will you tell me why your husband should get so upset about that?"

"Well, it's awfully long," Emmy said, "and it's hard and-you know."

She looked pleadingly at Thelma, the tall still woman, the woman of peculiar radiance, the woman who had been so kind to her, the woman she liked best-and she saw a stranger. A stranger who stood outside her house, looked through the window and saw something she herself did not have and hated Emmy for having it.

"Oh, come on," Mrs. McDermott said. "If he doesn't want to do it, he doesn't want to do it. I never thought it was so good anyway. Remember, I told you, Thelma. All right, Bob, you're out. Let's finish up the game. Come on, Mr. B, it's your turn."

The teams settled down again. Bob, still shaken after his outburst, sat down beside Emmy. She patted his wrist and kept her hand there.

Mr. Bain opened his paper and read on it, ". . . weary, stale, flat and unprofitable." (It had turned out to be quite a night for Hamlet, as are many nights on which The Game is played.) Mr. Bain performed "weary" according to his own ideas, with no results from his audience; the same was true of his rendition of "stale," so he let that go for a time and sought an easy role in "flat." He drew his hands across each other parallel to the floor.

" 'Smooth'?"

" 'Level'?"

" 'Flat'?"

Mr. Bain indicated their correctness and went back to another try at the word "weary." He laid his cheek on his folded hands like a tired child.

" 'Tired'?" they said. " 'Tired'?"

" 'Sandman'?"

" 'Sleep'?"

"Let's see, he did 'flat' before," Thelma said. Perhaps it was the influence of Hamlet that made her speak as if in soliloquy. "But what kind of 'flat' was he trying to show? Was it just flat 'flat'? . . . Or was it the other kind? . . . A place? . . . Two rooms, perhaps . . . Sanctuary? . . . Where two people might meet sometimes when they could steal away-a secret haven-through the years . . ."

The Game was much quieter than it had been at first. Possibly Bob's conduct had had a dampening effect on the company. Bob's side sat silent.

Thelma's words came across the room to them as her voice went dreamily on. "And if that's 'sleep' he's doing now . . . 'sleep' . . . then I don't think he means just flat 'flat' . . . I think he means a secret place. . . ."

Slowly little Mrs. Lineham took her hand from her husband's wrist.

Mr. Bain canceled further speculations by returning to his second word. He pantomimed slicing bread, went graphically on to spread a slice with b.u.t.ter, began to munch it, spat it out with every manifestation of distaste.

"I think that's bread he's eating," Thelma said, "and something's the matter with it. Maybe it's stale. Hateful word. Love gone stale. It is 'stale,' isn't it?"

"Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute," Mrs. McDermott said. "That's out of Hamlet too. 'Weary, stale, flat'-and something else. It's one of those gloomy numbers."

"Oh, I know," Thelma said. "The last word is 'unprofitable.' 'Weary, stale, flat and unprofitable.' "

"As the girl said to the sailor," Sherm said. He rose and pigged it with a little more whisky.

"Go on, Emmy," Mrs. McDermott said. "It's your turn."

"You don't have to do it, Emmy," Bob said, "if you don't want to."

"I'll do it," Emmy said.