Her eyes followed the quiet figure when Mrs. Clark at last took her leave and the women in the shop were free to start locking up. Mrs. Clark somehow seemed to her to epitomize the drab future; she was not the more likable for that. Francie felt an almost unpleasant emotion about her. It would have been different, she admitted, if she’d been able to look forward to an exciting date with Glenn that evening. She slid a cabinet door shut with a bang. Or if she had a date with a man who had a profile like Marlon Brando’s. But what was the use? She didn’t. Probably she never would have an exciting date, ever again.
It was a waste of time to read the local news in the paper at breakfast, but everybody did in Jefferson, sooner or later. The personal columns began to mean something to Francie as the weeks went by. How gay they sounded! They were misleading, though. If you didn’t know for a fact that Miss Fritzi Smithers didn’t wash her neck quite often enough, you might be more impressed by the account of her Canasta Club luncheon party. On the other hand, having seen Juliet Harper close up and admired her neat little person, it was pleasant to read that she was going away for a dance at Culver. Francie hoped Julie would have a marvelous time. Even the Jefferson Country Club Saturday night dances sounded glamorous in “Chit-Chat”, which is what the column was really called, though Francie knew it had always meant the same old crowd, the old decorations. If you didn’t know Jefferson you’d never think the reporter was talking about the same drab club, with its buff-colored walls and heavy maroon draperies.
Depressed, Francie reflected that it was more fun to read about practically any Jefferson social function than to attend it. If she had thought about it two months previously, she would have said that she knew all about Jefferson and whatever went on in town in the party department; she had grown up in Jefferson—she knew it, it knew her. But lately she had become acutely aware of a faction she didn’t know at all. There was a part of Jefferson that didn’t seem to be conscious that she was alive—or care. Such a novelty could be described in a few words—Chadbourne Fredericks and her group. They had a social life different from the usual, and Francie’s juke-box crowd didn’t mix with them at all.
Of course, she reminded herself, it was only Chadbourne’s fault and Chadbourne’s loss. The red-haired girl wasn’t really a part of the town, and that was probably why Francie, back in her teen-age days, hadn’t noticed her. Mrs. Fredericks, though legally a resident of Jefferson, had spent much of her life in other places and had sent Chadbourne to school here and there in the East. Her center of interest had always been elsewhere, and the girl’s present status was the result of it. Once, discussing the matter with the family, Francie was so extreme in her disapproval as to call Chadbourne an “outsider.” Pop immediately picked her up on it.
“If it comes to that, chicken, you’re an outsider yourself, by Jeffersonian standards,” he said warningly. “You’ve been around the world a lot more than Ruth and your other friends, so why criticize the Fredericks girl?”
“I’m not criticizing, Pop. At least, I didn’t mean to,” said Francie. “I was just saying to Aunt Norah, that’s all, that Chadbourne isn’t one of the girls and so I can’t very well expect her to drop in as if she were. It’s not the same with me, anyway. Admittedly I’ve spent a lot of time in other places, but I did spend my youth here, and that’s what counts.”
Pop seemed to find this statement immoderately funny, but Francie knew very well what she meant. She plunged ahead, undaunted. “I mean, I went to grammar school here. And I went to dancing-classes on Saturday morning with the gang. We knew each other; it was the same for all of us. We ate our lunch together at junior high, and went to football games together, and had crushes on the same movie stars and … well, all that. It makes a bond. Now Chadbourne, for the little time she was here now and then, as far as I can make out treated the place like a summer resort. She just dropped in on the place when she felt like it.”
“Or when her mother felt like it, more probably,” put in Aunt Norah.
“Exactly. When her mother felt like it, but the effect was the same,” said Francie triumphantly. “It shows how in the way Chadbourne behaves to the rest of us. As if we were mere natives. Why, she even imports all her friends from outside. Who are the people she’s always with? No locals, anyway.”
Aunt Norah said Francie was perfectly right, though perhaps a little hard on the Fredericks girl. “It’s all Lottie’s fault, really,” she said. “I hope she doesn’t come to regret it now she’s decided to make a go of the life here. That Chadbourne looks to me like a difficult child—discontented and snippy. Spoiled. She’s obviously delicate anyway, with that bad complexion; I remember she always was, from a child.”
Mr. Nelson, remaining recalcitrant, said with some irritation that it wasn’t necessarily a law of nature with del-growing up outside Jefferson should be punished with deicate constitutions. He pointed out that America was full of healthy girls who had never so much as seen Jefferson, let alone been born there, but Aunt Norah was unconvinced. Francie, however, felt a bit ashamed of herself. She knew she had come very near to being downright catty, and she suspected, with a guilty twinge, that Pop had somehow divined the reason.
Dropping the subject, she read again the item in “Chit-Chat” which had brought on all this discussion. A gay treasure hunt was held on Thursday evening for twenty guests at the home of Miss Chadbourne Fredericks. The eager treasure seekers divided up into teams of two. First clue was hidden among the lilac bushes growing on the spacious grounds of the Fredericks estate. The discoverer, appropriately enough, was Mr. Bruce “Lucky” Munson—he is always called “Lucky” by his friends—who, with Miss Fredericks, led a ravening party pell-mell to the car park and thence to the Old Mill in the North Road … etc, etc. If you didn’t allow for the lady reporter’s lush style, Jefferson sounded like the popular idea of Hollywood.
“Lucky” Munson indeed, thought Francie; that must surely be the glamor-boy she had seen with Chadbourne. She disliked him without even knowing him. How long would he stick around, anyway? She rather thought he must have a job with Fredericks & Worpels; he turned up there every day in his noticeable car and usually departed at closing time with Chadbourne, so there seemed to be no likelihood of his going back soon to wherever he had come from. And that, no doubt, was why Chadbourne herself was still in Jefferson. Without imported boy friends the town wouldn’t be good enough for her. As for girl friends, surely there must be something wrong if a person carried her own crowd around with her.… Francie pulled on her coat and set off to work in a rebellious mood, quite as if she hadn’t often reflected that Jefferson wasn’t good enough for her, either.
“Good morning, Mrs. Clark.” Francie spoke with a good imitation of cordiality. It was the first time she had seen the woman since that evening when her vexation with Chadbourne Fredericks was born, and it was only because of Chadbourne that she recognized her now. There were so many plain, gentle women like Anne Clark who came into the Birthday Box to sniff around at the drink thermometers, the baked tiles, and bronze lampshades, and to waste their little odd bits of money. But again, as before, Mrs. Clark did not live up to type. She finally bypassed all the clutter on the tables and picked out a plain, attractive set of paper tablecloth and napkins.
“I’ll pay for them now. Don’t bother with looking up my account,” she said as Francie reached for the ledger. “I know Mrs. Ryan isn’t here today and you’re on your own. You won’t want any more responsibility.”
Francie said, “Oh, that would be all right, Mrs. Clark.”
“Never mind.” The woman smiled pleasantly and brought out her purse. As Francie made change, she asked, “Do you like working here?”
“It’s nice now I’m catching on a little. There was a lot to learn at the beginning—bookkeeping and stock-taking and so on. And all these things to remember the prices of.” Francie looked around at the shop’s contents.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Clark. She sighed and picked up her parcel and started fo
r the door. “All these things,” she repeated. “Such hideous things, too! Well, good-by.”
She closed the door after her, leaving Francie very much ashamed of her early, lofty opinion. The sober, ordinary appearance of that woman had misled her badly. Here was a kindred soul, and she had never suspected.
The day was to bring another surprise. That afternoon Chadbourne Fredericks, wearing her work smock and sandals, came charging in on what Francie privately called one of her lightning raids. At first she seemed as taciturn and disagreeable as ever. Without more than a grunt of greeting she swooped on a colored mat that Francie had marked down mentally for the new window display she was planning, to prove to Florence Ryan that simplicity had “draw” for the public.
Francie hated to see the mat snatched away, but she knew her employer’s policy: Fredericks & Worpels came first. She bit back all protest. She did even better and made a suggestion, giving away a prized idea. “That candlestick’s color looks pretty good with the mat, don’t you think? You might like to take it, too.”
Chadbourne pushed back her hair and regarded the candlestick, her head tilted sideways to show critical consideration. “Not bad,” she admitted. “Mummy’s probably got something else in mind, but maybe I’d better take it along and see. Shall I?”
Her voice was amiable, and Francie hastened to fall in with the new tone. Certainly they could try out the candlestick; the Birthday Box would be delighted, she said. So Chadbourne picked it up. Francie expected her to make her usual self-important rush for the door; instead, she hesitated.
“It’s rather fun fooling around with this sort of thing, don’t you think?” she said.
Francie agreed. Chadbourne went on, “Didn’t I hear that you’ve done something along these lines before? In Spain, or somewhere?”
With mounting wonder, Francie said, “Oh, I did a little textile designing, but you couldn’t call me a professional.”
“Interesting,” said Chadbourne vaguely. There seemed to be something else on her mind. Both girls stood silent for a moment, and then she went on in a little rush. “Don’t you find it, I mean, sort of quiet here in Jefferson? Did you ever think of trying to get something worth while started around here?” She paused again, and for a moment a vivid flush showed on her sallow skin. “The thing is, I’ve been talking it over with a friend of mine,” she said, “and he says—he’s of the opinion—that the town needs waking up. He thought I might get something started like a dramatic society or stuff. You know, put on plays of our own. And since I don’t seem to know many people particularly clever at that sort of thing … I mean, I don’t know you very well, for that matter, but I’ve heard you’re awfully clever, and they tell me you’ve been abroad and all that. So have I, but I didn’t pick up much of what he’s talking about, I guess. Anyway, we did put on plays at my boarding school. Did you at yours?”
She was obviously very shy: Francie was surprised to realize it. While delivering this long speech Chadbourne had stood on one foot and rubbed the toes of the other against the calf of her leg, like a child reciting a piece. Francie wondered at this complete change of front, and wasn’t quite ready to trust it. She replied quietly, “We used to do the usual plays, I suppose, but of course it was years ago. And I was more interested in scene-painting than acting.”
“Well, but it is a good idea, don’t you think?” asked Chadbourne. “Wouldn’t you be interested in helping if I could get something going? I thought we might have a meeting with some of my crowd and talk it over and start the club. My friend I was talking about, Mr. Munson, knows a bit about directing. I told him I’d scour round and stir up neighborhood interest if he’d promise to direct the plays.” She tittered. “It would give him something to do with his spare time, anyway. He says we don’t have any community spirit.”
“Perhaps we haven’t,” said Francie. “Is Mr. Munson planning on a long stay in Jefferson, then? I don’t hink I’ve met him.”
If Chadbourne recognized malice in that speech she failed to show it. “He’s with our firm. Assistant manager,” she said. Her eyes fixed on nothing in particular, as if she had forgotten Francie, until she came back to the world with a sudden start. “You will come, won’t you?” she asked.
Francie hesitated. She had a strong impulse to refuse. It was a gesture that would give her a lot of pleasure, to show Chadbourne Fredericks that she couldn’t just whistle, after having been so rude, to have people running to obey her latest whim. But mightn’t that be exaggerating the original snub?
“Good,” said Chadbourne, taking her acceptance for granted. “The first meeting will be on Friday night—early so as not to interfere with dates—at my house, in the rumpus room. You know where the house is?”
Yes, said Francie, she did. Chadbourne said good-by, and hurried out.
“Well!” said Francie to the empty shop.
It annoyed her that she’d been so easily persuaded. On the other hand, there was nothing to prevent her calling it off at the last minute, and at least she had given herself time to think it over. After all, it would be silly to boycott a new experience like the club, which would give her something to do, anyway. And it would be a good chance to meet Mr. Bruce Munson face to face as well. Why she should be interested in Bruce she couldn’t have explained. He struck her as different from the others she’d met. Different from Glenn somehow, she thought. Unless it was that Chadbourne had humiliated her in front of him and so made him seem more important. She wanted to wipe out the memory of that snub in his mind. It was true that he hadn’t seemed to notice the exchange at all; he might not have seen her tentative smile from behind the window—Francie probably was agitating herself over nothing. But that didn’t change the facts. Chadbourne had humiliated her, and Chadbourne at least must have known what she was doing. The situation called for something—Francie didn’t know exactly what, but she didn’t want just to leave it alone. Had she been too easy to persuade, after all? In spite of her shyness, Chadbourne had been forceful in a queer way; it had been hard to think fast enough.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’ll call her up from home tonight and say I can’t get there after all,” decided Francie impatiently. She began to close up the shop, thinking carefully so that Mrs. Ryan wouldn’t find anything to criticize when she got back. Certain objects were put away, certain others locked in the office safe; a clean cloth went over the counters and the big things that stayed where they were. Office door locked, back door locked, front door locked—there! Francie started home. Her mind went back to Chadbourne and the dramatic club. Should she let the arrangement stand? If she didn’t go, she might possibly be missing fun in the future. An armed neutrality could be maintained, perhaps; she might be able to go and partake of the fun and yet show those rude, cliquey girls in Chadbourne’s crowd that she was sufficient unto herself.
Somebody tooted a horn, and as she looked up a bright blue car swerved in toward the curb, coming toward her. Two people waved and smiled—Chadbourne and Bruce Munson. She saw his white teeth. There was no mistake—they had both smiled, definitely. Francie waved and smiled back before she knew what she was doing, and then the car was gone.
She went on walking, with no more turmoil in her mind. The club itself might be fun, she reflected; it would be idiotic not to go. Something new in Jefferson!
CHAPTER 7
Silvery laughter rang out from the young people ranged along the front row in the Fredericks’s rumpus room. (Silvery means “metallic,” thought Francie, as well as light and pretty; silvery was the word.) The young people were seemingly enchanted with each other’s company and wanted nothing else in the world. If you judged from the noise they were making, they were being terribly witty. Sitting several rows back of them with nobody in the chairs between, Francie hoped she was not looking as out of things as she felt. It would have been awful to be misunderstood and considered wistful. She didn’t want any part of that gaiety. They were what she called to herself “Chadbourne’s zoo,” a closed corpor
ation made up of a girl or two from Eastern academies that Chadbourne had attended, now making enormously lengthy visits; a few young men who drove up from Chicago or Milwaukee for long weekends and the occasional evening in between; and there were a few geunine Jeffersonians as well, whose background, like Chadbourne’s, had rendered them something more, or less, than just plain local. Her appearance seemed to bring them out of hiding and give them a new interest in life.
Why should they be called a zoo? Francie couldn’t have explained the epithet, even to herself. When she looked at them, she thought vaguely of trained animals and of jumping through hoops and cracking whips. At close quarters, she decided, they weren’t any more likable than they had seemed when she watched them running in and out of Fredericks & Worpels in what Chadbourne probably described as working hours. Bored and restless, they were—and wasn’t she becoming bored and restless, too? How does one manage to keep busy in such a town, to keep excited about happy, useful things?
She herself had arrived on the doorstep in timorous mood, hoping that someone might have got there before her and taken the frosty edge off the evening. But she was the first after-supper guest, though the zoo was already in the house, having been there since cocktail time along with a group of Mrs. Fredericks’s contemporaries. The elders were still present, though they kept themselves out of the party, hovering about in the back of the room with their cigarette holders and elegant clothes, talking to each other in low tones. Francie had been brought in just as she had feared, alone and conspicuous in the wake of the maid. After a pause, Lottie Fredericks had drifted over to greet her and murmured something about Chadbourne.
“She ought to be coming in a minute. She’s back of the platform, I think. If you’ll just take one of those seats, dear.…”