you—but I’ve done the stupidest thing.”
“Now what have you done? Mislaid Buckley?”
“No, Pops, but for the last few days I’ve been thinking of people I forgot. I mean important people. People that I’d have simply died if they hadn’t been at the reception.”
Mr. Banks sat up suddenly, his warm mood evaporated. “How many people?”
“Oh, I knew you’d be cross, Pops. I know it was very dumb. I’m afraid there are quite a lot. ”
“How many is that?”
“Well, maybe forty.”
From this point on morale tended to disintegrate. So did the list. Each evening Mr. Banks thumbed through the “Church Only” cards with sad eyes.
“Bob and Liz!” he murmured. “If anybody’d told me Bob and Liz wouldn’t be at my daughter’s wedding reception I’d have said they were crazy. Remember the week ends we used to spend at their camp. Those were—”
“Why don’t you ask them, Stan? I agree with you. It just isn’t right not to have Bob and Liz. Why not make an exception?”
“Guess we should.” Mr. Banks tore up the pink card venomously and carefully made out a white one. “Maybe a third of them won’t come.”
Or again: “Len and Louise Warner! Imagine what they’re going to say. Our best friends. Three seventy-two a head. What price lifelong friends?”
“I know, dear. It’s so cold and calculating when you put it that way. I should think lifelong friends were very cheap at three seventy-two a pair.”
“A head,” corrected Mr. Banks, transferring the Warners to a white card.
The pink cards gradually shrank. The white ones increased daily. Mrs. Banks’ apprehensive look returned.
“I just don’t see what’s going to happen if all these people come,” she said.
“They can go out on the back lawn,” said Mr. Banks.
“Suppose it rains.”
“It won’t,” said Mr. Banks.
• • •
The day came when the list must be sent to the lady who spent her life addressing wedding invitations in a copperplate handwriting. There was a last futile attempt to get it under control.
“Who are all these clucks?” fumed Mr. Banks, pawing through the cards. “I’ve never heard of half of them. Here I am throwing an Irish picnic for a lot of fuddyduds I never heard of.”
“Well, they certainly aren’t my friends,” wailed Kay. “You all know I wanted a small wedding with just my friends. Now we seem to be putting on a convention or something.”
“I know, dear,” Mrs. Banks soothed. “It’s a shame we don’t have a bigger house. There are a lot of people I’d like to ask, I’ll admit. For instance, it seems to me we’ve left out all of Mother’s friends.”
“Whoever these people may be,” announced Mr. Banks quickly, “they are the Wedding Guests. The books are closed.”
7
YOU CAN’T WIN
It was Mr. Banks’ last decisive act for many days. He and Ben and Tommy continued to live at home, outwardly just as usual, but actually more like three harmless family ghosts than active participants.
The clothes carnival was on.
Although Mrs. Banks had always contended that she never had a minute to spare from morning until night, she and Kay now rushed to town each day immediately after breakfast. Mr. Banks’ socks lay undarned in the sewing bag. His buttonless shirts were stacked in neat piles in his dresser.
Each evening he and the two boys ate their dinner in glum silence while they listened to discussions of the dresses which were not there, the dresses which would have been becoming if they had been different and the dresses which would have been ravishing if Kay and her mother had been consulted about their design.
Mr. Banks gathered that the nation’s dress manufacturers had suddenly gone haywire and that nothing which they had produced during the last few months would be used by a self-respecting charwoman for work clothes. He had supposed that the principal worries connected with weddings revolved around things like champagne and
“Now what have you done? Mislaid Buckley?”
“No, Pops, but for the last few days I’ve been thinking of people I forgot. I mean important people. People that I’d have simply died if they hadn’t been at the reception.”
Mr. Banks sat up suddenly, his warm mood evaporated. “How many people?”
“Oh, I knew you’d be cross, Pops. I know it was very dumb. I’m afraid there are quite a lot. ”
“How many is that?”
“Well, maybe forty.”
From this point on morale tended to disintegrate. So did the list. Each evening Mr. Banks thumbed through the “Church Only” cards with sad eyes.
“Bob and Liz!” he murmured. “If anybody’d told me Bob and Liz wouldn’t be at my daughter’s wedding reception I’d have said they were crazy. Remember the week ends we used to spend at their camp. Those were—”
“Why don’t you ask them, Stan? I agree with you. It just isn’t right not to have Bob and Liz. Why not make an exception?”
“Guess we should.” Mr. Banks tore up the pink card venomously and carefully made out a white one. “Maybe a third of them won’t come.”
Or again: “Len and Louise Warner! Imagine what they’re going to say. Our best friends. Three seventy-two a head. What price lifelong friends?”
“I know, dear. It’s so cold and calculating when you put it that way. I should think lifelong friends were very cheap at three seventy-two a pair.”
“A head,” corrected Mr. Banks, transferring the Warners to a white card.
The pink cards gradually shrank. The white ones increased daily. Mrs. Banks’ apprehensive look returned.
“I just don’t see what’s going to happen if all these people come,” she said.
“They can go out on the back lawn,” said Mr. Banks.
“Suppose it rains.”
“It won’t,” said Mr. Banks.
• • •
The day came when the list must be sent to the lady who spent her life addressing wedding invitations in a copperplate handwriting. There was a last futile attempt to get it under control.
“Who are all these clucks?” fumed Mr. Banks, pawing through the cards. “I’ve never heard of half of them. Here I am throwing an Irish picnic for a lot of fuddyduds I never heard of.”
“Well, they certainly aren’t my friends,” wailed Kay. “You all know I wanted a small wedding with just my friends. Now we seem to be putting on a convention or something.”
“I know, dear,” Mrs. Banks soothed. “It’s a shame we don’t have a bigger house. There are a lot of people I’d like to ask, I’ll admit. For instance, it seems to me we’ve left out all of Mother’s friends.”
“Whoever these people may be,” announced Mr. Banks quickly, “they are the Wedding Guests. The books are closed.”
7
YOU CAN’T WIN
It was Mr. Banks’ last decisive act for many days. He and Ben and Tommy continued to live at home, outwardly just as usual, but actually more like three harmless family ghosts than active participants.
The clothes carnival was on.
Although Mrs. Banks had always contended that she never had a minute to spare from morning until night, she and Kay now rushed to town each day immediately after breakfast. Mr. Banks’ socks lay undarned in the sewing bag. His buttonless shirts were stacked in neat piles in his dresser.
Each evening he and the two boys ate their dinner in glum silence while they listened to discussions of the dresses which were not there, the dresses which would have been becoming if they had been different and the dresses which would have been ravishing if Kay and her mother had been consulted about their design.
Mr. Banks gathered that the nation’s dress manufacturers had suddenly gone haywire and that nothing which they had produced during the last few months would be used by a self-respecting charwoman for work clothes. He had supposed that the principal worries connected with weddings revolved around things like champagne and
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