The Dinner Party by Howard Fast Page B

look elsewhere. And then, when they appeared at the entrance of the barn, the senator remembered his welcome—or lack of it—to his son, and he quickly rehearsed some sort of apology.
    It went badly, words to the effect of a bill he had been trying to formulate for days until it had become a residing obsession. His mind was on the bill. That was the poor substance of his apology.
    â€œI understand, Dad,” Leonard said. “It’s all right. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
    â€œWell, sure. But I’ll pass this on from Mother. She wants you to take the station wagon to the airport and pick up Gus and Jenny.”
    â€œWhat time is their plane?”
    The senator looked at his watch and decided that they had at least an hour.
    â€œI thought Mac was going to pick them up.”
    â€œYou know the way your mother is before an important dinner party. She won’t let Mac out of her sight for ten minutes.”
    â€œO.K.”
    They walked back to the garage with the senator, and no one mentioned the interrupted meditation. At the garage, Clarence excused himself, saying that it was just family and he’d prefer to remain here. “I’d like to spend a little time in the library, sir,” he said to the senator. “It looks like a wonderful library.”
    â€œFeel free,” the senator said. “There’s plenty of time. We won’t be having lunch until they come back and the old folks have rested a bit.”
    â€œYes, I’d appreciate that,” Clarence said.
    â€œEnough of libraries at school,” Elizabeth said to her brother. “I’ll tag along with you. Can I drive?”
    â€œDo you feel up to it?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œWhat’s this?” the senator demanded of Elizabeth. “Are you sick?”
    â€œIf you call it that. Same old thing.”
    Leonard nodded; blame it on the period, it answers all things at all times.
    The brother and sister climbed into the station wagon and backed it out of the garage.
    The senator hooked his arm into Clarence’s and led him into the house, thinking, Damn it, things change, maybe not much but they change, and just try to think of this twenty-five years ago.
    The senator deposited Clarence in the library, a warm, pleasant room, three walls floor-to-ceiling with books, old leather armchairs, a fine old mahogany library table, and three tall windows looking out over the lawn. The floor was covered with a very old, worn Aubusson rug, a fierce eagle, with lightning in its talons, woven into the center. “The rug,” the senator explained, “was a gift to my wife’s great, great-grandmother from the association of cotton-mill owners in Rhode Island—although why I do not for the life of me know.”
    And with this strange declaration, which left Jones puzzled, Cromwell begged his pardon and took off down the corridor from the library to the wing of the house that contained his personal bedroom and study. He heard his name called, and turned to see Dolly coming out of the door to the storage pantry.
    â€œHold up,” Dolly said. “I saw her car outside, so she’s here and she can wait. I thought you could give us the day.”
    â€œI shall. I only want her for an hour. I’ve been walking around with this Sanctuary thing in my mind, and I have to have something formalized on paper.”
    â€œSo long as she doesn’t stay for lunch.”
    â€œGood heavens, Dolly,” he protested, “I can’t get rid of her before one. How can I send her away without lunch?”
    â€œShe won’t starve. Ellen will bring her a sandwich if you’re that worried.”
    â€œNo, no, no,” he said worriedly. “My goodness, she’d see the terrace going to her car. You are setting lunch on the terrace?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh, it would be a slap in her face. Come, Dolly, let’s be reasonable.”
    â€œI