Chapter 8
The Langs asked me in, and I waited with them in the living room while Sonya went upstairs to pack an overnight bag. I said what was on my mind, and favored Washington, D.C., for our hideout, as being near if something came up, and at the same time completely safe. I mentioned the Mayflower Hotel, “which is much like home to me, as I’ve been there so often.” The Mayflower got instant approval. Then Sonya came down, carrying her bag, and I broke the news to her, telling her, “I’ll sign you in as my fiancée, taking a single and a bath for you. For myself I’ll take a suite, and that way, without violating any rules, you can visit me any time, and we won’t have to meet in the lobby.”
She said, “We’re going to Ocean City, and you’re signing me in ‘and wife,’ in a suite with bath for two.” I hit the roof, saying: “Do you want to get me arrested? How can I possibly get away with it, coming in with a child and signing her on as my wife — unless, except, and until I have the papers to prove it, which I won’t have until Monday.” Her father and mother agreed, but she paid not the slightest attention, standing in front of a wall mirror, working on her face. Then she took off her hat, opened her bag, took something out and pulled it on her head, putting the hat back on. Then she turned around, a grown woman.
She sashayed over to me, a bit heavy in the bottom, and told me: “What gives a young girl away, a young girl trying to look older, is her walk — the way she skips around like a heifer. A woman has lead in her tail.”
“Well thank you, Sonya,” snapped Mrs. Lang.
“Don’t be ashamed of it, Mother — it makes the world go ’round. But if you’re a young girl and want to look older—”
“What’s that on your head?” I asked her.
“The wig I wore when I played Mrs. Malaprop at the school entertainment. It has streaks of gray in it.”
“And what have you done to your face?”
“Made it up, using the liner. You put on one thin, vertical line, over the nose in the middle, and two slanting lines alongside the mouth, leading down toward the jaw. That’s all — with those three lines you can pass, so no one will ever guess. One thing you can’t change, or do innything about, is your voice, that Mia Farrow mumble a young girl always has. So what you do about that is keep your mouth shut.”
“You think you can?” asked her father.
“I’ll do my best. No one can do inny more.”
“Then suppose you start practicing now.”
We all laughed some more, but I noticed that now she looked so much older, no argument was made by anyone against signing her in “and wife.” I said, “At Ocean City, I’ve heard that the Pocahontas is one of the best motels, and if I may borrow the phone, I’ll reserve our space right now.”
The phone was in the hall, and I put a $5 bill under it, but Mrs. Lang picked it up and slipped it in my breast pocket, saying: “Please, Mr. Kirby, please!”
The Pocohontas did have space, “what we call our efficiency suite,” the reservation clerk said, “—sitting room, bedroom, bath, and kitchenette, with pulldown beds in the sitting room. All in all, if you’re bringing the family, there’s accommodations for six.”
“It’s just myself and my wife,” I told him.
“Then I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.”
“How much is it setting me back?”
“Thirty-eight a day, two-fifty by the week.”
“We’ll be there until Monday morning.”
“And when shall we expect you, sir?”
“Tonight, some time after ten.”
He took my name and number, in case something came up, and when I hung up Sonya said: “I just loved it, how he said ‘and my wife.’ It’s what I want to be, his wife.”
“You get along quite well,” said Mrs. Lang.
“I’m stuck on him, that’s why. More’n he is on me.”
“You got a stuckometer, to measure?” I asked her.
“Maybe not, but I know. I’m working on it, though.”
I called Miss Musick, to say I wouldn’t be in until Tuesday. I said: “Something’s come up, kind of a continuation of that call, the one you took from the girl. Miss Musick, I’m getting married.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“To her, the one you talked to.”
“But Mr. Kirby, do I know her?”
“I don’t think so, but she wants to know you.”
“I knew there was something about her!”
“You can say that again, Helen.”
Then at last we were headed for Ocean City, but I still had nothing to sleep in, and thought it most inadvisable to stop by the house and pack, as popping in with a young girl, and then popping out with her and a packed bag would be almost as bad as having her there for the weekend. But she knew what to do. “People’s,” she said, “will have everything you need — you name it, they’ll tell you which counter it’s on.” So we stopped by People’s in College Park, and sure enough they fixed me up, not only with pajamas, shirts, razor, lather, lotion, comb, and brush, but also luggage, a snappy zipper bag, exactly what I should have to stop at a beach motel. While I was buying my stuff, I gave her twenty dollars, to buy whatever she needed, but she didn’t buy anything. “I’m being economical,” she said, “to prove I’m a sensible wife.” But I’d bought something for her, a nice big bottle of Arpège, which she held close and almost cried over. “I never had inny scent!” she kept saying over and over. “No scent of my own at all — I always had to steal Mother’s. And this is the kind I love!”
So, when at last we really got rolling, it was a happy time. She kept sniffing the Arpège bottle, opening her legs, and fanning herself with her skirt. Then she took off the wig, put it in her bag, and wiped away the lines. “They can wait,” she said. “Just right now I want to be me.”
We crossed the bay on the bridge, I would say around seven o’clock, and then ran for some distance by daylight, through the flat Eastern Shore country. Then we spotted a place called The Grisfield, which looked to be fairly decent, and decided to stop for dinner. It was the first I found out how much she could eat. Their specialty was crab, which I don’t really care for too much, so after she spoke for it, I ordered the Delmonico steak. “Well,” she said kind of sheepish, “can I have what I want? Can I have what I really want?” I said of course, and she said: “I want the crab and the steak!” The waitress let out a whistle, and said: “Your daughter’s really hungry.”
“I’m his wife!” snapped Sonya, pretty sore.
That upset the girl, and she said: “I’m sorry!”
However, I played it straight. “One steak dinner for me,” I said. “One steak dinner and one crab dinner for my wife.”
“Yes sir.”
“The nerve of that twerp,” said Sonya, after the girl had gone, “calling me your daughter. How did she know who I was?”
“Brat,” I said, “easy does it. She was merely trying to be friendly. Wipe your nose — and shut up.”