Cleopatra’s Love Dream
September 28
The fruits of my telephoning poured in all afternoon and with pretty nonchalance and a “nothing at all, really”, showed them to the shower rooms (on the ground floor of the studio wing), and waved them into the swimming pool. We even, after a good deal of experimenting with the lineup of gimmicks and gadgets in the cellar, got the pool fountain turned on. Then we lounged on the terrace and smirked at our frolicking friends. It was nice to give the hoi polloi a break but of course we had to put up with the comments: “What, no butler!”
“What gives-the ladders aren’t even gold?” … “What this place needs is a few rubber animals- You ain’t got the Hollywood touch!”
September 29
Today’s doings must come under the heading of “vacation”, I guess. I haven’t seen any sign of the real one! Pat got home at 4 P.M. and we took inventory of our twenty-seven acres. Pat, Mike and me, we catalogued the nine flower beds, one large vegetable garden (full of cabbage, which we don’t eat), two waterfalls, one rushing river, and the world’s most perfect skating pond. I’d be happier if I had never known about that.
I may worry about cigarette ashes on the rug, Pat may stew about the scalloped dining room table that’s too low for his knees, Lucretia may grumble about the size of the place, but Mickey with twenty-seven acres of trees is content beyond his wildest dreams. This is his idea of the perfect way to spend seventy thousand dollars.
Golly, I wish my mother could see this place!
What a tale would go back to the aunts and uncles, the cousins first, second, and third, and the sorority Sisters.
I wish I could have her come, and just say nothing about being “in the family way” as our nearest neighbor calls it; but my mother is inclined to be intelligent. I fear even Lucretia is about to graduate to the “stomach look”. Some days Pat cajoles Lucretia into bringing my breakfast up, but the sight of her sullen and suspicious face is even more nauseating than breakfast, so it doesn’t do any good. Some days I shanghai my spouse. “Pat, look! You insist it’s all mental. All right, get going. Talk about the weather, talk about the war, talk about anything. So I’m feeling fine! Just dandy!”
From his bathroom Pat keeps up a running commentary at the top of his lungs. He’d make a ducky announcer for those damn breakfast programs and their grisly cheer. But it doesn’t, work. Mother would certainly wonder what’s corne over Pat, who, as a rule, before his breakfast coffee- Oh, well, who am I to talk!
September 30 Sick, in my little pink and wine bathroom.
But it doesn’t matter-this is the end of that “careful period” the doctor mentioned, and praise be, everything is Jake. Can’t say I’ve been especially careful, either. I have avoided lifting things, but I would not care to have the doctor see the way I throw that garage door up and down. And I have dissuaded Michael from jumping up and butting me square in the stomach. Otherwise I’ve gone my merry way. I must admit it tires me. I never took an afternoon nap in my whole life, but corne 4 P.M. these days I can’t resist.
It hasn’t escaped Lucretia. I can tell. She bangs more dishes with more noise, and sings louder but dolefuller.
Worst of all, even if she doesn’t give a less subtle notice, the time has definitely come for us to do something about her. For she’s developed into that one “hate” the books say I am allowed-nay, required-to enjoy. All day long I flit from room to room trying to avoid her and those penetrating whiffs of “Cleopatra’s Love Dream”. Even Chane! NO.5 wouldn’t sit well with me these days, but as for “Cleopatra’s Love Dream”- Pat will have to give up those pancakes, that fried chicken, and those peach dumplings. Soup is all I want.