Mark Dunn - American Decameron

“ I wouldn’t have minded it — I mean, if it meant we didn’t have to go to Powells’. Pop open a bottle of bubbly, snuggle up on the couch with Guy Lombar—”

“You can’t snuggle on that couch. I hate that couch. I hate Danish Modern. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s so sterile .”

“That’s your bailiwick, baby. I’m quite content with my Herbert Hoover armchair in the study.”

“You’re sloshing,” said Janice, pointing to Cliff’s glass. “You’re very drunk. Now what are we going to do about Miss Stillwell? We can’t get her a taxi. Not tonight of all nights.”

“I’m fine. I’ve driven far more intoxicated than this.”

“That’s supposed to set my mind at ease?”

“You need to learn to drive, Janice. It’s almost 1960, as you’ve already noted. Women drive these days, maybe you’ve heard.”

“I’ve told you already that learning to drive is my New Year’s resolution. Go on. Be careful. Westchester County is probably swarming with highway patrol officers just looking for people like you to give tickets to. Or worse.”

“I’ll go slow. Miss Stillwell’s only ten minutes away.”

Janice Fredericks had called Miss Stillwell, whom she knew from their work together on the Tarrytown Library Committee, in early December to make sure that she would be available for New Year’s Eve. Janice knew that babysitters in Westchester County were a valuable commodity on the last night of the year, and even more so on this particular New Year’s Eve. The 1950s were about to bow out, to have their place taken by a decade that held great promise. At least this is what Americans were told. Wasn’t the New York World’s Fair’s “Futurama” exhibit, which Janice had seen as a girl in 1940—wasn’t it all about 1960, about that portal year to all the glories and wonders of an enterprising, utopian future?

Janice thought about this as she watched her husband go out to the garage. She thought about all the little model cars she’d seen in the World’s Fair exhibit. She wondered if there had been any tiny drunk drivers in any of those tiny cars — especially drivers like her husband, who seemed to do a fairly competent job of keeping his Eldorado on the pavement, despite obvious mental impairment.

Miss Stillwell answered the door. She was a little more smartly dressed than Cliff anticipated. It was New Year’s Eve, after all, even though she expected she’d be spending it first playing Candy Land with a five-year-old and seven-year-old, and then sitting alone in front of the TV and watching the crowds make noise at Times Square thirty miles away.

Miss Adelaide Stillwell used to be a schoolteacher. She was retired now, but she still enjoyed being around children. Adelaide volunteered at the library; she read storybooks aloud during story hour. And, of course, she babysat. Adelaide had made her peace with spinsterhood a long time ago. (Although she would forever detest the designation “old maid.”)

“How are you tonight, Miss Stillwell?” Cliff affably inquired.

“I’m doing just fine. Let me get my purse and my snacks.”

Cliff waited on Adelaide’s porch while she fetched her purse and tray of snacks and then locked the front door. He let her go ahead of him down the brick walk that bisected the neatly trimmed front lawn of her small, fairytale stone cottage. Halfway down the walk, she heard a scraping, scuffing sound, an “oof!” and then a “damn!” She stopped and turned.

“I’m okay,” Cliff said, tipping slightly to the left. “I just got tripped up by one of your bricks.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. My bricks are all fairly even.”

“Well, at least one of them wasn’t. But it’s all right. I don’t think I did any damage. Not to me or to the bricks.”

“Have you been drinking?” Adelaide moved in closer so she could smell the air in the vicinity of Cliff’s mouth.

“A cocktail before I left the house.”

“You’ve had more than a single cocktail, Mr. Fredericks.”

“Does it matter? I’m a better driver tight than most men are sober. I’ve been behind the wheel since I was twelve.”

“A drunk man praising his driving skills.” Adelaide whistled her disbelief. Then she folded her arms and straightened up her lower back to show resolution. “You’ve been drinking. I have a hard and fast rule about not being driven by people who’ve been drinking.”

Cliff frowned, his brow narrowing. “Is this a new rule? Because I can name at least a half-dozen times I drove you home after you babysat for us when I was nowhere near sober and you clearly knew it. And may I add, Miss Stillwell, that I got you home in one piece each and every time.”

“It’s a recent rule, I’ll admit, but I’m sticking to it.”

“Why this rule all of the sudden?”

“Apparently you don’t read the local papers, Mr. Fredericks. That young woman who was killed right before Christmas — the man who put that car right through the trunk of that tree— he’d been drinking too, and drinking heavily. He’d been to a party — just as you are going to a party. She was his children’s babysitter, Mr. Fredericks. Just as I am your children’s babysitter.”

“Miss Stillwell, it isn’t necessary for you to speak to me as if I’m still in the third grade.”

“I’m simply trying to make you understand. I won’t brook it. Not ever again. It’s irresponsible for a man to get behind the wheel of a car when his eyesight and his reflexes are encumbered by strong drink. I sincerely hope, Mr. Fredericks, that you are not in the habit of endangering your wife and children in this manner.”

Cliff sighed and slumped. “I assure you, madam, that I do not. I generally only drink during that one hour that conveniently falls between ‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ and ‘Dinner looks great!’ Oh, and I have a few beers on the weekend. I’m not the dipsomaniac that you paint me.”

“I wasn’t painting you in any such way! I was merely asking if you would in the future—”

“All well and good, Miss Stillwell. All well and good, but what about tonight? I am taking my wife and myself to a New Year’s party given by a very important potential client. It isn’t a party that we can afford to miss. I believe that Janice secured your services for this evening several weeks ago. That’s how important it is that we have someone to babysit our children tonight. If you decline, you’ll be putting me in a terrible bind. And you’ll be in breach of our oral agreement.”

“Every agreement carries certain unspoken expectations, Mr. Fredericks. One of these expectations is that both parties will act in good faith. This isn’t good faith. You tripped on my front walk because you’re sozzled. I will not ride with you. I’ll be very sorry if you happen to miss your party, but you should have used better judgment before you left the house.”

Cliff thought for a moment. “May I come in and use your phone? I’ll see if I can get you a cab.”

“Certainly.”

Cliff knew before he began to dial the various cab companies that covered this section of Westchester County that it would be a lost cause. But he still had to try on the outside chance that he might get very lucky. He didn’t even care if the companies wanted to gouge him. He’d pay whatever they asked. This was an important party. He had told Gilbert Powell that he and his wife were looking forward to it. He cursed Janice now for never having learned to drive. And why didn’t Miss Stillwell drive? Did she just sit around like royalty and expect people to ferry her to wherever she needed to go? It was infuriating. But he tried his best to keep calm. Keeping calm might help Adelaide Stillwell to change her mind.