trip and fall disastrously. “I seem to have overfilled the glasses,” he said. “No, no, don’t get up. Please. Generally I pour these out as precisely as a bartender, don’t I, Minnie?”
Mrs. Castevet said, “Just watch the carpet.”
“But this evening,” Mr. Castevet continued, coming closer, “I made a little too much, and rather than leave the surplus in the blender, I’m afraid I thought I . . . There we are. Please, sit down. Mrs. Woodhouse?”
Rosemary took a glass, thanked him, and sat. Mrs. Castevet quickly put a paper cocktail napkin in her lap.
“Mr. Woodhouse? A Vodka Blush. Have you ever tasted one?”
“No,” Guy said, taking one and sitting.
“Minnie,” Mr. Castevet said.
“It looks delicious,” Rosemary said, smiling vividly as she wiped the base of her glass.
“They’re very popular in Australia,” Mr. Castevet said. He took the final glass and raised it to Rosemary and Guy. “To our guests,” he said. “Welcome to our home.” He drank and cocked his head critically, one eye partway closed, the tray at his side dripping on the carpet.
Mrs. Castevet coughed in mid-swallow. “The carpet!” she choked, pointing.
Mr. Castevet looked down. “Oh dear,” he said, and held the tray up uncertainly.
Mrs. Castevet thrust aside her drink, hurried to her knees, and laid a paper napkin carefully over the wetness. “Brand-new carpet,” she said. “Brand-new carpet. This man is so clumsy!”
The Vodka Blushes were tart and quite good.
“Do you come from Australia?” Rosemary asked, when the carpet had been blotted, the tray safely kitchened, and the Castevets seated in straight-backed chairs.
“Oh no,” Mr. Castevet said, “I’m from right here in New York City. I’ve been there though. I’ve been everywhere. Literally.” He sipped Vodka Blush, sitting with his legs crossed and a hand on his knee. He was wearing black loafers with tassels, gray slacks, a white blouse, and a blue-and-gold striped ascot. “Every continent, every country,” he said. “Every major city. You name a place and I’ve been there. Go ahead. Name a place.”
Guy said, “Fairbanks, Alaska.”
“I’ve been there,” Mr. Castevet said. “I’ve been all over Alaska: Fairbanks, Juneau, Anchorage, Nome, Seward; I spent four months there in 1938 and I’ve made a lot of one-day stop-overs in Fairbanks and Anchorage on my way to places in the Far East. I’ve been in small towns in Alaska too: Dillingham and Akulurak.”
“Where are you folks from?” Mrs. Castevet asked, fixing the folds at the bosom of her dress.
“I’m from Omaha,” Rosemary said, “and Guy is from Baltimore.”
“Omaha is a good city,” Mr. Castevet said. “Baltimore is too.”
“Did you travel for business reasons?” Rosemary asked him.
“Business and pleasure both,” he said. “I’m seventy-nine years old and I’ve been going one place or another since I was ten. You name it, I’ve been there.”
“What business were you in?” Guy asked.
“Just about every business,” Mr. Castevet said. “Wool, sugar, toys, machine parts, marine insurance, oil . . .”
A bell pinged in the kitchen. “Steak’s ready,” Mrs. Castevet said, standing up with her glass in her hand. “Don’t rush your drinks now; take them along to the table. Roman, take your pill.”
“It will end on October third,” Mr. Castevet said; “the day before the Pope gets here. No Pope ever visits a city where the newspapers are on strike.”
“I heard on TV that he’s going to postpone and wait till it’s over,” Mrs. Castevet said.
Guy smiled. “Well,” he said, “that’s show biz.”
Mr. and Mrs. Castevet laughed, and Guy along with them. Rosemary smiled and cut her steak. It was overdone and juiceless, flanked by peas and mashed potatoes under flour-laden gravy.
Still laughing, Mr. Castevet said, “It is, you know! That’s just what it is; show biz!”
“You can say that again,” Guy said.
“The costumes, the rituals,” Mr. Castevet said; “every religion, not only Catholicism. Pageants for the ignorant.”
Mrs. Castevet said, “I think we’re offending Rosemary.”
“No, no, not at all,” Rosemary said.
“You aren’t religious, my dear, are you?” Mr. Castevet asked.
“I was brought up to be,” Rosemary said, “but now I’m an agnostic. I wasn’t offended. Really I wasn’t.”
“And you, Guy?” Mr. Castevet asked. “Are you an agnostic too?”
“I guess so,” Guy said. “I don’t see how anyone can be anything else. I mean, there’s no absolute proof one way or the other, is there?”
“No, there isn’t,” Mr. Castevet said.
Mrs. Castevet, studying Rosemary, said, “You looked uncomfortable before, when we were laughing at Guy’s little joke about the Pope.”
“Well he is the Pope,” Rosemary said. “I guess I’ve been conditioned to have respect for him and I still do, even if I don’t think he’s holy any more.”
“If you don’t think he’s holy,” Mr. Castevet said, “you should have no respect for him at all, because he’s going around deceiving people and pretending he is holy.”
“Good point,” Guy said.
“When I think what they spend on robes and jewels,” Mrs. Castevet said.
“A good picture of the hypocrisy behind organized religion,” Mr. Castevet said, “was given, I thought, in Luther. Did you ever get to play the leading part, Guy?”
“Me? No,” Guy said.
“Weren’t you Albert Finney’s understudy?” Mr. Castevet asked.
“No,” Guy said, “the fellow who played Weinand was. I just covered two of the smaller parts.”
“That’s strange,” Mr. Castevet said; “I was quite certain that you were his understudy. I remember being struck by a gesture you made and checking in the program to see who you were; and I could swear you were listed as Finney’s understudy.”
“What gesture do you mean?” Guy asked.
“I’m not sure now; a movement of your-“
“I used to do a thing with my arms when. Luther had the fit, a sort of involuntary reaching-“
“Exactly,” Mr. Castevet said. “That’s just what I meant. It had a wonderful authenticity to it. In contrast, may I say, to everything Mr. Finney was doing.”
“Oh, come on now,” Guy said.
“I thought his performance was considerably overrated,” Mr. Castevet said. “I’d be most curious to see what you would have done with the part.”
Laughing, Guy said, “That makes two of us,” and cast a bright-eyed glance at Rosemary. She smiled back, pleased that Guy was pleased; there would be no reproofs from him now for an evening wasted talking with Ma and Pa Settle. No, Kettle.
“My father was a theatrical producer,” Mr. Castevet said, “and my early years were spent in the company of such people as Mrs. Fiske and ForbesRobertson, Otis Skinner and Modjeska. I tend, therefore, to look for something more than mere competence in actors. You have a most interesting inner quality, Guy. It appears in your television work too, and it should carry you very far indeed; provided, of course, that you get those initial ‘breaks’ upon which even the greatest actors are to some degree dependent. Are you preparing for a show now?”
“I’m up for a couple of parts,” Guy said.
“I can’t believe that you won’t get them,” Mr. Castevet said.
“I can,” Guy said.
Mr. Castevet stared at him. “Are you serious?” he asked.
Dessert was a homemade Boston cream pie that, though better than the steak and vegetables, had for Rosemary a peculiar and unpleasant sweetness. Guy, however, praised it heartily and ate a second helping. Perhaps he was only acting, Rosemary thought; repaying compliments with compliments.
After dinner Rosemary offered to help with the cleaning up. Mrs. Castevet accepted the offer instantly and the two women cleared the table while Guy and Mr. Castevet went into the living room.
