Free House Party by Patrick Dennis

porch furniture and a queue lined up at the only bathroom, like the summer places at Michiana Shores. But he hadn't expected this.
    Now as he sat there on the bed, he realized that he should have guessed from the fancy car Elly's brother was driving and from that high-toned, British-talking Felicia babe that he was out over his depth, but oh no! Not the Hoosier Hot Shot, not Indiana's gift to arts and letters. He'd been a real clown—oh, a card! Driving along by the endless stone wall that surrounded this place he'd said: "What kind of an institution is this?" Just like that he'd said it!
    "It's an asylum for the criminally insane," Elly had giggled.
    Just then her brother Bryan had turned in at a pair of fancy gates and said: "Well, here we are." It wasn't for two miles, when they finally pulled up in front of the house that Joe caught on—really caught on.
    Then he saw a couple of old dames, dressed to kill, sitting in basket chairs on the lawn. One looked sort of like an old chorus girl and she was covered with diamonds. That was Elly's aunt. The other had gray hair and pearls and emeralds and a rich-bitch voice. That was Elly's mother—the lovable, roly-poly old Mom he'd expected to find fluting a piecrust at the kitchen range. And between them sat two silver coolers of champagne.
    "Sure, kid," Joe said aloud, getting up and pacing the floor, "you did the big thing. Treat the poor little widder-woman to a fifth of Old Crow! You should have brought her a box of Cracker Jack, too." Then he rushed over, ripped open the zipper of his Val-Pak and yanked the whiskey bottle out viciously. "For two cents I'd guzzle the whole thing right now." He set the bottle down on his dresser with a thump.
    Bachelors' wing, how about that! Well, he was in for it now. He was glad he'd decided to bring along his old tux—just in case. Now, as he flung his sparse collection of ready-made clothes into the vast rosewood armoire, he wondered if these were people who dressed for dinner. They probably were. Looking out of the window to the lawn below, he saw that Bryan had rejoined his mother. He was still in street clothes. Nor had Elly bothered to change.
    The sight of Elly made him almost ill. "Boy, I sure can pick 'em. So that's the simple little working girl I was going to put in a vine-covered cottage. That's rich! Well, at least she can wow the girls at the Junior League when she tells 'em about me."
    Elly looked up from the terrace and waved. "Joe! Joseph Sullivan. You come down right away and have a drink. Hurry!"
    "Sure," Joe called with a sick smile. "Sure, I'll be . . ." His voice died in his throat.
    Far down the drive he saw an ancient, high-rumped foreign car chugging and puffing up the incline. It was piled high with baggage and heads and arms and legs seemed to be sticking out of every window. It reminded him of an excursion bus he had once seen in Korea. But the oddest thing of all was that the roof—no, there were two roofs—seemed to flap up and down and back and forth and an invisible dog was barking wildly. "Hélas, darlings," a sort of sissy old voice screamed, "we're here, darlings. Safe and sound!"
    "Christ," Joe breathed, "sweet, suffering Christ.”
     
    The terrace was filling up. The first drinks were taking hold and the house party was beginning to find its animation. Champagne flowed, Scotch flowed, so did gin, rye and bourbon. Jonas was moving reverently about with drinks and canapés and Mrs. Ames made a note to tell him, for the tenth time, to stop acting like Uncle Tom.
    Mrs. Ames was feeling a little better now. She was wearing a dress which had been the rage of the Paris openings in the spring of 1935 and still, with only minor takings up and lettings down over the years, had great style. Although she rarely drank, she sipped gratefully at champagne from the case Bryan had ordered. Now that the whole party was assembled, it didn't seem to be going too terribly badly—not so far.
    Paul had been the first of