It was all fun, except for one thing: Peg was always trying to be responsible and head home early, while Billy was always trying to get her to stay out late. I remember one night at the Algonquin when Billy said, “Would you like another drink, my wife?” and I saw a look of real pain cross Peg’s face.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s not good for me, Billy. Let me collect my thoughts for a moment and try to be sensible.”
“I didn’t ask if you should have a drink, Pegsy; I asked if you wanted one.”
“Well, of course I want one. I always want one. But make it a mild one, please.”
“Shall I cut to the chase and order you three mild ones at the same time?”
“Just one mild one after another, William. That’s how I like to live my life these days.”
“To your very good health,” he said, lifting his glass to toast her and then waving to get the waiter’s attention. “As long as the man keeps ’em coming, I might be able to survive an evening of mild cocktails.”
That night, Celia and I peeled off from Billy and Peg, to go have our own adventures. When we stumbled home at our standard gauzy-gray presunrise hour, we were startled to find all the lights on in the living room, and an unexpected tableaux within. There was Peg sprawled out on the couch—fully dressed, unconscious, and snoring. She had an arm flung over her face, and one of her shoes was kicked off. Billy, still wearing his white dinner jacket, was dozing in a chair next to her. On the table between them was a pile of empty bottles and full ashtrays.
Billy woke up when we walked in and said, “Oh, hello girls.” His voice was slurred, and his eyes were Bing cherries.
“I’m sorry,” I said, in my own slurred voice. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You can’t disturb her.” Billy waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the couch. “She’s pickled. I couldn’t get her up the last flight of steps. Say, maybe you girls can help me . . . ?”
So the three of us drunks tried to help an even drunker person get upstairs to bed. Peg was not a small woman, and we were not at our strongest or most graceful, so this was no easy operation. We more or less dragged her up the stairs the way you would transport a rolled-up carpet—thumping our way along until we reached the door to the fourth-floor apartments. I’m afraid we laughed like sailors on leave the whole time. I’m also afraid that was an uncomfortable trip for Peg—or that it would have been uncomfortable, had she been conscious.
And then we opened the door and there was Olive—the last face you want to see when you are at your drunkest and most guilty.
In one glance, Olive took in the situation. Not that it was difficult to read.
I expected her to strike out in anger, but instead she dropped to her knees and cradled Peg’s head. Olive looked up at Billy, and her face was overcome with sorrow.
“Olive,” he said. “Hey. Look. You know how it is.”
“Please get me a wet towel, someone,” she asked in a low voice. “A cold one.”
“I wouldn’t know how to do that,” said Celia, sliding down the wall.
I ran into the bathroom and flopped about until I could solve the problem of how to turn on a light, how to procure a towel, how to turn on a tap, how to discern hot water from cold, how to soak the towel without also soaking myself (I utterly failed at that step), and how to find my way out of the bathroom again.
By the time I got back, Edna Parker Watson had joined the scene (wearing an adorable red silk pajama set and a lush gold dressing gown, I couldn’t help but notice) and was now helping Olive drag Peg into her apartment. The women, I’m sorry to say, looked as though they had done this before.
Edna took the damp towel from me and pressed it against Peg’s forehead. “Come now, Peg, let’s wake up now.”
Billy was standing back a bit, wavering on his feet, looking green around the gills. He looked his age, for once.
“She just wanted to have some fun,” he said weakly.
Olive stood up and said—again, in that low voice—“You always do this to her. You always give her the spur when you know she needs