Whats for dinner, p.13
What's for Dinner?, page 13
“I’m inclined to say, ‘Oh balls,’ “ Mr Mulwin said. “I’ll admit that right now I don’t give a damn if my business goes to hell in a bobsled.”
“You’ll change your mind about that,” Mrs Mulwin said. “You’re tired, and that’s not your basic character speaking.”
“Then I’ll shut up, like Mrs Judson.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, you rude thing,” Mrs Judson said.
“That’s not what he meant,” Sam Judson said.
“I guess I can hear as good as the next one,” Mrs Judson said. “And I certainly won’t shut up if I don’t feel like it. How come Mrs Brice and Mrs Taylor can go trotting all over the grounds and I can’t? I’m tired of being shut up in here. I need fresh air, too.”
“All in good time,” Dr Kearney said. “I understood you to say in our conference that if you went out you would take a bus straight back to your house.”
“I wouldn’t now. Sam would just bring me back to the hospital. I guess if these other grouches can stick it out, I can too.”
“Would you like to have grounds privileges tomorrow?” Dr Kearney said.
“Nobody would go with me,” Mrs Judson said, “and you’re not allowed out alone.” This was greeted by a massive protest of willingness to accompany Mrs Judson on her first stroll.
Even Mr Mulwin said, “I’d go with you, if I had grounds privileges and wasn’t so damn sleepy. First they knock you out, then they tell you to stay awake when there’s nothing to stay awake about.”
“You may have privileges sooner than you think,” Dr Kearney said.
“Probably it will rain,” Mr Mulwin said.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Lottie said. “I quite enjoy a walk in the rain—not in a downpour, of course.”
“I haven’t got my rain hat here,” Mr Mulwin said. “It’s at home.”
“I’ll drop it off tomorrow, Greg,” Mrs Mulwin said, “on my way to the store.”
“Are you a partner in your husband’s business?” Norris asked.
“No, but I’m keeping an eye on things for him while he’s here. I’m a licensed pharmacist—that was how we met. Greg used to be my employer.”
“Now she’s the boss,” Mr Mulwin said good-naturedly.
Chapter VIII
1
“Why look who’s here,” Biddy said to Maureen, who was wheeling a cart down an aisle of the supermarket.
“Hi, you two,” Mag Carpenter said. “Now my secret is out,” she said, regarding her own cart. “I like a glass of beer as a nightcap.”
“I wouldn’t mind that myself,” Maureen said, “but with my girth, I don’t dare to tackle beer.”
“Maureen,” Biddy said, “makes a delicious dish of shrimps cooked in beer. All the alcohol cooks out—otherwise I wouldn’t set lip to it.”
“Mercy,” Mag said, “what a quantity of groceries you do have to buy. Those growing boys! So far, I’ve held off from the temptation of frozen dinners. Though cooking for one seems a little silly, it takes a bit more time, and I don’t like the idea of slipping into sloppy habits. I make a point of keeping to the schedule Bartram and I evolved over the years.”
“Yes,” Biddy said, “that’s the way. Keep going straight ahead. When I get up and put the kettle on every morning, it may seem I’m doing it for the family, but really I’m just following the habit I formed for my late lamented and my own family. Though if it gives Maureen and Bryan a couple of extra minutes in bed, I’m glad. My time is pretty much my own, and my days don’t run me ragged the way they do them. Those two boys alone are a handful. I’m glad I don’t have the bringing up of them; though at times I try to pour a little oil on troubled waters.”
Maureen laughed heartily. “Biddy, I don’t know where I’d be without you. You help out in hundreds of ways, always making a pie or a nice frosted cake. Our desserts are almost exclusively her province,” she added to Mag.
“And you have the figure of a young woman!” Mag said, and blushed, as she inadvertently glanced at Maureen’s ample form.
“Have you heard the news? About Lottie?” Maureen asked.
“Why no. I’ve been meaning to visit her again, but I get stuck in my own little rut. What’s the news? Is she much better?”
“Better enough that she’s to have a weekend pass, I think they call it, and come back to her own home for two days. Norris must be in seventh heaven—no bachelor, he.”
“Now isn’t that marvelous! Isn’t that wonderful! I can’t think of any news I’d rather hear.”
“I should think,” Maureen said, “that it must mean the end of her stay there is well in sight. She’s a good neighbor—I’ve missed her.”
“Oh, Mary Charlotte Taylor is one in a million,” Mag said. “I don’t know how the garden club could get along without her. I wonder if she’ll go out to cocktail parties? I suppose so. It’s probably one of the things they teach them in there: how to say, ‘No, thank you’ and ask for a ginger ale or something like that.”
“Doubtless,” Maureen said, “though I don’t think I’ll welcome her home with a cocktail party in her honor.”
“Don’t mind me,” Mag said, “I’m such a rattle, I simply can’t help looking on all sides of a question. Not that Lottie’s a question. When I have them to dinner, I suppose I’ll have to forego my little glass of sherry—or would that be rude to Norris? I guess I’ll play it by ear and cross the bridge when I come to it.”
“Bryan has a business acquaintance in A.A. and he urges other people to drink. I mean, if they normally drink, then go ahead and drink. He says it doesn’t bother him at all. I suppose he feels a surge of confidence when he finds he can go without it.”
“Giving things up is very good for building character,” Biddy said.
“How true,” Mag said. “And now I must be trundling on—fun running into you like this. We must see more of each other.”
Purchases paid for, Mag went home and had hysterics, while the two Mrs Delahanteys returned more calmly to their own dwelling.
2
“This room is simply a clutter,” Lottie said. It was a Saturday afternoon and she was seated in her chair: Norris in his. They were drinking after lunch coffee. She frowned. “Perhaps we should weed it out? Though I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Deirdre came and laid her head on Lottie’s lap. The latter’s return had been greeted by a fine salvo of barks and shaking of heavy hind quarters.
“In principle,” Norris said, “I agree. But piece by piece I find each has associations I wouldn’t care to lose. Aunt Rosie’s whatnot—that takes me right back to my earliest memories, when I was allowed to look but not to touch. I’m afraid I’m attached to my things—our things.”
“Yes,” Lottie said. “As I said, I wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s not any one thing, but there are so many of them.”
“We could move to a larger house and spread them about more. Or, conversely, we could move to a small house and have decisions of abandonment forced on us. Some of our pieces are quite valuable. Do you remember how dowdy the rosewood settee seemed when we first fell heirs to it? Now it’s high Victoriana.”
“I wish the times would hurry up with the dining room set. I’m afraid it’s hopelessly twenties Grand Rapids. I remember when it was new! Bless Bess, we’ve got some good linens to hide it under. Those bulbous legs. I suppose it was a flare-up of the Jacobean taste.”
The phone rang. Norris automatically started to rise but Lottie said, “Oh let me. I haven’t answered my own phone in an age.”
It was Mag Carpenter. “Lottie? I just wanted to say welcome home and how nice I think it is.”
“Aren’t you kind. Of course I’m really here only for the weekend. A trial flight you might call it.”
“Yes, so Maureen told me. But if you can come home for a weekend, surely it means you’ll soon be reinstalled in your own castle.”
“Castle crowded. I was just saying to Norris that I’d forgotten what a sheer accumulation of stuff we have. I cringe at the thought of getting out the vacuum and the Goddard’s wax. I’ve grown fat and lazy in that comfortable hospital. Spoiled rotten. Now tell me your news.”
“Oh, your news—your good news—is about all I know. I just potter on. There’s the garden club, where you’re sorely missed, and the League, and church. Somehow I fill in the time. I find little shopping trips a great resource. I’m still very much the lonesome widow, but I try to keep my chin up.”
“That’s very brave of you. I suppose it’s the only way. I don’t know where I’d be without Norris. Imagine coming back from the hospital to an empty house—it makes me shudder.”
“How’s that?” Norris said.
“Yes,” Mag said, “shudder is the word. I try not to. Now quick, let’s get off these depressing topics. As soon as you’re back, really truly back, I want to give a little bridge dinner for you. I’ll have the Delehanteys too—one of us can take turns sitting out. Frankly, I don’t think Maureen is all that crazy about cards.”
“Between you, me and the gatepost, she doesn’t play as though she were.”
Mag laughed. “That’s rich. Well, I just wanted to whisper a tiny hello to you. I know you want to get back and visit Norris so I’ll sign off.”
“Sweet of you to call.” And that was over.
“What did Mag want?” Norris asked.
“Nothing,” Lottie said, giving Deirdre’s ears a tousle. “Just to greet me on my so-called trial flight. I suppose people get used to one’s being in a hospital, and expect it to become a permanent state. You played bridge several times with Mag: has she gotten any better?”
“Not really, I’m afraid. Or perhaps she has, a little—we gave the Delehanteys a good trouncing. But I had to do all the bidding and play the hands. Mag is one of those players who likes to hold all the aces before she opens her mouth to bid. Luckily Bryan was playing in his usual bull in the china shop style. Now there’s a man with a will to win: I’m surprised he’s not bankrupt, if that’s how he conducts himself in business.”
“I’ve always had the feeling that Bryan is more astute than he seems. It’s when he lets down his guard, as in a game of bridge, that he runs hog wild.”
“What I don’t care for,” Norris said, “is the way he’s always badgering at those boys. They seem fine lads, if a bit oafish; but then all teen agers tend to be oafs—always falling all over themselves and the furniture and without a word to say.”
“Bryan must have had a strict upbringing: parents tend to pass on what they got themselves. And I suppose Bryan views himself as a success in life, ergo, he had the right upbringing.”
“Ergo yourself. I think Bryan Delahantey takes himself pretty much as he finds himself—no self-analyst he.”
“Lucky man.”
“Am I mistaken, Lottie, or is there a fine layer of dust over much of this room?”
“You’re not a bit mistaken. Mrs Gompers doesn’t have a light hand, whatever she may accomplish with a kitchen floor. Just as well,” she added as she regarded various objects of glass and porcelain, especially the shepherd and shepherdess who had come from Meissen. “I wouldn’t care for her to be too attentive to some of these things. Still, we’re lucky to get anyone these days. Poor Maureen Delahantey harnessed to a floor waxer.”
“She has to work off that energy some way, a big woman like that,” Norris said, his hand reaching out from old habit toward the afternoon paper. “You won’t mind if I take a glance through this?”
“Of course not. Nothing could make me feel more at home.” A beam of sunlight came through the evergreens and into the room, disclosing in its passage the finest of hovering dust.
Meantime, in the Delahantey’s living room of gleaming wooden surfaces, Lottie was the topic between Maureen and Biddy. A hellish racket came from above, where the twins were each practicing different music on the instrument of his choice.
“I’m of two minds,” Maureen said to the crocheting Biddy, “about whether to ring Mary Charlotte up and say, ‘Welcome home,’ or to leave well enough alonge. It might seem more natural to take it for granted that of course she’s in her own home, though only for a weekend. I’ll bet a nickle she’s already dusting, or washing some of her precious ornaments (I’m always in terror the twins are going to break something when we go there). I wouldn’t want to interrupt her if she’s up to her elbows in soap suds.”
“I won’t take you up on your bet, because I never gamble,” Biddy said. “As you know. But if I were to hazard a guess, it would be that she and Norris are seated in their living room, making plans. After Lottie’s stay in the hospital, I should think a nice trip would be in order—a motor tour, or maybe Florida. Does Norris play golf?”
“I don’t think so,” Maureen said, and giggled. “Maybe she’s out like a light on the kitchen linoleum.”
“Honestly, Maureen, you’ll be the death of me,” Biddy said. “Why don’t you go ahead and give a ring and see? You’ve stirred up my curiosity.”
“I think what’s holding me back is that I don’t know where Mag Carpenter figures in this. You saw what a flight and scurry she flew into in the supermarket the other day. You’d think Lottie was her best friend, and they simply are not all that close. Something is going on, even if it’s only in Mag’s mind. I’m as certain of that as I am that I’m sitting here.” She wriggled her rump in her chair. A volley of trumpet riffs came down the stairs. “I’ve told those boys not to play that cheap music in this house. Bryan hates it, and so do I. Did you know they want to form a group and play rock and roll music? It’s that Nick who’s behind it. I understand he has a set of drums. I don’t know what their father will say about that; except it will be plenty.”
“As for Mag Carpenter,” Biddy said, “I say, see no evil, speak no evil.”
“Heavens, you don’t imagine I’d breathe a word to Lottie? Even if I knew something to breathe.”
“I was merely expressing my philosophy about situations,” Biddy said. “I remember when I was a girl, there was an entanglement that involved the people next door—the husband—and a couple across the street—the wife. Mother said, ‘I don’t see or know a thing. I’m deaf dumb and blind. It’s all invisible to me.’ She went right on being friendly with both houses; until the divorces, that is. Then they all moved away. It was a great shame, due to the children, that is. I wonder what ever became of them all? Children of divorced parents seldom turn out well. They tend to go off on their own and get into trouble. I’m grateful that I was never a step-parent.”
“No, I wouldn’t care to have the bringing up of children who weren’t my own. I’d never feel sure I was being fair, being just. There are things you can overlook in your own child that would grate in a step-child. I can see that. I think I will give Mary Charlotte Taylor a ring. I don’t know why I’m making such a production of it.”
She advanced upon a white princess phone and dialed. “Hello? Is that you Norris? Maureen Delahantey here. How is every little thing? I really called up to say a word of greeting to Lottie. Oh. I see. Well tell her not to bother to call back, I just wanted to say hello and wish her a happy welcome home. Do you know yet when she’ll be home for good? I see. Still, it can’t be far off. Biddy sends her best too. Now take good care of her and we’ll expect you both here for dinner and cards in the very near future. Though we needn’t play cards if Lottie doesn’t feel up to it—I imagine there’ll be a little period of adjustment after the hurley-burley of the hospital. Tomorrow is Sunday—if you two feel like coming by for a cup of tea, it would be lovely. See what Lottie says. We won’t expect you, just come by if you both feel like getting out of the house. Goodbye for now.” She hung up and said to Biddy, “She was taking a nap.”
“Perhaps,” Biddy said, “you were nearer the truth than you knew about the kitchen floor. Poor woman, I hope she hasn’t already taken a false step.”
“I don’t think she can,” Maureen said. “They give them something that makes them violently ill if they take a drink. I forget—it’s a word like Abuse.”
“I can’t for the life of me,” Biddy said, “guess what made me start on a black afghan. Who will ever want it? I think I’ll run a maroon border around it. A nice deep maroon border. That will perk it up.”
Back at the Taylor’s, Lottie said, “I thought I heard the phone ring while I was dozing.”
“It was Maureen,” Norris said. “She felicitates you upon your return.”
“Thoughtful.”
“And said something about dropping by their way tomorrow for a cup of tea if you felt up to it. No need to call.”
“I don’t. Or is that rude? Of course I’ll give her a ring and thank her for the invitation. She’ll understand that my first weekend I want to spend here, in my own house. Or would it look funny if we don’t go? I don’t want people thinking I’m too enfeebled to down a cup of tea.”
“If you leave it up to me,” Norris said, “I’m not in much of a mood for Bryan Delahantey and his winning ways. The night I played bridge there with Mag Carpenter he told some incredibly off-color stories.”
“What were they?”
“I have no memory for dirty jokes, except that they all had to do with defecation. No. I do remember one. It seems an Indian checked into the Palmer House in Chicago and was given a room that shared its bathroom with the room next door. In the morning the chamber-maid found the occupant of the adjoining room on the bathroom floor with his throat cut. When asked why he did it, the Indian said, ‘Ugh. White man shit in Indian’s spring.“’
Lottie snickered. “Bryan is a perennial school boy.”
“I don’t think Mag cared too much for them, but Maureen laughed her head off, and she must have heard them a hundred times.”
“Where was Biddy during all this?”
“Biddy had retired before the hot stuff set in. I don’t think Bryan would dare get off one of his good ones in front of his mother.”
There was a pause. Lottie drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, got up, put on some lamps, sat down again and resumed her drumming. “I knew this would happen,” she said. “Comes the cocktail hour and I’m dying for a drink like the devil wants souls. Don’t worry, I’m not going to have one and make myself sick unto death. But I’ll tell you this: I can hear the vodka in that kitchen cupboard.”
