“You see?” Bertha said. “You are picking on her. The pills here stink. They just make you feel like a human vegetable. What I like is grass. I like to get high and meditate on the music. I am the music.”

  “Grass?” one of the patients, an older woman, said.

  “Marijuana,” Lottie said. “It’s one of those psychedelic drugs you read about. It distorts reality.”

  “It’s a lot better for you than booze,” Bertha said. “I don’t mind wine but I wouldn’t want to be a big booze hound like some people.”

  “If you want to discuss my problem,” Lottie said, “I’m willing. But I think we were getting some place with Mrs Brice, and ought to stick to the point. Wasn’t there something that happened, that started your insomnia?”

  Mrs Brice didn’t answer.

  “Why insist?” Norris said. “Obviously Mrs Brice isn’t ready to talk about it yet.”

  “There’s no time like the present,” Dr Kearney said.

  A long pause, and the atmosphere of the room became charged with tension. Bertha opened her mouth to speak, but Lottie said, “Shh.” Mrs Brice put her head on the table and wept. “All killed, all killed,” she said.

  Mr Brice put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “There, there, Mother,” he said.

  Bertha became rigid and slid out of her chair and under the table. The thump of her head was softened by her heavy hair.

  “Oh I don’t like this,” the wife of one of the patients said. “Can’t you do something for her? Can’t you give her an injection?”

  “Bertha is on her own medication regimen,” Dr Kearney said. “And if she keeps pulling stunts like this she won’t stay long in an open ward. She disturbs the other patients.”

  “She doesn’t disturb me,” Lottie said. “If Bertha likes to lie on the floor, why not? She’s seemed much improved these last few days.”

  Mrs Brice raised her head and her husband gave her his handkerchief, with which she dried her cheeks.

  “It was the shock,” Mr Brice said. “Fanny hasn’t been herself since the funeral. I thought she would come out of it gradually, but . . .”

  “Don’t talk about it,” Mrs Brice said. “It’s over and done with and I haven’t anything left. What business of theirs is it, anyway?”

  “That’s the way I feel,” another patient said. “I have to stay here for three months but that doesn’t mean anybody’s going to force me to talk about my private business.”

  “Who’s forcing you, Mr Mulwin?” Dr Kearney asked.

  “You are,” said Mr Mulwin.

  “I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “That’s one of your tricks to get me to talk. Well, I won’t.”

  “You don’t have to talk,” his wife said, “until you’re ready to. This is a kind of open meeting. People realize other people have problems too. I can see how it helps.”

  “Another county heard from,” Mr Mulwin said.

  “If you won’t talk, maybe I will,” his wife said.

  “You never could keep your trap shut, could you.”

  Mrs Brice put her head on the table and began to sob again.

  “That’s right, Mother, let it out.”

  Under the table Bertha groaned. “I’m sick,” she said.

  “You sure aren’t going to get well down there,” Dr Kearney said.

  “Why don’t you join the rest of us?” Lottie asked.

  “I’m going to vomit,” Bertha said.

  A nurse, who had been sitting in a corner of the room taking notes, put down her notebook and got up. She moved Bertha’s chair out of the way, hauled Bertha out into the open, hoisted her to her feet and half led, half dragged her from the room. Bertha was making retching noises.

  “It isn’t all acting,” Lottie said. “She looks awful.”

  “Acting,” Mr Mulwin said. “You’re pretty good at that yourself. You act like you’re some kind of head woman around here. So helpful. Always a kind word. Florence Nightingale.”

  “My wife is making a serious effort to recover from a particular illness. Your sarcasm is no help,” Norris said.

  “Like me to punch your head?” Mr Mulwin offered.

  “Certainly not. Your aggressiveness is merely a symptom of whatever is ailing you, and whether you get well is a matter of profound indifference to me.”

  “It better be, because it’s none of your damn business.”

  “Oh Greg,” Mrs Mulwin said, “why do you talk so? You never hit anybody in your life.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Please understand,” Norris said, “I am not trying to pick a fight with you. But I’d like you to show my wife the respect due to a lady.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you: I won’t speak to her at all. The pleasure will be all mine.”

  “Oh Greg,” Mrs Mulwin said.

  “And you can stop, ‘Oh Greging’. I’ve got a business that’s going to pot while I’m stuck in this boy scout camp or whatever it is.”

  “Violence,” Mrs Brice said, raising her head, “I don’t like it. Mr Brice has never raised his voice to me in all the years of our marriage.”

  “Of course not, Mother. You’re a good kind woman. I think some women who get shouted at provoke it themselves. You know, women who nag, and things like that. Here, use my hankie.”

  “Was that a crack at me?” Mrs Mulwin asked.

  “For goodness sake, no,” Mr Brice said. “I was speaking in general.”

  “If I ever did nag Greg, it was for his own good. He hates getting up in the morning, but if he’s late for work, it puts him in a mood. He’s very scrupulous about his business.”

  “Will you shut up?” queried Mr Mulwin. “If I get in a mood, it’s because I’ve got things on my mind.”

  “If you got some of them off your mind,” Lottie said, “you might not be so disaggreeable. Feel so disagreeable on the inside, I mean.”

  “Am I supposed to take that lying down?” Mr Mulwin asked Norris.

  “No,” Norris said, “sitting up.”

  “I’m not one bit used to all this wrangling,” Mrs Brice said. “I like peace and quiet in which to think my thoughts. If I promise not to take any more sleeping pills can I go to my own home?”

  “Now dear,” Mr Brice said, “you know you can’t leave until the three months are up. That was one of the conditions on which I signed you into this fine hospital.”

  “I’m not used to sleeping in the same room with three other women. I’m used to privacy and my own things.”

  “How have you been sleeping, Mrs Brice?” Dr Kearney asked.

  “All right. I wake up in the night but after a while I go back to sleep. Everybody does that, I guess.”

  “I’m thinking of taking you off your night medication,” the doctor said. “I think you can get along without it.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Mrs Brice said. “One of the ladies in my room is a heavy snorer and I know I won’t get a wink of sleep. If I don’t get my sleep, I feel dreadful.”

  “I understand how you feel,” Lottie said. “I live in fear and trembling of having my medication changed. I don’t care if it does make me smell like a hearse.”

  “It will be changed,” the doctor said, “soon enough. You’ll have to anticipate a certain discomfort in making the adjustment.”

  Mr Mulwin chuckled. Norris gave him a quelling look and Mr Mulwin stuck out his tongue at him.

  “That,” his wife said, “is childish.”

  Chapter III

  1

  The phone rang. As always when this happened, Deirdre put back her head and howled. Norris answered it.

  “Norris? How are you. This is Mag—Mag Carpenter.”

  “Good to hear from you Mag. I’m fine. So is Deirdre.” With his free hand he scratched the proud dog behind its ear.

  “Now I want you to tell me all about Lottie. I’m sure she’s doing wonderfully. A person like that, with so many inner resources and such a strong character. I’ve often said it, Mary Charlotte Taylor is an oak.”

  Norris, who did not much like Mag, said to himself, Go soak your head. Aloud he said, “She’s doing just fine. It’s quite a set-up they’ve got there. It’s not just a rest home—they have a lot of group therapy.”

  “Group therapy, I’ve heard about that. But I’d die before I could start talking about all my little intimacies in front of strangers. I simply couldn’t face it.”

  “It is hard on some people, at first. You know, they have certain nights when the families come and join in. It helps the patients realize that they’re not ostracized from the community.”

  “Yes. And of course most problems aren’t just one person’s. I mean, so often it seems in an emotional upset the other members of the family are in some way involved too. Oh dear, I’m making it sound as though you drove Lottie to drink. I don’t mean that, of course.”

  “Who knows?” Norris said. “Maybe I did.” He stopped scratching Deirdre and reached for the highball he allowed himself after dinner. “Although Lottie says she wants me to keep on having my usual when she comes home. I think she sees it as sort of a test, and one that it’s important she pass.”

  “Norris, I’d like to ask you a rather personal question.”

  “Oh?”

  “Would you like to come over and spend the night with me?”

  “I’m flattered that you should ask me that. It’s a real compliment. But I think we’d better not.”

  “I don’t know what possessed me to say that—I just blurted it out. That wasn’t why I called up. Truly, seriously.”

  “I can understand that you’re lonely, Mag.”

  “I guess it’s a way of missing Bartram. We had a very satisfying relationship. At the same time, I really like the idea of remaining faithful to his memory. Promise me you won’t breathe it to a soul, especially Lottie. I couldn’t look her in the face if I thought she knew.”

  “No, I regard it as a confidence. And I think you’ll feel better for getting it off your chest. Sometimes saying a thing is enough. And I am flattered.”

  “You should be. You’re the only one I ever said anything like that to. You’re a very attractive man, Norris. That silvery hair.”

  “And you’re an attractive, pretty woman, Mag. I’ve always thought that. But don’t worry. We’ll call this our little secret.”

  “I know I can count on you. I’m thinking of giving a little dinner party, or perhaps have cocktails. I’ll invite you.”

  “I’ll be happy to come. Unless it’s one of the nights when I go to the hospital.”

  “I’ll arrange it so it isn’t. Remember me to Lottie. Tell her I’ll come see her when she can have visitors.”

  “Will do. Goodnight Mag, and thanks for calling.”

  “Goodbye Norris. Don’t forget: It’s our little secret.”

  After Norris finished his highball and took Deirdre for her walk he called Mag back.

  “Mag? It’s Norris. Is that invitation still open?”

  “Yes, Norris. It is.”

  “It will take me half an hour or so to walk over there. The car would be too conspicuous.”

  “I’ll be expecting you.”

  When he got to the Carpenter house the porch light was off and the downstairs dark. The door opened before he could ring the bell. He could see Mag by the dim light that filtered down the staircase from the upper hall. She was wearing a flowered housecoat. Norris took her in his arms and kissed her.

  “I’ve never been to bed with any woman but Lottie,” he said.

  “Hush,” Mag said. “Don’t talk.” She took him by the hand and led him upstairs to her room, which was done in rose and pale blue, dominated by a reproduction mahogany four poster. “I fixed us a couple of drinks.” Two highballs stood on the dresser. “May I watch you undress?”

  Afterward, Norris said, “I’d like to spend the night. But I don’t think it would look too good for the neighbors to see me issuing forth while they’re crouched over their Rice Crispies. It might look a little too good.”

  “I know,” Mag said. She lay very close to him, with one leg over his. “I know this is going to sound sordid, but perhaps sometime we could meet at a motel. Then we could spend the whole night together.”

  “Lottie won’t be away long. We don’t want to start something that might be difficult to handle, later.”

  “Oh, I won’t make any claims on you. It’s just that I’d like to wake up once more and find a man’s body next to mine.”

  “Any man’s body?”

  “That’s nasty. I meant your body, Norris. It was so wonderful: don’t say anything that will make it seem squalid. I couldn’t bear that.”

  Norris kissed her lightly. “I was only teasing. But I’d better warn you: I’m an independent cuss.”

  “I know you are. That’s one of the things I like about you.”

  “And now, I’ll get a move on.”

  “Norris?”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you do it again?”

  “Sorry, Mag, but I’ve never been able to manage that. Put on the light. I’ve got to hustle my bustle.”

  2

  Biddy was in the kitchen, rustling up an apple pie when Michael came in.

  “Where’s Patrick?” he said.

  “I heard one of you come in and go upstairs, then come down and go out again. It must have been Patrick, if it wasn’t you. Tramp, tramp. What a pair of elephants. The whole house shakes.”

  “He took my track shoes without asking. Not that I would have let him if he had asked. He’s too lazy to get his own fixed.”

  “Are you sure you looked carefully? You boys are always misplacing things. Did you look under your bed?”

  “Yes. Anyway, I don’t keep them under the bed. I keep them in my closet. I’m going to get even with him for this.”

  Maureen came in from shopping. “I’m glad to see you,” she said to Michael. “You can bring in the bundles from the car. My back is aching just from loading them in.”

  “I’ve got to go down to the field.”

  “You don’t ‘got to’ anything until those bundles are brought in. Now do it and no more back talk.” Michael went sullenly about his task.

  “He says Patrick took his track shoes,” Biddy said. “I’m sure he just borrowed them, thinking Michael wouldn’t be using them today.”

  “That’s all I need: more friction between those two. Sometimes I wish I’d had a little boy and then a little girl, instead of twins. Life would be so much easier.”

  “What a thing to say, you surprise me, Maureen. You know you wouldn’t sacrifice one of your twins.”

  Maureen laughed. “Oh, I’m not planning any human sacrifices. Though I admit I’m sometimes tempted. I need tea.”

  Michael came in, trying to carry too many bags at once. One of them tore and fell. A gush of milk issued from it. Maureen said, “Oh!”, only it was more of a scream.

  “Clumsy, you can clean that up, then you can get on your bike and go buy another container of milk.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. I’ve got to go down to the field: the coach expects me.”

  “I can mop up the milk,” Biddy said. “It won’t take me a minute.”

  “No, Biddy. Michael has to learn sometime. He’s going to finish unloading the car, mop up and go to the store. That’s that.”

  “Good gosh,” Michael said. “Just because Patrick sneaks in and out of the house . . .”

  “I said, that’s that.”

  “Good grief,” Michael said. He did as he was bidden.

  When he had gone off on his bike, Maureen sat down with a cup of tea at the table where Biddy was deftly handling her pie dough. “It was the funniest thing,” Maureen said, “at the supermarket. Mag Carpenter was there and I’m just as certain as I’m sitting here that she saw me. But she suddenly wheeled her cart around and went skittering off down another aisle. I’d swear she was avoiding me. Of course when I saw how the land lay, I did not give chase.”

  “That is funny,” Biddy said. “Mag is always the first to make the overtures. She’s such a cheery little bird, she reminds me of a robin redbreast. Or perhaps more of a chickadee—you know the way she sort of cheeps when she talks. All those little laughs.”

  “And smothered giggles. That was what was so odd. It wasn’t at all like her.”

  “Maybe she was minded of something she forgot, and didn’t see you.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think so: our eyes met.”

  “Probably she needs spectacles. Many people hold out against getting them. Vanity. She looks younger than she must be and spectacles do make a person look older.”

  “Mag is older than I am,” Maureen said, “and I think she looks it. Today she seemed almost haggard.”

  “I find that hard to picture, Mag Carpenter looking haggard. She’s borne up so well since Bartram passed on. And she always puts in such a nice appearance, she must have quite a wardrobe. But Bartram must have left her nicely off. It was my understanding that that business of his did quite nicely, thank you. He was never one for throwing his money around.”

  “You can say that again. I’ll never to my dying day forget the time I went there collecting for multiple sclerosis. He gave me some song and dance about their charities, and how they’d already subscribed all they were going to for the year. Can you imagine? Five dollars! Which was certainly the most I expected from Bartram Carpenter. I’ll wager he put buttons in the collection bag at church.”

  “One of my brothers did that once. Walter. But he only did it once, I’ll tell you. The man reached into the bag, fished it out and handed it back to Walter. Oh, there was a to-do when we got back from church that Sunday.”

  Patrick came in.

  “Your brother says you took his track shoes,” Maureen said.

  “I only borrowed them. He wasn’t using them.”

  “You know what the rule is about taking each other’s things without asking first. What’s wrong with your track shoes? They’re practically brand-new.”

  “The stiching came out of one of them. They have to go to the shoemaker’s.”

  “No time like the present,” Biddy said.

  “I’m tired. What kind of pie is that, Gran?”

 

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