What's for Dinner? by James Schuyler (to read list .txt) 📕

“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