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

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?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“It’s apple. I can smell it.”

“You can have a cup of tea,” Maureen said, “then you’re going to take those shoes to the shoemaker. If you ask him nicely, he may get them ready for you tomorrow. But you’re not to touch Michael’s again, is that clear?”

“Has he been whining around about it? What a tattle-tale. You’d think he’d grow up and talk to me about it, man-to-man.”

“How was school?” Biddy asked. “Is that French teacher still down on you?”

“What a subject. It’s not my fault if my accent sounds like pig-Latin.”

“You ought to try, Maureen”

“I do try. Où est la plume de ma tante?”

“Sur la table,” Biddy said. “It must run in the family. Bryan couldn’t make head or tail of languages, and he had to pass