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

so-called sun room.” She indicated the steaming windows which gave off a chilly draught. “Come to my room and take off your things. We can have a little chat in private.”

Mag looked restlessly around. “It seems quite pleasant here, and I can only stay a minute. We could sit over there.” She indicated two chairs by the coffee urn. “Do you suppose I might have a cup of that? Or is it off-limits to visitors?”

“But of course, though I won’t vouch for it as much of a treat. Still, it is hot.” She filled two paper cups with the not unnoxious brew and the women seated themselves.

“Now bring me up to date on all I’ve been missing,” Lottie said.

“I don’t think there’s a thing to tell. The town has been as quiet as a dormouse. The League of Women Voters had a rather stormy session, but it all blew over. And Biddy Delahantey had a fall. They were quite alarmed that she might have broken her hip, and you know what that would mean at her age. But she was only badly bruised, and, of course, shaken. I believe she’s up and about already. Now there’s a spirited creature for you.”

“Yes. An inspiration . . .”

“Hello.” It was Norris. He had on a raincoat and carried a wet fedora. “How are you Mag? Lottie, I know, is fine.” He bent and kissed her cheek.

“Why Norris,” Mag said. “What a treat, getting to see both of you at once. Quite like the old days.” She was discomposed.

“I didn’t expect you dear,” Lottie said. “You needn’t have, not on a day like this.”

Norris shrugged. “A short dash from the car . . .”

“You must take a hot shower when you get home, and make yourself a toddy. This is just the wrong time of year to take a chill.”

“Heavens!” Mag said. “I had no idea it was so late. Is that really the time? Lottie, I’m going to come back and pay you a real visit, and not be such a creature of impulse. I’ll plan ahead and let you know. Nice to see you, Norris.” And she left before the Taylors could make their goodbyes.

“That was pretty funny,” Lottie said.

“What was?” Norris asked.

“She barely got here and off she goes like a shot. She never even touched the coffee she asked for. From my experience here, I’d say she’s under a nervous strain.”

“The after effects of Bartram’s death may be catching up with her. A widow, alone in a big house.”

“Could be. She always had a fliberty-gibbet side to her. I think she thinks it becomes her, but I’m not at all sure it does.”

Norris laughed. “More to be pitied than censured.”

“Who’s censuring her? She has all my sympathy. But sometimes the people from the outside who come here seem more rattled and gaga than the ones on the inside.”

Bertha approached. “I know you,” she said. “You’re her husband.”

“That’s right. I’m Norris Taylor, and you are Bertha. We’ve met before.”

“You’re the one who thinks I look like Elizabeth Taylor. Is she related to you?”

“No. I believe the famous actress is of an English family. Though doubtless all Taylors are cousins in some remote degree.”

“Then you are related to her.”

“Possibly. All men are kin.”

“You’re no kin of mine,” Bertha said. She wandered away again, doubtless in hopes of evading the nurse and sneaking in a cat-nap.

Chapter IV

1

“It looks like we’re very much the winners, Norris,” Mag said. She was totting up a bridge score.

“You’re lucky we were only playing for a quarter a corner,” Norris said.

“Would have wiped me out,” Bryan said, “completely. Now what is it?” Patrick had entered the living room.

“I can’t find my biology review book. It’s gray.”

“Would anyone care for a drink?” Maureen asked.

“I wouldn’t mind a scotch and soda,” Mag said. “Very weak on the scotch and heavy on the soda.”

“I’ll buy one of those,” Norris said.

“Look under the sofa,” Biddy said to Patrick. “Twing may have taken it to play with. I hunted and hunted today for my maroon wool, and there I finally found it, under the sofa. That cat. And once I got down and got it, I thought I’d never straighten up again. They’ll find me here, I thought, and think I’ve gone crazy, trying to crawl under the furniture.” She was seated in an Eames chair, crocheting.

“You should have asked me to look, Biddy,” Maureen said, “after your fall.”

“He doesn’t play with books,” Patrick said. “Just fluffy things, like sweaters.”

“Biology,” Mag said, “that’s an interesting subject.”

“Borrow Michael’s,” Bryan said, “while he’s studying something else. And stop losing things. You wouldn’t know where to find your head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

“He’s using his and I’ve got to find mine. We have a test tomorrow.”

“You may have left it in your locker at school,” Biddy said. “It’s easy to overlook things.”

“No. I know I had it. I think Michael hid it, to get even.”

“To get even for what?” Bryan asked.

“Oh, there was some fuss about some track shoes,” Maureen said, “but that’s past history.”

“I’ll just go up and look into this,” Bryan said.

“No,” Maureen said. “I’ll go. You mix the drinks. And I’d like a small brandy. And you might put the kettle on for Biddy’s chamomile tea.”

“Shall I wash the dishes and mop the floor while I’m at it?”

“If you wish.” Maureen and Patrick left the room. In the boys’ room the gray review book conspicuously topped Patrick’s other school books on his desk.

“I knew you hid it,” Patrick said.

“Hid what?” Michael was all innocence.

“I have half a mind to tell your father about this, Michael,” Maureen said. “You’re not too big for a good strapping.”

Michael flushed deeply. “He better not hit me.”

“Mouth,” Maureen said. “Don’t talk in that fresh way to your mother, or the second the company’s gone I’ll tell him about it and then we’ll see. Now I want you boys to apologize to each other and shake hands.”

The boys glowered at each other, then Patrick