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

to the bottom of it. Something simple, like his collars weren’t starched the way he liked them. I used to say to him, ‘Just say it, whatever it is. Don’t go around making me feel I’ve committed some crime, when it’s only your old collars.’ That’s how I used to talk to him, dear soul.”

“Mr Judson and I suit each other very well,” Mrs Judson said, and blushed.

“Lottie,” Maureen said, “I’m beginning to think this is more of a club than a hospital—interesting new friends, such a relaxed atmosphere . . .”

Mr Mulwin came roaring into the room. “You wouldn’t believe,” he more or less yelled at Lottie, “if I told you what’s going on in that office.” He then charged down the room and ordered Bertha either to turn down the phonograph or turn it off.

Bertha continued weaving back and forth. “You don’t own this room,” she said. “I have my rights here just as much as you, and one of them is dancing.”

Mr Mulwin reached out and turned the phonograph way down. Bertha turned it up as loud as it would go, and began to scream. “Werewolf!” was one of the words that emerged. As though from nowhere, a hefty nurse appeared, just as Mr Mulwin was retorting with “Foul mouthed bitch.”

“Turn that thing down,” the nurse said. “I want you each to go to your rooms until you’ve collected yourselves.” Mr Mulwin had left before the nurse finished speaking, muttering about his blood pressure.

“You can’t make me,” Bertha said. “Anyway, he yelled at me first.”

“I don’t want to force you,” the nurse said, “I’m asking you.”

“When I want to go to my room and lie down you won’t let me. When I want to play the phonograph and dance, you make me go to my room. That’s supposed to make sense?”

“It will shortly be lunch time, and I want you to be able to eat a nice quiet meal. You know you feel better when you co-operate in these little matters, Bertha.” Looking sullen, Bertha left the room.

“I’m afraid you’ve seen us not at our best,” the nurse said to Lottie’s little group. “But we have these little gusts now and then. Visiting time will be up shortly.” She smiled and left.

Lottie, who had lit another cigarette, said, “What were you saying Maureen, about the relaxed atmosphere? You should have been here trying to sleep the night Bertha had her screaming fits. They had to put her in one of the locked rooms.”

“Locked rooms!” Mrs Judson said.

“You don’t have to worry about those,” Mrs Brice said. “It’s just for some of the hyper-active patients, who might hurt themselves—or someone else.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Judson said.

“That was exciting,” Biddy said. “Somehow that’s more the way I thought things would be.”

“Raving lunatics?” Lottie said. “We can supply on demand.”

Maureen gathered herself together. “Time for us to run. Can I bring you anything? Do you have enough to read?”

“Not a thing,” Lottie said. “We’re awash in magazines and paper-backs. Anyway, I can’t fix my attention for more than ten minutes at a time.”

“You’re looking wonderfully well, and I’m sure these feelings of—of jumpiness will pass off quite soon. I’m tempted to check in here for a rest myself. The twins have been more than usually impossible. It’s like being a referee at a wrestling match. Come along, Biddy, we don’t want that nurse chasing us out.”

Biddy hopped to her feet. “And she certainly looks like she could do it. Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Brice, Mrs Judson. We’ll be looking in again.”

2

The Delehanteys had reached the dessert course: tapioca cream. Bryan spooned his up with avidity, at the same time enjoining the twins to go slow. “And how was our neighbor, the patient?”

“Lottie’s put on weight,” Maureen said. “I imagine hospital food is quite starchy. I suppose she’ll be able to get it off when she comes home and gets onto a regular diet. Physically, she seemed in fine shape, but so nervous, so jumpy. My heart went out to her. It makes one wonder about drinking, if those are the risks involved.”

“Is Mrs Taylor away because of drinking?” Patrick asked.

“That’s no problem of yours,” Bryan said. “And stop sucking that out of the side of your spoon. Put the spoon in your mouth, then take it out. Slobberer.”

“It’s no secret,” Maureen said. “For some people alcohol can become an illness—it poisons their system. Then they need treatment to recover.”

“We learned about it in biology,” Michael said. “Maybe she’ll have to join Alcoholics Anonymous. There’s one in town. They meet on Wednesday evening in the basement of the Methodist church. I wonder what they talk about? The good old days?”

Bryan laughed. “Don’t make jokes,” he said, “about Mrs Taylor. She’s a sick woman and a good friend.”

“In many ways,” Biddy said, “it was a most interesting visit. All types and conditions of men. And women. Some you might meet in your own parlor and not think a thing about it. Others—there was this man who, as the boys say, completely blew his stack.”

“He was a Mr Mulwin,” Maureen interposed.

“Yes,” Biddy said, “that was the name. A Mrs Judson, a lady with whom we became acquainted, was quite alarmed by his ranting. But I could tell it was all just a show. I’ve seen men like that before. The loud kind. All you have to do is stand up to them and they back down quick enough. I was sorriest for Mrs. Judson—painfully shy with a lovely string of old-fashioned amber beads. Then there was another quiet lady, a Mrs Brice, but she had more to say for herself. Seemed like a widow to me.”

“No,” Maureen said, “I don’t think so. I’m sure she mentioned a Mr Brice. Whom I took to be her husband. Or perhaps it was the way she said ‘we’ about something. But I’m certain she’s not a widow.”

“Had any calls from the merry widow?” Bryan asked.

“Mag? As a matter of fact, I did. We had