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

“Here,” she said. “You have the thong on that side, now you want to bring it back to this side. It’s just like simple sewing.”

“I never did learn to sew properly,” Mrs Judson said. “The one task I dread is sewing the buttons back on Sam’s shirts when they come off in the laundry. I have a nice woman who does mending for me—like torn sheets, or the children’s clothes when they were growing up. She’s so fast, I marvel at it.”

“Now that you’ve gotten it through there,” Miss Pride said, “what are you going to do next?”

“Try and put it through that hole?” Mrs Judson asked.

“If you do that, won’t you be skipping this hole?”

“I suppose so. Should I put it through there?”

“What do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I suppose I might as well try it. Yes, I can see how it looks like stitches. First one side, then the other.”

Mr Mulwin appeared in the door. “Had to cut the swimming short. Fellow from another ward tried to drown himself. At any rate, he sank. Personally, I think he just wasn’t much of a swimmer.”

Lottie frowned unhearingly at her painting.

“Why Mr Mulwin,” Miss Pride said, “can’t we tempt you into joining us in one of our activities? How about a lovely knotted belt for Mrs Mulwin?”

“Who’s this ‘we’?” Mr Mulwin said.

“You’re a tease,” Miss Pride said. She was quite pretty with a nice smile. “Why don’t you just let me show the simple principle of the thing. Here, you can pick out the colors.”

Mr Mulwin shrugged. “Why not? It will sure stun Ethel if I make something in here. I’ve read all the magazines in the sun room. I don’t like those colors. Haven’t you got something less garish?”

“How about this dark red, with this brown? Just the two colors together would be very effective.”

“OK. Now show me how it goes. I’ve tied trout flies, so this ought to be a snap.”

“The important thing to remember is to keep the tension and make the knots really tight. Otherwise it doesn’t come out looking so nice.”

“I have strong hands,” Mr Mulwin said, flexing them.

“What do you think of my painting, Mr Mulwin?” Lottie asked.

“Do you want my candid opinion?”

“Certainly.”

“Not bad, for an amateur. But what’s that gray blob on the left?”

“That,” Lottie said, “is supposed to be a porch, and it’s giving me a lot of trouble.”

“Why don’t you paint a white window frame on it? Then it would look more like a house.”

“That’s a thought. But the porch I have in mind has screens and no white window frames. Still, thanks for the suggestion.”

“Think nothing of it.” Miss Pride soon had Mr Mulwin seated at a frame, knotting away. He worked deftly and with speed.

“Now what do I do?” Mrs Judson asked.

Mrs Brice leaned over and considered her work. “You’ve done this side, now you want to do the other in the same way.”

“Like this?”

“No. That will reverse the stitches. Put the thing—the thong—through from this side.”

“I seem to be getting somewhere,” Mrs Judson said, “but I haven’t the least idea of what I’m doing. I don’t suppose I’ll ever finish them.”

“You’re going quite quickly,” Mrs Brice said. “Just keep at it.”

“Oh dear. Suppose I haven’t finished these when my three months are up, do you think they wouldn’t let me go home? I ache to give the downstairs a good turning out.”

“Don’t worry yourself needlessly,” Lottie said. “You’ll have those done in a few days. Anyway, we’re not prisoners here. We’re patients.”

“Say, Mrs Taylor,” Mr Mulwin said, “how about a martini, nice and dry and on the rocks? I could use one myself.”

Lottie put down her brush. “Damn you,” she said.

Mrs Brice bridled. “All I can say, Mr Mulwin,” she said, “is that I pity your wife. From the bottom of my heart.”

“Don’t fret yourself about Ethel,” Mr Mulwin said. “She can look out for herself. She can also take a little ribbing without going all to pieces.”

Lottie left the room, but immediately returned, picked up her brush and went on painting. “They call it taking the rough with the smooth,” she said.

Mrs Judson, who had been staring at Mr Mulwin’s back in something between horror and terror, returned to her moccasin. Bertha came in.

“Where’s the modeling clay?” she said. “I want to mess around with it.”

“It’s there,” Mis Pride said, “on the potter’s wheel. Are you going to make a nice jug? Or perhaps a vase?”

“I’m not going to make anything. I’m just going to mess with it. It’s healthy. It may come out an abstract, but I won’t keep it. I don’t believe in making things to keep, like moccasins. There are too many things in the world already.”

“If it comes out an abstract,” Miss Pride said, “you could glaze it and then I’d fire it in the kiln. It might be quite nice, a sculpture of your own making.”

“No,” Bertha said, “it’s against my principles. Say, why can’t we have a radio in here?”

“Good night shirt,” Mr Mulwin said. “I came in here to get away from that phonograph. I’m going to ask them to make it a rule that it can only be played during certain specific hours. That’s only fair to those who hate it.”

“The great white hunter barks again,” Bertha said. “I notice you don’t mind sitting staring at those dumb TV shows all evening.”

A creative silence invaded the room, and stayed for a while. Mrs Brice put down her handiwork and went to the table where Mr Mulwin was working. “Do you mind,” she said, “if I watch for a minute? Maybe I could pick up the craft—I don’t really need all these moccasins I’m making.”

“I don’t like anybody standing over me,” Mr Mulwin said with his wonted grace.

“Perhaps if I just pulled up this chair? For a minute?” Mrs Brice said bravely. Lottie slipped her an encouraging smile.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

“That’s right,” Bertha said. “This room is for everybody: he can’t tell you where to sit,