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

stand or lie down.” Mrs Brice quietly seated herself and watched Mr Mulwin’s flying fingers. “Say,” Bertha continued to Mr Mulwin, “this is getting to look a lot like you.” The lump of clay had acquired ears, nose and a chin. Mr Mulwin glanced up.

“No it doesn’t,” he said, “not in the least. If it’s sculpture you’re after, you’ve still got a long way to go, kid.”

“I think I could learn to do it,” Mrs Brice said, apropos the belt knotting, “but I wouldn’t be nearly as good at it as you are.”

“As I say,” Mr Mulwin said, “I used to knot trout flies. That takes skill and patience, believe me.”

“I thought,” Lottie said, “that you never had time for recreation.”

“Trout fly tying isn’t recreation. It’s craft—an art.”

“When did you give up fly fishing?” Lottie asked.

“Would you mind not quizzing me? I’m trying to keep my mind on my work.”

“I don’t call what we do in here work,” Lottie said. “I call it recreation. Though I may keep up my painting when I’m at home. I enjoy bringing an image out of nowhere, and the way the paints squoosh.”

“You have a gift for it,” Mrs Brice said. “You ought to keep it up: it would be a waste not to. I have a small confession. I’ve always known I wasn’t a handy sort of person, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with making things in craft therapy. But one day, after I’d been here a while, I came in to look around. There was a patient—she’s left now—who had the most terrible shaky hands: palsy, I imagine. Anyway, she was sitting here, making a lovely pair of moccasins. I thought to myself, if that poor trembling creature can do it, well, then so can I. And I sat down and got right at it. You never know what’s in you until you try.”

Bertha laughed. “You’re a heavy competitive type and you don’t know it.”

Mrs Brice thought before she spoke. “No, Bertha, I don’t think it was competitiveness. I think that lady was more of an inspiration to me. Seeing her woke me up: I realized it was at least worth trying, even if I didn’t have much faith in myself.”

“There,” Lottie said. The gray blob had become more porchlike, though it seemed somewhat to obtrude from the picture. “I can’t honestly say I’m satisfied, but if I go on I’m afraid I’ll only make it worse, not better.”

“It’s nice,” Mrs Judson said. “I think I’ve gone wrong.”

Miss Pride came over. “Yes, this is where you slipped up. You crossed over instead of going straight on to the next hole.”

“Oh,” Mrs Judson said.

“Let’s see if you can’t work it out,” Miss Pride said. “Pull the thong out back to here.”

“Do I have to undo all that work?” Mrs Judson asked.

“If you want to get it right: you do want to get it right, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.” Mrs Judson unlaced the thong to the place indicated and recommenced.

“Why Bertha,” Miss Pride said, “that’s most interesting.” The clay head had taken on a slight resemblance to Mr Mulwin. At least, it had his bulbous nose and stick-out ears.

“No it isn’t,” Bertha said. “It’s meant to be mean, but it’s not meant to be interesting. When I’m through I’ll mess it all up again.”

“That,” Mr Mulwin said, “does not bear the remotest resemblance to me, if that’s your intention.” He went on in a kindly voice, “You know, Bertha, you suffer from a peculiar psychological ailment, and it may well be incurable. You are a spoiled brat. That’s it in a nutshell. What you need is a good hard job you have to go to every day. That would snap you out of it, if anything can.”

“A good hard job? Is that what made you Mr Mental Health Week?”

“Would you mind letting me concentrate?” Mr Mulwin lamely replied.

“That’s an interesting conception you’ve got there, Bertha,” Lottie said, and giggled.

“I don’t think we should descend to personalities,” Mrs Brice said. “I can’t tell you, Mr Mulwin, how I admire the way you go at that. Look how much you’ve already done.”

“Thanks,” Mr Mulwin said. “Glad to have at least one on my side.”

“You must be very strong,” Lottie said.

“You’re darn tootin’. That’s why that fresh la di da husband of yours had better watch his step. Or his language.”

“Oh come now,” Lottie said, “I thought we’d gotten beyond the threatened fisticuffs stage. Nobody likes to be threatened, including Norris.”

A nurse with a cart entered. “Medication,” she said. “Mrs Taylor?” She extended a paper cup with two pills in it, and another of water.

Lottie sighed and tossed back the pills and took a swallow of water. “Thanks. My good old paraldehyde, how I miss it. I was high as a kite and I didn’t even know it. Personally, I think these tranquilizers are just a lot of old aspirin, dressed up in pretty colors.”

3

“I hate tapioca cream,” Nick Tromper said.

“Then don’t eat it,” his mother said.

“Can Michael and I be excused?”

“Don’t you want to let Michael finish his dessert? Down boy,” she said to a dog of part Newfoundland descent. It had put its paws on the table and was investigating the possibilities of leftovers. The younger Tromper children were engaged in a game of ‘I Spy With My Little Eye’ in which Nick and Michael studiously refused to join.

“Hurry up,” Nick said. Michael continued to eat at the rate enjoined at home.

“How’s your father?” Mr Tromper asked. “I didn’t see him at the V.F.W. the other evening.”

“He’s fine. I think he had to go out and play bridge. It made him kind of sore. Missing the V.F.W., I mean.”

“And the others? Your grandmother?”

“They’re all fine, too, thank you. Only Twing, our cat, got out and got into a fight and had to go to the vet. But she’s back home now. She loves to fight.”

“As I recall,” Mr Tromper said, “Twing is a Siamese?”

“That’s right.”

“A pugnacious crew. Our animals are