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

place to run away to. Still, I’d do it. When I feel an impulse, I go right ahead and do it. Guess that’s why I’m here. But I’d rather be a creature of impulse than a human vegetable.” Bertha regarded Mrs Judson, who was now sitting alone, staring at the TV, which exhibited a string of familiar commercials.

“Mrs Judson,” Mrs Brice said, “is not a vegetable. She’s every bit as much a person as you or I. I’m surprised to hear you talk that way about someone so kind.”

“I’m like old Mulwin,” Bertha said. “I have a mean streak. I don’t like to bottle it up or it will eat my vitals away. And where would I be without my vitals?”

“I think you’re more of a tease than you are mean,” Mrs Brice said.

Lottie approached, having put on a light knitted jacket. “Ready?” she said.

“All set,” Mrs Brice said. They signed out at the desk, and passing through several tiled corridors, reached the doors. The sun was out, the grounds immaculately kept.

“This is lovely,” Lottie said. “We should take more advantage of these balmy days. Shall we stroll, or shall we have a goal?”

“Why don’t we go to the gift shop? I don’t think I want to buy anything, but it gives me the feeling I’m going shopping.”

“Yes, I like that too. I can hardly wait to get back to my dear old supermarket and a shopping cart. I like to keep a full larder. Norris sometimes has some quite odd requests at bedtime, in the way of a sandwich or bowl of soup.”

“I like a full larder too,” Mrs Brice said. “I like to open the door and see it all there, in rows. In the cellar we have a special cupboard for the home canning. At the end of the season, it used to be my pride and joy, the jams, the jellies, tomato conserve—I even had my own secret recipe for piccalilli, a favorite of Mr Brice’s. Of course after Thad grew up, there wasn’t the need—how that boy loved jelly on his sandwiches, with peanut butter—and I tapered off. This year I didn’t do any conserving at all. Mr Brice asked if I wouldn’t just do a little strawberry jam, and maybe some rhubarb for pies, but at the time I couldn’t bring myself to take the interest. This year I’ll do a little, the two of us don’t need much.”

“I’ve never been a heavy canner,” Lottie said, “there’s always been just Norris and myself. But I do like to do a few special jams and jellies. Like apple mint, to go with the ham. One year in a fit of ambition, I made my own mince meat. It was a tremendous amount, I thought we’d never see the end of it. Whisky. There was whisky in it. Well, I won’t be making that again. Though I suppose I could eat a wedge of mince pie without running amok. Maybe.”

The breeze moved the trees and the leaf shadows trembled on the walks and lawns. It was a dream-like afternoon as they strolled on. At the gift shop they inspected the familiar wares. Many, like the giant stuffed pandas, were intended as gifts for children in other parts of the giant complex of the hospital. Lottie frowned at the skimpy selection of cosmetics, and finally picked out a lipstick and bought it. “Shall we go?” she said, then realized that Mrs Brice was on the verge of tears. When they were outside again in the sun the tears flowed. Mrs Brice dabbed at them with a Kleenex and Lottie took her arm and remained silent.

After awhile, Mrs Brice said, “It was a teddy bear. I once bought one just like it.”

“I thought it was something like that,” Lottie said. “I spend so much time feeling sorry for myself, then I realize what’s happened to someone like you, and I feel ashamed of myself. Why don’t we sit on this bench and just enjoy the sun?”

They did so, and Mrs Brice became calm again. “What did you buy“ she asked.

Lottie showed her the lipstick, a rather girlish pink, and said, “I don’t need it, dear knows, but I thought a slight change of decor might perk me up.”

When they returned to the ward, they passed Mr Mulwin in the corridor. He was being wheeled to his room on a cot, and seemed unconscious, although his eyes were partly open. Mrs Judson passed too at that moment, averted her eyes, and said, “Oh dear.”

Lottie went to her room, sat down in front of the mirror and combed and smoothed her hair. She wiped off the lipstick she was wearning and started to apply the new shade. Bertha came to the door. Lottie frowned at the interruption.

“You know that letter?”

“Yes.”

“The one I showed you?”

“What about the letter, Bertha?”

“I didn’t send it.”

“Was that wise? I think you should have.” Lottie continued to study her lips.

“You never know when the nurses will get around to mailing the letters you give them,” Bertha said. “They take all day about it. The letter might even get lost. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“My mail comes and goes quite promptly,” Lottie said. “I don’t think you need be so distrustful.”

“Well, I am. So I called them up instead. I got my dopey brother first, but then he put my mother on. She sounded happy to hear my voice, just like those telephone company ads—‘call up a loved one tonight.’ This way, they’ll be able to come to a session sooner and I’ll get out of here quicker. I’m not so dumb as I look. Do you think I look dumb?”

“No, not at all. Just a shade too self-absorbed at times.”

“When you’re not sweet, I know what you’re thinking about.”

“Well, don’t say it and we’ll continue to be friends. What do you think of this shade of lipstick. Do you think it’s too young for me?”

“It looks OK. I don’t believe in make-up myself. It’s false