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

“I was just telling Lottie,” Mrs Judson said, “that I feel better today. Perhaps I will go on knotting that belt.”

“That is good news,” Mrs Brice said.

“What to paint, what to paint,” Lottie said as they strolled along the corridor. “I think I’d like to try a portrait—would you pose for me, Ethel?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to, but I’m afraid I’m still too restless. Don’t you have to sit perfectly still as a mouse when you pose?”

“Well,” Lottie said, “it helps.”

“Why not ask Bertha?” Mrs Brice said. “Sitting still would be good for her, and she might like the attention.”

“You’re sure I wouldn’t be inviting trouble? Bertha is a quixotic little miss.”

“There’s that side to it, too,” Mrs Brice said.

“And here are my champion workers,” Miss Pride said as the three entered the craft therapy room. “Going to go on with your belt, Mrs Judson?” she added in a bright tone.

Bertha was already there, deep in the clay. She frowned heavily, lest anyone speak to her.

“I started it,” Mrs Judson said, “so I might as well finish it. I’m certainly not going to wear the ugly thing, but I brought my children up to complete their undertakings, so I suppose I must live up to my own advice.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be ugly,” Mrs Brice said, moving to her own belt knotting board. “The colors are very pretty—so harmonious. I see it worn with a neutral colored frock.”

“Damn,” Bertha said calmly, as she gouged an eye in her lump of clay. “Before you chatterers arrived a person could concentrate.”

“Try to adapt, dear,” Lottie said. “You can’t expect us to give up all converse for the sake of one.”

“I don’t expect it,” Bertha said, “but I sure would like it.”

“Ah, is it safe for an unaccompanied male in here?” Mr Mulwin entered. “Miss Pride, good morning to you. You’re looking pert as all get out.”

“Oh Mr Mulwin.” Miss Pride, who was given to blushing, blushed.

“Tell me, Miss Pride,” Lottie said, as she got out her brushes and other gear, “how did you happen to take up this line of work?”

Miss Pride thought. “There were a number of reasons. I studied sociology in college, and found I was interested in people. I like working with them. Then I’ve always liked crafts, since my days at summer camp. And then, too, there was the consideration of earning a living.”

“That can be done in a number of ways,” Mr Mulwin said.

“I suggest,” Miss Pride said to Mrs Judson, “that you pull the knots tighter. Otherwise, the finished belt will be stretchy and hang loose.”

“Do you mean I should unknot all I’ve done and start over? That’s too disheartening.”

“No, no,” Miss Pride said, “that won’t be necessary. Here, let me demonstrate what I mean.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to turn out like those floppy moccasins,” Mrs Judson said.

“You see? You want to maintain an even tension in your knotting.”

“I’m too erratic for that,” Mrs Judson said, “but I’ll try.”

“Making another caricature of me, Bertha?” Mr Mulwin asked.

“Don’t be so egotistical,” Bertha said. “I have other things on my mind than your big head.”

“Good,” Mr Mulwin said, “good, good, good.”

“Perhaps,” Lottie said, “you, Mr Mulwin, are just the victim I’m looking for. Could I persuade you to sit for me? I’d like to try my hand at a portrait. I promise nothing about the results, but I won’t deliberately insult you.”

“Well, I was going to play gin rummy with that new guy—what’s his name?”

“Mr Carson,” Mrs Brice said, knotting away at a great rate. “He’s a merchandizing executive. Very interesting.”

“But he seems to have been called away by his shrink, so, why not? I’m certainly not getting mixed up with any moccasins. Shall I sit here? Can I talk? In the event that anything to say occurs to me.”

“Yes,” Lottie said, “sit right there. Talk all you want—I’m just going to rough you in in charcoal.”

“Yetch,” Mr Mulwin said, “to borrow a Berthaism.”

“Lay off,” Bertha said. “I’m in a bad mood.”

“OK. You seem in better spirits, Mrs Judson, if I may say so.”

“I am. Only please don’t tease me. I’m trying to concentrate on these knots.”

“Don’t concentrate too hard,” Mrs Brice said. “Let your fingers do the work. You’ll find they’ve picked up the rhythm and do it naturally, of themselves.”

“Mine don’t seem to,” Mrs Judson said. “I suppose it’s my lack of self-confidence. How you do fly along at yours.”

“And I’m not thinking about it a bit,” Mrs Brice said. “I don’t think about it on purpose. Have faith in your fingers, that’s my advice.”

“I’ll try.”

“Oh fuck,” Bertha said. She violently smeared down the bust which she had begun to model. Then she left the room.

“I do wish Bertha would mind her mouth,” Mrs Judson said.

“Pay it no mind,” Lottie said. “They say it’s an old Anglo-Saxon word, even if it does make me jump. But she only does it to shock—don’t give her the satisfaction.”

“I’ll try,” Mrs Judson said. “In fact, it doesn’t bother me quite so much as it did. When she opens her mouth, I expect the worst to come out.”

“You know, Mr Mulwin,” Lottie said, “you have a most interesting head.”

“You wouldn’t be flirting with me, by any chance?” Mr Mulwin asked.

“By no manner of means,” Lottie said.

“Well, all you lovely ladies locked up in here with us few men, I sometimes wonder how safe we are. I know I’d lock my door at night, only it doesn’t have a key.”

“I’m inclined to say, ‘Act your age, Mr Mulwin,’ only I suspect that that is what your are doing.”

“Playing the old goat? Why don’t you call me Greg? Everybody in my business does. Except the clerks, of course. That is, if I may call you Lottie, Mrs Taylor.”

“Please do, Greg.”

“And what about you, Mrs Brice?” Greg Mulwin went on. Lottie had swiftly sketched in a large head which bore some resemblance to the sitter.

“I may have bitten off more than I can chew,” Lottie said.

“If it’s