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

all right with you, I’d prefer it if you went on calling me Mrs Brice. Scarcely anyone calls me Fanny, so I’m not used to it. Except Mr Brice, and he usually calls me Mother.” Mrs Brice gave one of her rare chuckles. “And I don’t think I’m quite old enough to be your mother, younger though you are.”

“Not possible,” Greg Mulwin said, “no way. Posing is peaceful and relaxing work. Perhaps I’ll give up pharmaceuticals and get a job in an art school. May I come to you for a letter of recommendation, Lottie?”

“That you may.”

A nurse entered the room. “Isn’t Bertha here? Doctor wants to see her.”

“She was here,” Miss Pride said. “But she was dissatisfied with her work and left.”

“In fact,” Greg Mulwin said, “you might say she shot out of here hell for leather.”

“She’s not in her room or the sun room,” the nurse said, “or the bath.”

“Did you look in the kitchenette?” Lottie said. “She’s very given to soda pop and can often be found in the vicinity of the refrigerator.”

“She’s not there,” the nurse said. “You know, Miss Pride, you are responsible for the patients who take craft therapy when they’re working in here.”

“I beg your pardon,” Miss Pride said stiffly, “but that is not my understanding of the case. I am a therapist, not a guard.”

The nurse left on silent shoes.

“Dollars will get you doughnuts,” Mr Mulwin said, “that our Bertha has pulled a flit. I’ve often noticed that if the attention of the nurse on reception is diverted, it would be easy as cake to walk right out the door.”

“She seemed in a mood to do just that,” Lottie said.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Judson said. “More trouble. I hope she hasn’t gone and done something foolish.”

Dr Kearney came in. “I understand Bertha was last seen in here. Or rather, leaving here. How did she seem? What was she doing?”

Miss Pride turned pink, and spoke. “She was working on a bust. In clay.” She indicated the clay on its stand. “One she started yesterday.”

“Yes, yes,” Dr Kearney said.

“She seemed quite morose and rather hostile toward the others. Then she suddenly left,” Miss Pride finished.

“She used a curse word—the worst one,” Mrs Judson put in excitedly, “Messed up her work and stormed out with clay all over her hands. I thought she’d gone to wash.”

“It would seen we have trusted Bertha unjustifiably.” Dr Kearney gave Miss Pride a look that brought more roses to her cheeks. He turned to leave, then stopped and added, “All grounds privileges are suspended until further notice.” Then he was gone.

“I knew it,” Mrs Judson said. “More trouble.”

“I’m not sure I call that fair,” Mrs Brice said. “He surely can’t think we’re all going to run away because of what an overwrought child does. I was so looking forward to my afternoon stroll.”

“And it’s such a beautiful day,” Lottie said. “Where in the world can she run to? She can’t have much in the way of money. She borrowed ten cents from me yesterday to make a phone call.”

“She won’t get far,” Mr Mulwin said. “Don’t worry, she’ll turn up like the proverbial bad penny.”

4

It was night. Mag Carpenter was seated at the desk in what had always been called Bartram’s study. She was reading through a sheaf of notepaper, a letter she had just finished. Her handwriting was large, blockish, and slightly backhand. In her school days she had drawn little circles over her i’s. These lingered in a vestigial way, like little commas lying on their sides.

Dearest Norris,

How to begin? I sometimes try to have a little chat with you, talk things over, but you are so acute and quick that the subject is soon changed. I’m left feeling I haven’t said what I wanted to. Though by no means sure what that is!

It’s late and I couldn’t sleep. Took a pill but it had no effect at all. The doctor said the most I can take is two but I can tell another one won’t make a bit of difference. Anyway, I began thinking and thought perhaps I’d write you a letter, one I can give you when next we meet. This way I may be able to say what’s on my mind. It’s worth a try anyway and what harm can it do? You can read it and tear it up and never allude to it, if that is your wish. I imagine it will be. It seems like your way, dear.

What you don’t realize—don’t know—is how unhappy I am. Not when I’m with you—that isn’t what I mean. My days are a kind of hell on earth. Because I miss you—and we don’t see each other all that often do we? More because of what the future holds or rather doesn’t hold.

Thinking of course of when Lottie is back home. You have been very clear about that but like any woman or person I have my day dreams. Isn’t there some way we can go on seeing each other other? Not often—now and then.

I know if you had a job where you traveled it could all work out very easily. Our meeting now and then, I mean.

I feel I must be as truthful with you as I am with myself. I’ve said repeatedly I wouldn’t for worlds want to come between you and Lottie. That is a flat lie. It would be my dream come true if you and she divorced and you married me. Don’t misunderstand. I know that won’t happen. But when I’m alone that’s the way my thoughts turn. I know I could make you happy. I do make you happy, don’t I? You do me, but you know that already.

You’re so much more wonderful a lover than B. was, though it seems unfair to say it. Sometimes I wish we had never gotten launched on our little affair—then I would never have known. But then I would never have known this wonderful happiness, Norris dear, and I think I can