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

“I didn’t,” Norris said. “You asked me to guess, and that was my guess. I’m telepathic.”

“No, honestly, did you know?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“No, I didn’t. I think I deserve a little praise for my acumen. And what did Mrs Delahantey, mother of men, have to say for herself? Are you girls cooking up something?”

“Me and Maureen? We’ve nothing to cook up: we’ve never been all that close. No, she simply came to tea, so big-hearted Mag did just that: gave her a cup of tea. And a small check for multiple sclerosis. At least I think that was what it was for—some one of those ailments they’re always coming round about. Those dibs and dabs add up. Bartram would never have anything to do with them. But he was of a saving turn.”

“Lucky for you,” Norris said, “that he was. So Maureen came to tea and you gave her a contribution. Your day sounds about as exciting as mine.”

Mag leaned forward and kissed him. “The day isn’t over yet,” she said.

“As far as excitement goes? I wonder what you’re planning in that busy little head of yours.”

“I’m not planning,” Mag said. “I’m anticipating. Can’t a girl anticipate, once in a way?”

“Who’s to stop her?” Norris said. “Or how?”

At the same time, Patrick and Michael were talking in their room “Taken any more money out of mother’s purse lately?” Michael asked, and snickered.

“Bung off,” Patrick said.

“OK, I won’t kid you,” Michael said. “When is Pete going to get the grass?”

“Soon. Maybe Saturday, when he can get into the city.”

“Can I buy in? I’ve got last week’s allowance, and by Saturday I’ll have this week’s.”

“I don’t know how far an ounce will stretch,” Patrick said. “Listen, you didn’t say anything about this to Nick Tromper did you?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. What’s the difference?”

“Plenty. We don’t want the whole school knowing about it. First too many guys will want in, then somebody will squeal to their parents—‘for our own good’ and we’ll all be in the shithouse.”

“Well, Nick was there the night we turned on. He never said anything. What do you think Nick is? But I haven’t told him Pete is planning to score.”

“‘Planning to score.’ You’re quite a head for someone who’s only turned on once.”

“Why? Have you turned on since then?”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“With Pete. He only had enough for one joint, so we split it. The other afternoon.”

“I bet I know what day it was,” Michael said. “The one when you were so awful quiet at dinner. I wondered what was eating you.”

“Pete and I went on some kind of laughing jag: every time one of us started to say something, the other one would break up laughing. It was kind of a chain reaction. So at dinner I was afraid to talk. Things were still seeming pretty funny to me.”

“Where did you smoke it?”

“In Pete’s backyard—you know, they’ve got all that shrubbery. Then we went up to his room, like we were studying. His mother was out.”

“Selfish bastards.”

“There wasn’t enough for more than two, even if you had been around. Anyway, you’re always hanging out at the Trompers’.”

“No more than you’re always at Pete Petrosian’s. Anyway, I like Nick and his family. They’re not a bit strict.”

As though on cue, Bryan knocked on their door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “And when are you two planning to go to bed, I wonder?” he said. “Do you realize what time it is? Or do you want to have your allowances docked?”

“We’re studying for a test tomorrow,” Patrick said.

“In social studies,” Michael added.

“Practicing for the school orchestra takes up a lot of our study time,” Patrick said.

“And athletics,” Michael added.

“If your schedule is so heavy that you can’t get to sleep on time,” Bryan said, “we can always cut out the athletics.” But the twins knew how proud their father was of them as future letter men, and took this as the hollow threat that it was. “I suppose you’ve heard what happened to your friend Pete Petrosian’s brother.”

“You mean his brother at college,” Patrick said.

“His brother who was at college,” Bryan said.

“What happened?” Michael asked. “Did he flunk out?”

“In the biggest way,” Bryan said. “He was expelled, and with a suspended sentence from the local judiciary. It seems the police staged a raid on the dormitory, and the Petrosian boy was one of those found in possession of dangerous drugs.”

“His name is Timothy,” Michael said.

“I don’t care if his name is Holy Moses,” Bryan said. “I don’t want to see that younger Petrosian boy hanging around here anymore. These things run in families.”

“Gee, Dad, that’s not very fair. Pete . . .”

“Don’t talk back to me,” Bryan said.

“I’m not talking back,” Patrick said. “I just wanted to say that Pete . . .”

“Do you want me to slap your face?” Bryan said. Patrick stood up without speaking. His face had turned brick red. “I’ve said my say about the Petrosian boys, and there isn’t any more to say about it. Now both of you get to bed.” Bryan left, closing the door behind him.

They had silently undressed and were in their pajamas when Maureen arrived to put in her two cents worth. “Patrick,” she said, “Pete Petrosian doesn’t use marijuana or LSD or any of those things, does he?”

“Of course not,” Patrick said, “Where would he get them? At the A & P?”

“There’s no call for sarcasm. Your father, as you may have gathered, is very disturbed by what’s happened to the older Petrosian boy.”

“His name is Timothy,” Michael said.

“Timothy,” Maureen said. “I personally don’t believe in damning the one boy for his brother’s fault. But you must take what your father said seriously. He means it, as you may have gathered.”

“I sit next to Pete in half my classes,” Patrick said. “For Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t curse and blaspheme at your mother,” Maureen said. “Apologize this minute.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Patrick said. “It’s that Dad made me sore—he’s so unreasonable. It’s not Pete’s fault if