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

“I realize that, and that’s why I came up here. Your father feels a great concern, though, about drug abuse and the younger generation. I don’t know what he’d do if he ever thought either of you were mixed up in something like that. I really don’t.”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Michael said. “We’re only high school kids, and there’s never been any trouble at the school that I know of.”

“No,” Maureen said, “I know there hasn’t. But an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. I see it your father’s way, but I see it your way too. I have faith in my two fine upstanding boys.” She kissed them both and left the room.

“This is a fine how-do-you-do, or balls up,” Michael said. “You realize that the cops where Tim was at college are likely to get in touch with the ones here? Suppose they raid the Petrosian’s? And find Pete with a nice fresh ounce of grass stashed away?”

“I know,” Patrick said. “Maybe we could hide it here.”

“Don’t talk crazy. You know Grandma Biddy is always going through our drawers, ‘just to straighten up a little.“’

“There’s the garage,” Patrick said.

“And then Dad will decide to give it a good turning out, and the jig will be up. You can forget about here.”

“What about Nick Tromper? Anything goes at the Tromper’s—I mean, they don’t check up on him all the time.”

“Then you’d have to cut us both in,” Michael said.

“I’ll talk to Pete about it,” Patrick said, “and see what he thinks.”

“And I’ll talk to Nick,” Michael said. “Goodnight, meathead.”

“Try not to fart in your sleep,” Patrick said, “and gas us both to death.”

3

“Mr Mulwin,” Bertha said, “as long as you’re posing for Mrs Taylor anyway, could I try to sculpt a head of you? I won’t make it funny this time. Not on purpose, anyway.”

“Be my guest, Bertha,” Mr Mulwin said. “This reminds me of the time Mrs Mulwin and I went to Miami Beach. There was nothing to do but sit.”

“Oh dear,” Lottie said. “I hope you’re not getting bored and want to quit. Yesterday I thought I was beginning to get a real likeness; but today I don’t know. Every stroke seems a mistake.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr Mulwin said, “I won’t quit on you. Lord knows, I’ve nothing better to do with my time. I’m resigned to the fact that my business can either run itself or else go to hell in a handbasket. Imagine, at my age, starting from scratch again as a pharmacist. Working for someone else. I’m not sure I could stomach it.”

“I don’t suppose it will come to that,” Mrs Judson said. “You probably have a loyal staff, plugging away at their appointed tasks. I know the fellows who work for Sam would do anything for him.”

“There’s much more loyalty in the business world than is commonly believed,” Mrs Brice said.

“As the only business man here, I’ll take that as a personal compliment,” Mr Mulwin said. As though summoned, Mr Carson appeared in the doorway.

“Is this the place where I can reveal my complete lack of manual dexterity?” he asked.

“Double damnation,” Lottie said. “Excuse me, Mr Carson, I was talking to myself. My own dexterity is letting me down badly today.”

“How do you do? I am Miss Pride,” Miss Pride said. “Let’s see what we can interest you in. Moccasins, perhaps?”

“I don’t really need a pair of mocassins,” Mr Carson said. “I have several pairs of slippers—they get given to me at Christmas. What’s that Mrs Brice and Mrs Judson are doing?”

“Making knotted belts,” Miss Pride said. “Once you’ve mastered the simple, basic knot, you’ll find yourself whizzing along. Care to give it a try? It would make a lovely present for Mrs Carson.”

“It’s really simplicity itself,” Mrs Brice said. “I’m on my tenth. Don’t know what I’m going to do with them—try and palm them off on the next church bazaar, most likely.”

“I don’t know,” Mr Carson said querulously. “When I say I’m not dexterous, I mean it. I never have been sure which is the right knot for shoe laces.”

“Still, your shoes do get tied,” Miss Pride coaxed.

“Somehow or other,” Mr Carson said. “Are moccasins very complicated?”

“No more than belts,” Mrs Judson said. “I’m not handy either, but after a while you get the hang of the thing. Not that I’m a knotter in the same class as Mrs Brice.”

“Don’t be modest,” Mrs Brice said. “You’ve come along beautifully.”

“If I weren’t nailed to this chair,” Mr Mulwin said, “I’d challenge you to a hot game of gin rummy.”

“That I’ll take you up on, sooner or later,” Mr Carson said. “My wife and I exchange thousands across the board—all in fun, of course.”

“Of course,” Mr Mulwin said. “I wasn’t suggesting we play for money: gambling is not one of my vices.”

“I see no harm,” Lottie said, “in a game of bridge at a quarter a corner, or even a twentieth of a cent a point.”

“One thing leads to another,” Mr Mulwin said darkly.

“Are you talking about my drinking?” Lottie said sharply.

“Great Scot, no!” Mr Mulwin said.

“Oh, do you have a drinking problem, too?” Mr Carson asked. “I’ve belonged to AA for years. Believe me, it’s a struggle, when you get to feeling low. Not to knock back a few, I mean. I tried to cut my wrists, but I didn’t take a drink. I guess I can take some pride in that. No pun intended, Miss Pride.”

“We also have finger painting,” Miss Pride said. “That may sound childish on the face of it, but many patients find getting in there and messing around in the paint has a physical side to it that relaxes their tensions.”

“I have no tensions,” Mr Carson said. “The pills they give me, I’m half-asleep on my feet.”

“Mr Mulwin,” Lottie said, “I’m going to release you from your vows. Portraiture is beyond me.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Judson said. “And I thought it was going so nicely.”

“Hey,” Bertha said, “What about me? I just got