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

might get in forty winks before one of the nurses chases you out.”

“Bertha,” Mrs Judson said, “you’re being the devil’s advocate.”

“If your medication is making you groggy,” Lottie said, “you ought to tell Dr Kearney. He may change it, or give you permission to nap—he’s not altogether heartless.”

“I should say not,” Mrs Brice said.

Dr Kearney came into the room. “Ah,” he said, “here you are Mr Carson. I wonder if we might step along to my office for a little chat?”

Mr Carson silently rose to his feet. “Busy as beavers,” Dr Kearney said, smiling beneficently. “A pleasant sight.”

After he and Mr Carson left, Bertha said, “And a big pooh to you. With knobs on.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Judson said.

“Why Bertha,” Mrs Brice said, “you imp.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Judson reiterated. “I made a mistake way back here and I’ll have to undo all this work. Or should I just let it pass? Who’ll notice? Who’ll ever wear the belt?”

“Better to go back and make it right,” Mrs Brice said. “You’ll never feel satisfied if you don’t.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Mrs Judson said. “Imagine, worrying feeling guilty over a teeny mistake in a stupid belt.”

“It’s not stupid,” Lottie said. “It’s going to be a very pretty belt, and finishing it will give you satisfaction. You’ll see that I’m right.”

“Sometimes, Mrs Taylor,” Mrs Judson said stiffly, “you talk as though you were on the staff.”

“I was merely speaking from my personal experience. I didn’t mean to sound superior—especially after the hash I made of Mr Mulwin here.”

“What’s that you’re saying about me?” Mr Mulwin said. “I must have dozed off there for a moment.”

“I was only saying that I’d made a hash of your portrait. And I’m not sure I’m going to do any better with these chrysanthemums. Perhaps I should go back to invented and recollected subjects. They don’t tie you down so.”

Chapter XI

1

“A fine thing,” Bryan said, “consorting with dope addicts and worse, dope peddlers. That’s what the law says: over a certain amount of marijuana, and he’s a resale man. Corruption, crime and corruption.”

“But he’s not yet sixteen,” Biddy moaned. “Sure they’ll take that into account. There’s some older person behind this, hid it on him in his clothes when he felt the law closing in. What about that Jewish boy—never can remember his name—but I sure don’t trust the look of him.”

“Fatso Calabash,” Patrick offered.

“That’s what he’s called,” Michael said. “Big sissy, he’d be too scared to get mixed up in anything like this.”

“While you two he-men wouldn’t, I suppose.” Bryan clattered his fork on his dessert plate, whence the pie was eaten.

“I never bought any grass or dope or anything off anybody,” Patrick said vehemently.

“Me too,” Michael said.

“All I have to say,” Bryan said, “is that it was pretty astute of the coach to do a clothes search while you were doing your gymnastics.”

“He didn’t have the right,” Patrick burst forth.

“Yes, he didn’t have the right,” Michael said firmly. “We’re free white citizens.”

“The color of your skin doesn’t enter into it,” Maureen said. “Though I admit I have my own doubts about the legality of the proceedings. You have to trust people, even when you’re wrong. I think.”

“Yes,” Biddy said, “trusting people, it’s the only way or else you find crime even where it isn’t. I read somewhere that ‘grass’ or ‘pot’ is much less harmful to the system than cocktails. I think it was in the Reader’s Digest, though it doesn’t sound like them much does it?” She paused. “I wonder just what this high they talk about is like? Wouldn’t know where your Gran could get a joint, would you boys?” said the saucy old lady.

The twins remained silent.

“Even on a momentous night like this,” Bryan said, “I don’t suppose your homework is going to do itself. You’re excused.”

The boys, in a flurry of thank yous and thank you ma’ams, left the table and, goosing each other on, began the ascent to their room.

“Would you listen to that,” Bryan said. “Elephants at the water hole.”

“They do sound rather like whales with shoes on,” Maureen said.

On loud feet, Bryan marched quickly to the foot of the stairs. “You two, back down here.” He was obeyed. “I want you to go up stairs quietly, like civilized men, one step at a time, and don’t kick the riser. No, not you Michael. Patrick can go first. And the next one who lets the toilet seat bang down gets the belt.”

When they had achieved the seclusion of their room, and spread out books and papers, Patrick tip-toed to the door, opened it a crack, found the coast was clear of spies, and tip-toed back to his chair.

“Where’d you hide your stash?” he muttered to his twin.

“In my book bag, in my locker at school.”

“Jee-zuz! Suppose they shake down the lockers? They got all the combinations to the locks!”

“I know,” Michael said. “Why do you think I’m sitting here shitting brick turds? What about yours?

“My brick turds? Never use ’em.”

“Your stash, your stash,” Michael said.

“Smoked it up.”

“Where? And when and who with?”

“Never mind. Just never mind.”

“Never mind that?” Bryan demanded, entering swiftly in his stocking feet.

“Hunh?” Patrick said. “I was asking Michael a question about French and he wasn’t sure of the answer so I said, ‘Oh never mind.” I’ll figure it for myself. It’s better that way, you learn more.”

It was Bryan’s turn to say, “Hunh.” He went on, “I think that coach wasn’t so dumb and we’re going to have a little shake down cruise right here. Clear out your dresser drawers, one item at a time, one drawer at a time. No Michael, Patrick can go first. You study.”

The search seemed to take forever, and the twins were even subjected to a pat-down search, as though by a cop in a TV show. Michael only yielded keys, some change, his good luck silver dollar bill clip (empty of bills) and an unsigned mash note which Bryan would ordinarily have gone into in depth. Bryan brightened when