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

grabbed Bertha, wheeled her around and with the wash cloth smartly slapped her cheeks. “Hysterics—that’s all we need, you spoiled brat.” She shook Bertha, whose head snapped back and forth while her messy hair flaired and bushed out. “Get in that bed and shut up or I’ll give you something you’ll never forget, trouble-making bitch.” She released Bertha, who with a surprising show of dignity turned and got into bed and faced the wall.

Chapter XII

1

It was afternoon in a dusty, stale-beer smelling hard-hat bar. A few morose topers leaned on the bar and Mag and Norris sat in a booth at the back, the table ornamented with a drink slopped checked cloth and salt crystals off pretzels. As a hideaway, they could not have chosen a spot where they could be more conspicuous; still, it was unlikely any of their set would wander into this seedy setting.

Mag was acting kittenish, but her hands in her lap flexed their talons, like a cat in a lap kneading bread (“Ouch, pussy!”). There was a distinct air of the dentate vagina. Norris looked sourly at his too-sweet scotch sour. “Always order straight booze in a joint like this. Bourbon and a beer chaser: a boiler maker, they’re called.”

“I heard of an amusing little drink the other bridge game,” Mag said lightly. “A rusty nail, it’s called: scotch with a dash of Drambuie. Of course the scotch must be of the best,” she added, and gave a little shudder as she looked at the unlikely rot gut lined up behind the bar. “So Mary Lottie’s coming home. How nice.”

“Yes,” Norris said, “it is. I wasn’t cut out to be a bachelor.”

“Norris,” Mag said in a gentle, hurt tone, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

Norris looked puzzled. “What?”

“Us.”

“Are we going to review all that again? I thought I made it clear: I’m a married man: a happily married man.”

“And where does that leave me?”—in plaintive tones.

“Just where I found you, my merry widow.” Norris gave what for him could only be called an evil chuckle. “To be blunt, we have now had our last roll in the hay.”

“Oh. How coarse. I love you. I can’t let you go like this. I won’t do it. You’ve committed me to you.”

“How are you folks doing?” asked the barkeep. “Get you anything?”

“No, thank you,” Mag said.

“Yes,” Norris said. “Two more of the same and could you make them less sweet?”

“Can do; will do.” Something about the way Norris and Mag were dressed gave the owner hopes of a rise in the world.

“I think,” Mag said, “I will have to have a little talk with Lottie. A chat, explaining to her just how things stand.”

“They don’t stand. Whatever we had between us—and I admit I enjoyed it—is over. Finis. Quits.”

“Oh?” Mag said. “I wonder.”

“Don’t bother your thick skull with wondering. Even if Lottie dropped dead today I’d never go to bed with you again. Can you grasp that idea?”

“Oh yes. But I still think a little talk is in order. To clear the air.”

“I admit the air in here is not very clear. But I can tell you one thing: if you ruin my marriage I’ll kill you. I have a gun and I’ll use it. I’m a one woman man and that woman is my wife.”

Mag picked at the table cloth. “Norris, I love you in this primitive mood. It gives me little chills. Couldn’t you take the afternoon off and come home with me?”

“No. N-o. Christ, you are dumb.”

“Well, thanks a lot. Thanks for nothing. I’m not going to forget this right away!”

“Good. Now you’re catching on.”

2

When the earth was thrown into Biddy’s grave and rattled on the coffin, and the priest pronounced the fatal, final words, Bryan broke into terrible dry sobs and threw his arms around his wife. “Honey, honey, you’re all I have left. Let me die first. Don’t you desert me.”

“There there there,” Maureen said softly. “There there. She had a wonderful life, happy and good right to the very end.”

Michael was crying unashamedly. Patrick stood numbly still. All the parish was there to honor the matriarch. In the background Mag and Lottie stood side by side and dabbed at their eyes. Norris stood with clenched hands and stared at the sod.

That night the Delahanteys retired in silence, forgetting to let Twing in. Maureen lay wide-eyed, mourning. After she thought Bryan asleep, he suddenly rolled over, grabbed her night dress and ripped it up the front. He began to bite her nipples as he forced his hard cock into her. His tears fell on her breasts. This was not like them. Bryan was naturally a rough man, but Maureen had tamed him to be gentle. Tonight she slid her hands under his pajama jacket and dug her nails into his flesh. “Fuck me,” she said, “fuck me hard make me feel it.” She had never used the word “fuck“ before in her life.

In the twins’ room, a whispered drama went on.

“For the love of Pete,” Patrick said, “quit jerking off. You’re even shaking my bed.”

“Oh shut up,” Michael said. “I can’t sleep if I don’t get my nuts off.”

“You’re going to shake the whole house. Dad will be in here with a strap. You’ll get it and then he’ll blame me too.”

“Framistan to you. If you can’t sleep go let the cat in. She’s been yowling for an hour.”

“You do it.”

Michael chuckled. “I can’t. I’m otherwise occupied. Sweet shit, I’m going to come. Oh hot damn what a load.”

“You disgust me.”

“Go soak your head. I’m going to sleep.”

3

A new liberalism reigned at the Norris Taylor residence. Fat old Deirdre lay lumped in a Victorian chair. Her head was lain against one over-stuffed arm, dribble running out of the corners of her mouth. A picture of contentment.

The Delahanteys, sans twins, had come to dinner and a rubber of bridge.

“Did you notice what Maureen was wearing?” Lottie asked Norris, who was catching up on the evening paper which the party had postponed.

“Hmmm?”