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

to say there never were any of that kind of nerves in my family. We were brought up to think of drink as something common. None of us would have dreamed of touching a drop.”

Maureen smiled. “It didn’t exactly take with Bryan.”

“You could never call Bryan a drinker, just because he likes a little something before dinner.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean he’s a heavy drinker. I’d never stand for that,” Maureen said.

“I confess I like my little glass of sherry before supper,” Mag said. “I suppose that makes me a solitary drinker. I’ll just have to face up to the burden, as I do my others. But I couldn’t do without that little glass—Bartram and I made a ritual of it.”

Maureen, who had gone to the kitchen, came back with a fresh pot of tea and a cup for Biddy. “What do you hear from Sonny and his family?” she asked.

“They adore California,” Mag said. “And they send me color prints of the children quite regularly, so I feel in touch with their development. Baby Bartram is getting to be quite a big boy and can make letters. Not words, just letters. I’m planning to fly out for a short visit. I only wish they weren’t quite so far off. They can’t get away to come here—such a production with the children and little Debbie practically a babe in arms. It seems like yesterday that Sonny . . . but I musn’t get started on that.”

Patrick came in.

“Where’s Michael?” Maureen asked.

Patrick shrugged. “Good afternoon, Mrs Carpenter.”

“Are you two on the outs again?” Biddy asked. “I can always tell. You can’t fool your old gran.”

“Look at you,” Mag said. “First you shot up like a bean pole, and now you’ve filled out.”

“Why is your hair wet?” Biddy asked.

“I took a shower after practice. I always do.”

“We never went out with wet hair. It’s a wonder to me you all aren’t dead of pneumonia. Then where would the football team be?”

“I’m sure it would take more than wet hair,” Mag said, “to give a cold to anyone so in the pink of condition. Sonny never went in for football—track was his sport. Cross country running, in particular.”

“I may go out for shot put. Michael is.”

“This is news to me,” Maureen said. “You know how your father feels about too much sport interfering with your studies.”

“I do my studying at night. Can I have some tea?”

“May I,” Biddy said. “It’s such a simple distinction, I should think you could remember it.”

“May I.”

“Do you want a cup or a mug?” Maureen said.

“A mug. I’ll take it up to my room. I’ve got a composition I’ve got to write. For English.” Patrick fetched a mug, poured his tea, put in plenty of sugar and went upstairs.

“You must be very proud,” Mag said, “two such fine stalwart sons.”

“They’re good boys,” Biddy said, “and for the most part they get along like houses afire. Then they have these fallings out and won’t speak to each other. Nobody knows why.”

“If one of them uses something that belongs to the other,” Maureen said, “that will do it.”

“I sometimes felt quite guilty at having only one,” Mag said. “An only child has special problems. But twins: I suppose you have to expect a special kind of sibling rivalry, from time to time.”

“You do indeed,” Maureen said. “More tea?”

3

It was family group night at the clinic. Doctor Kearney, a young man with red hair, was seated at the head of the long table. “I’m just here to audit,” he said, “and put in my oar now and then. So whoever wants to get this off the ground, go ahead.” A long silence ensued. “I take it no one has any problems worth discussing. I wonder if I couldn’t spend my time in some more profitable way. Than just sitting here.”

“There isn’t a thing wrong with me,” Mrs Brice said. “I was perfectly content with my home—I never was much for gadding about.”

“You forget about the sleeping pills,” her husband said. “You ought to tell them about that.”

“It’s not true that I tried to kill myself. I took some and I couldn’t sleep so I took a couple more. What’s wrong with that? The doctor prescribed them.”

“One or two at bedtime,” her husband said, “that’s what it said on the bottle. You went into a coma.”

“How long had you been taking sleeping pills?” Lottie asked in a kindly voice.

“What difference does it make,” Mrs Brice said.

“You’re picking on her,” Bertha said. “Just like you all pick on me. Him most of all,” she said, indicating the doctor. She was digging at the edge of the table, as though trying to gouge out a splinter.

“Do you feel we’re picking on you, Mrs Brice?” Doctor Kearney asked.

“I guess not.”

“Of course no one’s picking on you,” her husband said. “You slept very soundly all your life and then you started needing pills. You ought to talk about why, perhaps.”

“What’s to talk about? I couldn’t sleep so the doctor gave me a prescription. You sound like I was some kind of dope addict. A person can’t go night after night without getting any sleep. Sleep is something you’ve got to have, like food.”

“Missing a night’s sleep,” Dr Kearney said, “won’t kill anybody. You may feel shot the next day, but sooner or later you’ll go to sleep.”

“I didn’t,” Mrs Brice said.

“Perhaps you had something on your mind,” Lottie said.

“And perhaps I didn’t. Why is everybody talking about me? I’m not the only person here.”

“You see?” Bertha said. “You are picking on her. The pills here stink. They just make you feel like a human vegetable. What I like is grass. I like to get high and meditate on the music. I am the music.”

“Grass?” one of the patients, an older woman, said.

“Marijuana,” Lottie said. “It’s one of those psychedelic drugs you read about. It distorts reality.”

“It’s a lot better for you than booze,” Bertha said. “I don’t mind wine but I wouldn’t want to be a