What's for Dinner? by James Schuyler (diy ebook reader txt) 📗

all highly hybrid, to say the least. Our house is a kind of animal orphanage—waifs and strays. But since Boxer is really Nick’s dog, it only seemed fair for the rest of the troop to each have its own pet.”

“Aren’t you through yet?” Nick said to Michael.

“Almost.”

“Perhaps Michael would like another helping. There’s plenty.”

“Well, all right, thank you.” Michael passed his dish.

“Good grief,” Nick said, “We’ll be here all night.”

“What are you planning that’s so important,” Mrs Tromper said, “if you don’t mind my asking.”

“We’ve got to study. Then maybe we’ll fool around with the basketball. Or go uptown.”

“If you go uptown, don’t stay late. Remember.”

“I never do. Well hardly ever. Just that once when I lost track of the time.”

“You certainly did. I was worried sick.”

The doorbell sounded and one of the younger children went and admitted Norris Taylor.

“I’m early,” Norris said when he had divested himself of his topcoat. “You’re still eating.”

“Pull up a chair,” Mr Tromper said. “We’re just finishing up. Would you like a dish of dessert?”

“No thanks. Mrs Gompers leaves me such hearty meals I can hardly get through them. But I don’t like to offend her by throwing out too much. She’s been a rock of Gibraltar to me while Lottie’s away.”

“Mag should be along soon,” Mrs Tromper said, “and we can get to the cards.”

“I’m finished,” Michael said.

“OK boys, scoot,” Mrs Tromper said. Michael and Nick went up to Nick’s room, which was decorated with posters and photographs of sports and rock stars.

“You sure do eat a lot,” Nick said.

“I’m not a beanpole like you,” Michael said. Nick was tall and thin and went out for basketball. The next hour and a half was spent in study, climaxed by wrestling match which Michael won, despite Nick’s eel-like slitheriness.

“Why don’t you sleep over here tonight?” Nick said.

“I’d have to call up and ask, and walk over and get my toothbrush and stuff. I don’t know. Don’t you have to ask your parents first?”

“No, not really. But I’ll tell my mother. Say, I’ll ask her to call up—that way your family’s more likely to say yes. I’ve noticed your father’s stricter than mine.”

“My Dad’s OK.”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t. Come on.”

At the bridge table Mrs Tromper was, by good fortune, dummy. “Why yes,” she said, “that’s a nice idea. I’ll call Maureen right now.”

She went into the hall and dialed the Delahantey residence. “Biddy? It’s Gladys Tromper. How are you? Not that I need ask: you’re always in wonderful health and spirits. Is Maureen there? Could I speak to her for a moment? Maureen? Gladys. The boys seem to think it would be a good idea if Michael slept over tonight, and it’s fine with us. Heavens no. A boy more or less goes completely unnoticed around this house. I keep some spare tooth brushes—you know, the disposable kind they have in motels—just for occasions like this. And Michael can wear a pair of Nick’s pajamas, if he doesn’t try to button the jacket. You certainly have a stalwart pair. What. Oh. All right.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, “Your mother wants to speak to your father first. What’s that, Maureen? Just a minute. Your father wants to know what about your music practice.”

“I practiced this afternoon.”

“He says he practiced this afternoon. It’s all right then? Good. I’ll see that they get to bed in decent time. I’m afraid we Trompers have a reputation for rather free and easy ways but I see to it that Nick gets his sleep. In fact, I couldn’t keep him from it if I tried. He asked for special permission the other night to stay up and watch something on TV and in fifteen minutes he was out like a light in front of the set. It was too funny. How’s Bryan? That’s good. We must get together—now I have to get back to a bridge table and see how badly we went down. Let’s see each other. Yes, soon. Goodnight.” She hung up the phone and said, “That’s all arranged. If you’re going uptown, Nick knows what time to be back. Have you got your watch?”

“I have mine,” Michael said.

“Well, have fun. Did we make it or were we set?” Gladys called as she returned to the living room. The chairs not occupied by the players were taken by animals, whose number seemed much greater than five.

Nick and Michael walked uptown to the Main Street, where they joined some other boys standing under a street lamp. Here they stayed for half an hour or more, exchanging views and ribaldries, (someone called Michael, “The Crisco Kid, fat in the can,” for which Michael gave him a good clout), then strolled back to the Tromper home.

They were discussing ambitions. “My Dad would like it,” Nick said, “if one of us became a C.P.A. like him.”

“What’s that?”

“Certified Public Accountant. You can make a good living at it, but I don’t know. A desk job. I might like to be something more outdoors, like a firewarden in a forest somewhere. Only you’re alone an awful lot. I’m not used to that.”

“At least you have a room of your own. I’ve always had to share one with Patrick. I’m never alone. I wouldn’t know what it was like.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” Nick said, “that we live in this big old house. I guess it’s kind of a mess, but at least I don’t have to bunk in with one of the brats. My mother isn’t like yours, mine hates housework. But she does pretty good considering. Your house is like a museum, it’s so perfect.”

“My mother likes things just so, I guess is the reason. She and my father always get together and pick out exactly the thing they want, then they won’t accept any substitutes.”

“Your family is strict. You and Patrick never come uptown in the evening, like the other guys.”

“It’s the way my father was brought up. My mother’s more liberal—if it was just left up