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

“The natural look is all very well at your age, Bertha. But at mine, a little help is more than welcome.”

“A lot of women your age don’t wear make-up.”

“I’ve noticed. It’s simply not my style. If I were more of an outdoor person I might pull my hair back in a bun and have that tanned leathery look. But I’m not. The telephone. Do you know, that gives me an idea. Excuse me.” Lottie left her room and went to the pay phone in the corridor and called Norris at his office, a thing she rarely did.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Norris said, when she was put through. He was going over Mag Carpenter’s will with her. The will was composed of a myriad little bequests to charities and distant cousins, and Norris had been reasoning with her about dropping some of the charities, and leaving larger sums to a few.

“Norris,” Lottie said, “I have a favor to ask.”

“Ask away, I am yours to command.”

“Would you have the florist send a plant to Mr Mulwin for me?”

“Am I dreaming?”

“No, you’re not. Have the card say, ‘With best wishes, from a friend.’ To Mr Gregory Mulwin. You know the address. All too well.”

“I also know him. I should think he might throw it out. Or suspect a plot.”

“You don’t understand. He’s just had electric shock treatment, and they say when he comes out of the after effects, he’ll be quite a different person. He’ll probably think it’s from someone where he works, or a neighbor, but that’s all right. I sense that he’ll be in a receptive mood, and enjoy receiving it. Somehow today I’m very aware of how important it is that we help each other when we can, in these little ways.”

“My dear, you’re very kind. Of course I’ll do it.”

“Everything all right there at the office?”

“Everything is much as usual, which passes for all right.”

“Then I’ll see you this evening—no, it’s tomorrow evening. I won’t keep you any longer. Remember, his first name is Gregory.”

“Will do. In fact, I’ve already made a note of it.” They bade their goodbyes.

“Was that Lottie?” Mag asked.

“Yes, it was. Now before we get back to this codicil about the Community Chest, I have a call to make. I must call a florist.”

“You’ve never sent me flowers.”

“Nor, my dear, am I going to start.”

2

“Well, Nick,” Bryan Delehantey said, “you’ve certainly become a long drink of water.”

“It’s funny,” Nick said. “Nobody else in my family is extra tall. My Dad’s not short, but he’s not tall either. I don’t mind it: I like basketball.”

“Hi Nick,” Patrick said, coming into the living room.

“And where were you?” Bryan said.

“He’s been being a good lad,” Biddy said, “and running an errand for your old mother. Did they match the wool?”

“I think so,” Patrick said. “Here it is.” He handed her a bag.

“Yes,” Biddy said. “That’s right. I do love a nice rich dark red. It goes with everything.” She regarded the maroon hanks Patrick had gotten for her. “Who would like to volunteer his hands while I wind this yarn?”

Neither twin spoke and Nick said, “I’ll do it.”

“No, Nick,” Bryan said, “you’re a guest. Let Patrick do it.”

“But I just went all the way uptown to get the stuff,” Patrick protested.

“It wouldn’t seem so far uptown,” Bryan said, “if it was a matter of hanging around the Candy Kitchen. However, in simple justice, Michael can do it.” Bryan was in a mellow mood, having had an extra highball before dinner, which had been late.

Maureen looked in the room. “Whose turn is it to load the dish-washer? They’re all cleared and rinsed and waiting.”

“Michael’s,” Patrick said.

“Like heck it is. I did it last night. Anyway, I’m helping Gran.”

“Come along Patrick, and stop fibbing.” Maureen left the room followed by her lumbering son.

“Mr Delehantey,” Nick asked, “would it be OK if the boys went uptown with me for a little while? We want to talk to some of the guys.”

“’Fraid not, Nick. Homework and practicing. There’s no point in their being in the school orchestra if they don’t practice. Not that it doesn’t make this house a merry hell.”

“But it’s Friday night,” Michael protested. “And we practiced this afternoon like you asked us to, so it wouldn’t get on your nerves.”

Bryan expanded, “I’ll admit I did forget there for a moment that it’s Friday. It’s my day off tomorrow, too, don’t forget, and I’m not making any special event out of it.”

“All we’d do,” Michael said, “is walk uptown, have a coke and talk to the guys a little. The senior track meet is tomorrow afternoon—we’re not in it but we’d like to go. Maybe you’d like to come too?”

“Maybe. Doubt if I’ll have the time. Now if I let you go uptown, and say I expect you back at a reasonable hour, do I have to say precisely what time I mean?”

“No, sir,” Michael said.

“And what hour do you have in mind?” Bryan asked.

“Ten o’clock?”

“Nine thirty. At the latest.”

“But it’s already eight o’clock.”

“Do you want me to change my mind?” Bryan asked rhetorically.

“No, sir.”

Eventually the wool was wound, the dishwasher loaded and the three boys set out. They had barely hit the sidewalk when Nick said, “Pete Petrosian has some great grass. His brother gave it to him when he was home from college last weekend. His brother is a great guy. Pete promised to bring a couple of joints.”

“You can’t stand around in front of the Candy Kitchen smoking grass,” Patrick said.

“Don’t be a jerk. We’ll stroll over to the athletic field. That way, you can see if anybody’s coming and the smell clears off in the air.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick said.

“You’ve never smoked any,” Michael said. “You’re scared.”

“Neither have you.”

“Yes I have. Well, I didn’t smoke it—Nick and I ate some and listened to records at his house. It was great. It really changes the music, so you can make out all the notes and hear the words. I wish we could smoke it