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

break something when we go there). I wouldn’t want to interrupt her if she’s up to her elbows in soap suds.”

“I won’t take you up on your bet, because I never gamble,” Biddy said. “As you know. But if I were to hazard a guess, it would be that she and Norris are seated in their living room, making plans. After Lottie’s stay in the hospital, I should think a nice trip would be in order—a motor tour, or maybe Florida. Does Norris play golf?”

“I don’t think so,” Maureen said, and giggled. “Maybe she’s out like a light on the kitchen linoleum.”

“Honestly, Maureen, you’ll be the death of me,” Biddy said. “Why don’t you go ahead and give a ring and see? You’ve stirred up my curiosity.”

“I think what’s holding me back is that I don’t know where Mag Carpenter figures in this. You saw what a flight and scurry she flew into in the supermarket the other day. You’d think Lottie was her best friend, and they simply are not all that close. Something is going on, even if it’s only in Mag’s mind. I’m as certain of that as I am that I’m sitting here.” She wriggled her rump in her chair. A volley of trumpet riffs came down the stairs. “I’ve told those boys not to play that cheap music in this house. Bryan hates it, and so do I. Did you know they want to form a group and play rock and roll music? It’s that Nick who’s behind it. I understand he has a set of drums. I don’t know what their father will say about that; except it will be plenty.”

“As for Mag Carpenter,” Biddy said, “I say, see no evil, speak no evil.”

“Heavens, you don’t imagine I’d breathe a word to Lottie? Even if I knew something to breathe.”

“I was merely expressing my philosophy about situations,” Biddy said. “I remember when I was a girl, there was an entanglement that involved the people next door—the husband—and a couple across the street—the wife. Mother said, ‘I don’t see or know a thing. I’m deaf dumb and blind. It’s all invisible to me.’ She went right on being friendly with both houses; until the divorces, that is. Then they all moved away. It was a great shame, due to the children, that is. I wonder what ever became of them all? Children of divorced parents seldom turn out well. They tend to go off on their own and get into trouble. I’m grateful that I was never a step-parent.”

“No, I wouldn’t care to have the bringing up of children who weren’t my own. I’d never feel sure I was being fair, being just. There are things you can overlook in your own child that would grate in a step-child. I can see that. I think I will give Mary Charlotte Taylor a ring. I don’t know why I’m making such a production of it.”

She advanced upon a white princess phone and dialed. “Hello? Is that you Norris? Maureen Delahantey here. How is every little thing? I really called up to say a word of greeting to Lottie. Oh. I see. Well tell her not to bother to call back, I just wanted to say hello and wish her a happy welcome home. Do you know yet when she’ll be home for good? I see. Still, it can’t be far off. Biddy sends her best too. Now take good care of her and we’ll expect you both here for dinner and cards in the very near future. Though we needn’t play cards if Lottie doesn’t feel up to it—I imagine there’ll be a little period of adjustment after the hurley-burley of the hospital. Tomorrow is Sunday—if you two feel like coming by for a cup of tea, it would be lovely. See what Lottie says. We won’t expect you, just come by if you both feel like getting out of the house. Goodbye for now.” She hung up and said to Biddy, “She was taking a nap.”

“Perhaps,” Biddy said, “you were nearer the truth than you knew about the kitchen floor. Poor woman, I hope she hasn’t already taken a false step.”

“I don’t think she can,” Maureen said. “They give them something that makes them violently ill if they take a drink. I forget—it’s a word like Abuse.”

“I can’t for the life of me,” Biddy said, “guess what made me start on a black afghan. Who will ever want it? I think I’ll run a maroon border around it. A nice deep maroon border. That will perk it up.”

Back at the Taylor’s, Lottie said, “I thought I heard the phone ring while I was dozing.”

“It was Maureen,” Norris said. “She felicitates you upon your return.”

“Thoughtful.”

“And said something about dropping by their way tomorrow for a cup of tea if you felt up to it. No need to call.”

“I don’t. Or is that rude? Of course I’ll give her a ring and thank her for the invitation. She’ll understand that my first weekend I want to spend here, in my own house. Or would it look funny if we don’t go? I don’t want people thinking I’m too enfeebled to down a cup of tea.”

“If you leave it up to me,” Norris said, “I’m not in much of a mood for Bryan Delahantey and his winning ways. The night I played bridge there with Mag Carpenter he told some incredibly off-color stories.”

“What were they?”

“I have no memory for dirty jokes, except that they all had to do with defecation. No. I do remember one. It seems an Indian checked into the Palmer House in Chicago and was given a room that shared its bathroom with the room next door. In the morning the chamber-maid found the occupant of the adjoining room on the bathroom floor with his throat cut. When asked why he did it, the Indian said, ‘Ugh. White man shit in Indian’s spring.“’

Lottie snickered. “Bryan is a perennial school boy.”

“I don’t think Mag cared too