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

usual, I was just making a hash of it so I called my wife and she came down and we wound up here. At least I did: she went home after a while.”

“What a piteous story,” Mrs Brice said. “How well I know those watches of the night, when you can’t sleep, and your thoughts go around in circles, and you feel low.”

“I once threatened to kill myself,” Mrs Judson said. She seemed to preen a little. “Of course now it wouldn’t enter my mind. I’ve as much right to live as the next one.”

“Sometimes you talk as though you had more right,” Bertha said. “You talk like someone was trying to take it away from you.”

“The person who threatens suicide,” Sam Judson said, “or makes an unsuccessful attempt, is signaling for help. They have problems they can’t handle on their own. I read that.”

“That has a familiar ring,” Mr Mulwin said. “I read it somewhere too. Reader’s Digest, I think.”

“There must be those,” Lottie said, “who only mean to signal, but succeed. A chilling thought.”

“They say God’s mercy is infinite,” Mrs Brice said. “I can’t say I’ve had any personal experience of it, but it must mean something if they say it.”

“You mean,” Mr Mulwin asked, “to each his appointed time?”

“No I don’t,” Mrs Brice said. “There was no appointed time about what happened to my Thad and his family. It was a stupid, stupid accident. It left me feeling there’s no meaning in anything . . . and yet, I don’t know. God’s will be done, only I can’t believe that accident was God’s will.”

“Of course not,” Norris said. “Who would want to believe in a God like that? Much less worship Him. But then, I am not myself a believer.”

“Check,” Bertha said. “You pays your money and you takes your chance.”

“She talks dirty, she runs away and puts everyone in a fuss, and she doesn’t believe in God. What next?” Mrs Judson said.

“Lay off,” Bertha said. “I have as much right to my opinions as you have.”

“I have no opinion,” Mrs Judson said. “But I know bad manners when I meet them. Excuse me,” she said to Bertha’s parents, “but I think your daughter is spoiled.”

“I may have indulged Bertha more than I should,” Mrs Hartz said, “but she was always a strong natured child and I tried to give her her head. Appearances to the contrary, I don’t think I was altogether wrong.”

“Yes,” Mr Hartz said, “why not give our daughter a rest and talk about yourself? You have some problems of your own, I’ve noted.”

“I’m not sure I like your tone,” Sam Judson said.

“Like it or lump it,” Bertha said.

“Let’s not become acrimonious,” Lottie said. “That’s not the way in which we can help each other. Mrs Judson will speak up in her own good time, I’m sure of that.”

“I thought you were going to call me by my first name?” Mrs Judson said. “Lottie.”

“It was just a slip, Ethel.”

“Why should a person feeling low make him want to take his life?” Mr Carson asked. “I mean, one person rather than another. Everyone must feel low some time or other.”

“I certainly do,” Norris said. “But I find a good night’s sleep usually puts it right.”

“A good night’s sleep!” Mr Carson exclaimed. “I’m forced to say I don’t think you know what it means to feel really low.”

“I can usually get to sleep,” Bertha said, “and I’ve been lower than an earthworm’s belly. So I don’t think sleep has much to do with it.”

“I was only speaking for myself,” Norris said.

“Since I came here,” Mr Carson said, “I haven’t felt quite so low. Maybe things will take a turn for the better; though I’m probably mistaken.”

“Do you play bridge?” Lottie asked.

Mr Mulwin laughed. “Mrs Taylor and her deck of cards: the universal panacea.”

“It is a distraction from oneself, and one’s troubles,” Lottie said. “At least, I find it so.”

“I haven’t played since college,” Mr Carson said. “I’m afraid I’d just hold up the game.”

“Oh we’re not card sharks,” Mrs Brice said. “I’m the rankest kind of amateur, but I enjoy it. It is a diversion. And then there’s craft therapy—you’ll like that.”

“Ever made any mocassins, Carson?” Mr Mulwin asked. “If you haven’t, now’s your big chance.”

“Don’t mind him,” Lottie said, “Mr Mulwin is our resident tease.”

“Bridge, moccassins,” Mr Carson said in a confused tone. “I thought I came here for therapy, to find out why I don’t tick.”

“It takes time,” Mrs Judson said in an unexpectedly motherly tone. “Some people get worse before they get better, but others start getting better right away. I can see you are one of the latter kind.”

“Why thank you,” Mr Carson said. “Kind words are always welcome, and no doubt a help. Once when Judy Garland tried to kill herself, I heard a newsboy running through the street shouting, ‘Judy’s got a sore t’roat!’ It made an impression. What a thing to joke about, I thought at the time. All I really did was scratch myself a few times, and here I am in a hospital for the mentally disturbed. It almost strikes me as funny.”

Mrs Brice gave him a kindly look. “You weren’t really serious: I mean, as they said, you were signaling. Now you have to work out what you were signaling about. The doctors are quite a help, there.”

“What about the people who really do kill themselves?” Bertha said. “You ought to give them some credit.”

2

“It was nice of you to let me invite myself to tea,” Maureen said. “One gets into a round of habits, and I mean to pay calls, and then I find I’ve put them off and put them off.”

“How is everyone at your lovely home?” Mag asked. She poured Maureen’s tea and passed the cup to her. “I half expected Biddy to be with you. Now there’s a person who fascinates me—so active for her years, such a fund of memories.”

“I thought I’d just slip out and pay a call without