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

“Yes. If you’re well enough to go out alone you’re well enough to go home, the saying goes. I wonder if I’m going to take my old pleasure in housework when I go home? I’m quite spoiled here—making our own beds is the extent of it.”

“Have you got plenty to read?”

“Lord yes. But I find I prefer fraternizing. It’s part of the therapy here, mixing socially. And some patients like to talk out their problems. But I haven’t reached that point and I doubt that I ever will. Once I’ve said ‘I drank’, I’ve told the whole story. Some of the patients come from quite complex family situations. Now I’m going to stop prattling right this minute. Tell me about you.”

“Nothing to tell. Mrs Gompers leaves me my supper and I leave her the dishes. Then I watch a little TV or I read. I’m reading the new Agatha Christie right now—I don’t think it’s up to her level.”

“Does it have Miss Marple in it?”

“No.”

“Then I wouldn’t care for it either, in all likelihood.”

“Anyway, that’s the story of my evening—and so to bed. After Deirdre’s walk, that is.”

“I miss her. Give her an extra biscuit and tell her it’s from me.” A different, older nurse paused in the door.

“Visiting hours are up,” she said and moved on.

“I almost forgot,” Norris said. He handed her a slip of paper. “These are people who called up to ask after you and sent their regards.”

“Thoughtful,” Lottie said, placing the paper on one side. “I’ll walk to the outer door with you.”

They found Bertha lying stretched across the corridor, face down and seemingly in a coma.

“Just step over her,” Lottie said. “She’s only doing it to attract attention. She wasn’t doing well in college and, as they say, flipped out. Doubtless there’s more to it than that. Well, here we are.” She turned her cheek and Norris held his breath as he kissed her. “Don’t forget tomorrow night—family group.”

“Not likely to. It’s good to see you looking yourself. Goodbye, peach.”

2

In a room sparsely furnished with gleamingly polished bleached teak, Mag Carpenter was enjoying a dish of tea with Maureen Delahantey. From an adjoining room came the sounds of stilted conversation: Biddy was listening to her afternoon serials. Twing was curled up in a sunny chair, snoozing.

“The last time we were there,” Maureen was saying, “she kept slipping out of the room. Tippling. But that was months ago.”

“I know. A few weeks ago it seemed to me I hadn’t heard from her in a moon’s age. And it did seem odd—everyone had been so thoughtful, so attentive, since Bartram passed on. I thought, I’m going to take the bull by the horns and I am going to call her. So I did. This tea is scrumptious. Such a bouquet.”

“It’s something Irish. We order it special from New York because Biddy likes it.”

“Anyhow, call her I did. And do you know, she could barely articulate! I said, ‘Sounds to me like you’re coming down with a cold.’ Then there was a fearfully long pause with just her breathing. Heavily. Then she said, ‘I don’t think so.’ The funny thing is, even then the thought never entered my mind. That she was drinking, I mean. But you know me, I’m the last one to see what’s right under my nose. Is there any sugar?”

“Stupid me,” Maureen said. The tea set matched the dinner ware, and was white and very plain. The pattern had once won a good design award.

“I wonder how Norris is taking it,” Mag went on. “You know how he loves to tease, and I always say it’s men like that who have the most sensitive feelings. The teasing is a cover up, you know, like an armadillo. I thought of having him over to supper but now that I’m single again I wasn’t sure how it would look. She has enough on her mind, I imagine, without worrying about some widow setting her cap for her husband.”

“You could have him along with some others. That’s what I’m planning to do. I’m ashamed I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

A click came from the other room and Biddy joined them. “The Watsons are getting divorced. I’ve seen it coming for weeks.”

“The Watsons?” Mag said.

“It’s one of Biddy’s serials. Which one is this? A Town Called Pottsville?”

“No. It’s Unto Each Day. It takes place in a suburban town not unlike this one. Different families and the men going off to jobs in the city. Except the doctor. I don’t know what Frank Watson sees in that secretary of his—she couldn’t hoodwink me. Little schemer.”

“I suppose they have to invent things,” Mag said, “to keep the story going. Though a good deal of it is true enough to life, I imagine. Those things happen; and more besides.”

“True enough,” Biddy said. “A business associate of my father’s went off with his stenographer. And took a good whack of the company capital with them. Luckily my father had a sharper eye than some credited him with. He followed the unhappy pair right to where they’d gone and got back the securities. Then he told the man he never wanted to see his face again. It was a very great scandal at the time. I’ll just fetch myself a cup.”

“I’ll get it Biddy,” Maureen said. “I want to make a fresh pot anyway. The boys will be in soon and they both like a cup of hot tea. Everyone in this family likes tea. Though Bryan prefers coffee in the morning.”

“I don’t feel like I’m out of bed yet until I’ve made my pot of coffee,” Mag said. “There I am in my kitchen in my wrapper like a lump, waiting for it to perk. Then I can get down to things.”

“I suppose you two,” Biddy said, “have been reviewing the Mary Charlotte Taylor ‘nervous breakdown’ case.” She gave a spry little laugh. “At least that’s what it would have been called in my day. I’m happy