really sweating this dinner, aren’t you?”
“They’re not as easy to land when they’re over thirty.”
Jim looked at her in surprise. It was such a naked declaration, especially for Florence.
“The mother will be watching like a hawk today,” Florence went on, “And she can ruin me before I ever have a chance.”
“What is she? A real dragon?”
“She doesn’t want to lose her baby.”
“At thirty-three he’s not exactly a baby.”
“Well, you know. Talk to her today, will you?”
“Who? The mother?”
“Be nice to her,” said Florence.
“Yeah, all right.”
“I’m worried about Daddy,” she said.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be a big hit.”
“If the mother annoys him, he’s liable to tell her off.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jim. “He’ll be a big hit.”
“Do you think so?”
“Sure. He appeals to the masochist in women.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m only kidding. He goes over big with the women, though. You’ll see.”
“I’m worrying about Arthur,” she went on. “If he comes in high, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I’ll keep an eye open,” said Jim. “And steer him out if I have to.”
“You will?” she said, encouraging him.
“Yes.”
Chapter 9
Jim had to go all the way down to a store on East 70th Street for the cranberry sauce. Heaven only knew how Florence ever found it. It was the Frenchy kind of place that she loved. Probably the only grocery store in New York with a carpet out on the sidewalk. He couldn’t take the car either, because his father would be taking it to Fordham to see Father Phelan. He had to go all the way downtown on the subway. By the time he got to 42nd Street and shuttled over to the East Side, and then took the Lexington Avenue train uptown, he had lost his good resolutions and cursed Florence.
The cranberry sauce was three dollars for a pint. It was unbelievable, Jim thought. The clerk gave him the jar to examine before it was wrapped. Jim read the label: “A piquant mixture of whole berries, spices, fresh orange juices, fresh orange rind, and an occasional raisin.” The clerk was smiling expectantly. Jim shrugged and handed it back, and the clerk wrapped it, carefully, as if it were a bottle of perfume.
By the time he got home, the family car was gone from the driveway, so his father had left for the interview with Father Phelan. Harry might be getting the word already about his sneak of a son.
Thank God for Ralph and his parents. His father could hardly say much until tomorrow, and with a little skillful dodging Jim knew he could avoid him until the evening when he would get home from work. By that time the edge would be off his anger. Even old Harry couldn’t stay in a rage for two days, Jim thought. He’d be boiling at first though. Jim felt an involuntary tremble at the thought.
Mints were set out in the candy dishes in the living room, and nuts, and spice drops. The plastic cover was off the couch. Even the glass cover had been removed from the coffee table, something done only for events of the first magnitude.
Aunt Nora was talking in the kitchen about Arthur, and the gist of the story was that Arthur had finally returned. “He came in at the dawn,” said Nora, “And didn’t he come into the room to wake me. ‘Pee wee, where did you put the bottle? I’m awful dry.’ ‘The bottle’s down the sink,’ I told him. ‘And divil a bit more you’ll get, you dirty skunk.’ The stink of his breath was all over me. I don’t know what to do with him. God knows what will happen in the end.”
Florence was pale as she listened. Both the women were dressed for the occasion. Florence had on a blue dress with a decorative half-round white apron. She looked pretty. She was cutting hors d’oeuvres that she had made by rolling bread slices and soft cheese into a cylinder shape. Aunt Nora had on a dress of yards of flowered rayon stretched over the stays of her corset. Her hair was done, and the top of her head was massed with little brown-gray curls. The turkey in the oven made crackling noises, and gave off fragrant odors. Jim noticed Nora had her nails painted.
He put the jar of cranberries on the table, aware that Aunt Nora with her insatiable curiosity would investigate it. Florence immediately put the jar on top of the refrigerator, without comment. “What’s that?” asked Nora.
“Oh, just cranberries,” said Florence.
“Show it here.”
So Florence had to bring it over. Jim felt a malicious joy; the price was marked on the label. This would be good.
He watched Aunt Nora hold the jar out at arm’s length to read the label. “Honest to Jesus,” she cried. “Is that three dollars?”
Florence abandoned diplomacy; she snatched it out of Nora’s hand.
“Is that three dollars for a jar of cranberries?” Nora asked again.
“It’s a special kind,” Florence said. There was a snap of annoyance in her voice.
“Did I ever hear the like? Three dollars for cranberries that can be had in the A&P for twenty-nine cents!”
“You can’t buy this kind for twenty-nine cents.”
“I’m telling you, my dears,” said Nora. “This will be a dinner for the duke.”
“Cranberries set off a meal,” said Florence.
“Whatever you like, sweetheart,” cried Nora. “Whatever you like.”
Florence was clipping off the hors d’oeuvres with a vengeance.
“What time are they due?” asked Jim.
“Very soon,” said Florence. She glanced at the clock.
“You help your sister this afternoon,” said Aunt Nora to Jim. Then she gave him a series of instructions. He didn’t bother to answer, since the comments were being made for Florence’s benefit anyway. He took one of the round little sandwiches. It was good, especially with the olive at the center. He took another.
“Don’t eat too many,” said Florence.
“You don’t want to be filling up on that old crap,” Aunt Nora advised. “Wait for the good turkey. And why is your father having to go over to the school for you today?”
“One of the priests wants to see him.”
“Edward
