like she’s kissing a lemon.”
Jill laughed in spite of herself.
“Ralph is getting the crap knocked out of him. He banged his head on the kitchen cupboard—.”
Jill made an “Oh” of sympathy.
“—And then my father gave him a straight arm that almost decked him.”
“Why?”
“Ah, my father is on the McCarthy kick. People are plotting against the country, the same people who are plotting against him. The Irish conspiracy mentality.”
Jill had a distressed look. “McCarthy’s not all bad.”
“He’s a madman.”
“Anyway, your father is nice.”
“He’s a pig-headed old man.”
Jill got up.
“Come back, will you?”
But she wouldn’t. She went into her house again.
He got up and took a walk along Brush Avenue. He couldn’t figure the world out, and he couldn’t figure himself out; and he liked neither. His stomach was bothering him.
Chapter 14
When Jim got back to the house, the whole group was gathered in the living room. The hors d’oeuvres plates were empty, but apparently dinner was not yet ready. There were three separate conversations going on.
Aunt Anita was talking to Mr. Meagher: they were sitting together on the couch. Jim sympathized with her, for the father was a hard man to talk to when he got into one of his withdrawn moods, as he had now. His face was grim—probably, Jim thought, he was gathering more arguments to defend Senator McCarthy. Jim pulled up a chair next to the couch. He got there just in time to hear Aunt Anita say to Harry, “I make the novena of the Holy Souls every Tuesday night.”
Harry turned and looked at her with a startled expression. Then he grunted. That was all the answer he gave. From the expression on his face Jim could read his unarticulated answer: “Cracked old woman.”
Aunt Anita refused to give up. “What novena do you make?”
“Wha?”
“What novena do you make?”
“I make no novena.”
Jim interrupted before she’d reveal his lie. “What part of Westchester do you live in?” he asked Aunt Anita. She was glad enough to turn away from Mr. Meagher and talk to Jim about her neighborhood.
Aunt Nora had Mr. Spaulding’s ear. He sat there with his gray hair and his lopsided smile, very urbane-looking and genial—at the same time, however, there was something frozen about the genial smile. Aunt Nora waved her finger in his face, and told him, “When cabbage gets up to fifteen cents a pound, there’s something wrong somewhere.”
Florence was talking to Mrs. Spaulding. Having left the lesser game to others, she was taking care of the big game herself. She told the story of her Caribbean sailing cruise, a year ago the previous winter, where she met an actual French-born Frenchman. Mrs. Spaulding listened, her eyes widening at the appropriate intervals, occasionally fluting her mouth and going “oooh,” to let Florence know she was listening, though she kept watching everything else that was going on in the room.
Florence left to go to the kitchen. Every eye watched her leave, hoping it was a sign that food was coming. Cricket and Harold arrived, coming through the kitchen and dining room, and standing at the living room door. Nora introduced them: “My Edward” and “My Harold.” The two of them immediately went back into the dining room and Jim followed them out.
“It looks like a swinging party,” said Cricket.
“Real gasser,” said Jim. “How are you, Harold? Good you were able to come.”
“I’m fine,” said Harold, adjusting his vest.
They stood for a moment, shifting from foot to foot.
“What happens now?” Cricket asked.
“We eat soon. I’m going to put you next to the old aunt. Maybe she’ll tell you about her sex life.”
Cricket hunched his shoulders and gave his crazy giggle.
Jim wished he could stay with the two of them, and mock the dinner. He would love to have stepped outside the whole affair, and laughed. But he couldn’t. Somehow, through conditions not of his making, he was involved. So he went out to the kitchen, and asked Florence if he could serve a drink, or something.
“No,” said Florence. “We’re ready.” She was taking the shrimp cocktail cups from the refrigerator, and setting them on a silver tray. The pink shrimp had been slit across their midriffs so they’d hang tantalizingly on the rim of the cup. The red sauce was in a smaller cup in the middle of each serving, nestled into the shaved ice.
Suddenly she produced a bell, a little silver thing that she gripped by means of the clapper within. “Go to the door of the living room,” she said, “and ring this, and announce dinner.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.”
“Ah, shit,” he said. “I’m not going to ring that thing.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t bother.”
She rang it herself, and gave the glad tidings of food, and in a moment everyone was in the dining room. She ran back to the kitchen to bring in the tray of shrimp. In that brief interval, Aunt Nora took care of the seating arrangement.
She lined herself, and Cricket, and Harold along one side of the table, and left an empty space for Uncle Arthur. There was nothing left for the Spauldings to do but ignore the cards, and take the other side of the table. Jim and Florence were also to sit on the other side with the Spauldings. Mr. Meagher took the place of honor and Mr. Spaulding took the end place at the other end of the table. Then Aunt Nora sat down, and the others followed, so that when Florence arrived with the tray of shrimp, the seating arrangement was accomplished, and Nora sat there with a stubborn, impassive look on her face, and refused to look at Florence, who glared at her.
Jim watched the two spots of red form in Florence’s cheeks. She was really in a blaze. But Jim knew, and Nora, of course, knew, that Florence would do nothing to destroy appearances. The seating arrangement had to be left the way it was.
“Where is Arthur?” asked Aunt Nora.
This turned Florence’s look from anger to alarm.
“He should be here,” said Nora.
“There’s no sense bothering the poor man,” said Florence.
“Harold,” said Nora, leaning forward, “go see where your father is.”
Harold got up obediently, and started out.
“Bring
