Читать книгу A New World - Robert M. Keane - Страница 18

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 Jim sympathized with her, for the father was a hard man to talk to when he got into one of his withdrawn moods, as he had now.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 your fiddle back,” said Nora. “Maybe you can play a few tunes for the people.”

“There’s no need—,” Florence cried, but Harold was already out the door. Florence immediately went over and turned on the hi-fi, and the Mantovani melody floated through the dining room.

The way the eating arrangement had worked out, there were five on Jim’s side of the table: Mrs. Spaulding, Aunt Anita, himself, Florence, and Ralph. He had the obligation of talking to Aunt Anita. She had already exhausted the subject of her home surroundings so he didn’t know what to say to her. He smiled at her each time she turned and smiled at him. He seized at the opportunity presented by Harold’s leaving: “Harold plays the violin very well.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Anita, smiling.

Jim didn’t know what more to say.

Mrs. Spaulding looked over the table from her point at the end of the table near her husband. “Isn’t it just lovely?” she said across the table to Cricket. “Isn’t it just beautiful?”

Cricket looked up from his plate, and peered across at her from behind his milk-bottle lenses; he didn’t answer at all.

“We’ll eat,” said Mr. Meagher firmly, “but we’ll say grace first.” He stood up and made the thanks, while all bowed their heads.

He sat down again. Everyone got set to pick up a shrimp, when Florence cried, “The toast first!” She rushed out to the kitchen for the champagne; Ralph followed her out.

Each person stared hungrily at the shrimp in front of him, but waited. The conversation ceased altogether. They listened to Florence and Ralph bustle about the kitchen. The opening of the champagne in the kitchen took an interminable time. “Have they gone to buy it?” Mr. Meagher asked impatiently.

“Florence!” he called to the kitchen.

“Coming right in,” answered Florence.

The whomp of a champagne cork was heard. Then Florence gave a stifled cry. They heard her say in the kitchen, “Are you all right?”

Jim went out to the kitchen. Ralph had both hands over his mouth. He had apparently been hit with the cork.

“What’s going on?” Mr. Meagher cried from the dining room.

Florence turned in the direction of the dining room and called, with a smile on her face, “We’re coming right in”; then the smile turned to concern as she asked Ralph, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I guess so.” He was testing his left front tooth with his index finger. “I think it’s a little bit loose.”

“Oh God,” cried Florence. She was near tears.

“It’s all right honey,” said Ralph. “It’ll tighten up again.”

“We’ll go right to the dentist,” she said.

“That’s not necessary,” said Ralph. “It’s fine.” But Jim could see that his lip was already getting fat.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

The entered the dining room. “You’ll never guess what happened,” said Florence to the group. “The champagne cork flew out and hit Ralph.”

Mrs. Spaulding’s eyes went wide. Both Florence and Ralph went to reassure her. “It’s nothing. I’m fine,” said Ralph.

“You’re sure,” said the mother.

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

The champagne was poured. “A toast!” Jim said.

Cricket looked across at Jim with a smirk on his face and said, “Yeah. Let’s hear it for Florence and Ralph.”

“You should give the toast, Dad,” said Jim.

Everyone looked to Mr. Meagher. He took the champagne glass— fragile in his powerful hand—and held it, while he paused for thought. Finally, he said gruffly, “Good luck.”

They all made sounds of approval, and drank.

Harold came in with his violin.

“Oh, Harold is back,” Aunt Nora proclaimed. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s getting up.”

Jim got into a panic. How could Arthur come without shoes?

Harold stood there, fiddle in one hand, bow in the other, and waited for his cue.

“There’s really no need for Harold to interrupt his dinner by playing now,” Florence said to Aunt Nora. “I’ll just play the dinner music for now.”

“Don’t you want him to play?” asked Aunt Nora.

“It’s not that I don’t want him to play,” said Florence evenly. “It’s just that I want him to have his dinner.”

“Wouldn’t the guests like to hear some violin music?” asked Nora.

Both Mrs. Spaulding and Aunt Anita had inscrutable smiles. Mr. Spaulding was looking longingly at the shrimp.

Mr. Meagher settled it. “Play one tune, then leave us to get on with the meal.”

Harold raised the fiddle under his chin, and began to pluck strings looking for the right pitch. It was meant to be background music for the dinner, but suddenly it had become a concert, so everyone had to sit with hands in lap and look at the shrimp and wait for the recital to be ended. Harold drew the bow once across the strings in a test run, and drew an awful cat-yawling from the instrument. Florence sat herself in a chair, put her hands in her lap, and looked up at Harold, and beamed, actually beamed, as if she had planned the whole thing herself.

Jim looked at Nora, who had a satisfied air. She was such a blockhead of a woman, he thought. She couldn’t step into the background for one day.

Harold played “The Last Rose of Summer.” He could play well, but he was nervous, and there were screechy overtones, and an occasional rumbling low note. Once there was a nerve-jarring flat.

During the concert the two Spaulding women nodded their heads in time with the music. Mr. Spaulding studied Harold with a puzzled expression. Cricket looked at Jim and rolled his eyes in agony. Jim just wanted to get away from the table. If Arthur was going to come to the dinner, Jim had to give him his shoes back. But it would seem such an obvious thing if he were to get up now in the middle of the violin concert. Mrs. Spaulding leaned across the table to Cricket, and said in a low voice, “I bet you’re musical too.” Cricket stared at her.

“The Last Rose of Summer” was finally coming to the end of its span. Harold was on the last line. Just at that moment, the screen door in the kitchen opened and shut.