“That’s Ramona back,” Eloise said nasally. “Do me a favor. Go out in the kitchen and tell whosis to give her her dinner early. Willya?”
“All right, if you promise not to cry, though.”
“I promise. Go on. I don’t feel like going out to that damn kitchen right this minute.”
Mary Jane stood
up, losing and recovering her balance, and left the room.
She was back in less than two minutes, with Ramona running ahead of her. Ramona ran as flatfooted as possible, trying to get the maximum noise out of her open galoshes.
“She wouldn’t let me take her galoshes off,” Mary Jane said.
Eloise, still lying on her back on the floor, was using her handkerchief. She spoke into it, addressing Ramona. “Go out and tell Grace to take your galoshes off. You know you’re not supposed to come into the—”
“She’s in the lavatory,” Ramona said.
Eloise put away her handkerchief and hoisted herself to a sitting position. “Gimme your foot,” she said. “Sit down, first, please. . . . Not there—here. God!”
On her knees, looking under the table for her cigarettes, Mary Jane said, “Hey. Guess what happened to Jimmy.”
“No idea. Other foot. Other foot.”
“He got runned over,” said Mary Jane. “Isn’t that tragic?”
“I saw Skipper with a bone,” Ramona told Eloise.
“What happened to Jimmy?” Eloise said to her.
“He got runned over and killed. I saw Skipper with a bone, and he wouldn’t—”
“Gimme your forehead a second,” Eloise said. She reached out and felt Ramona’s forehead. “You feel a little feverish. Go tell Grace you’re to have your dinner upstairs. Then you’re to go straight to bed. I’ll be up later. Go on, now, please. Take these with you.”
Ramona slowly giant-stepped her way out of the room.
“Throw me one,” Eloise said to Mary Jane. “Let’s have another drink.”
Mary Jane carried a cigarette over to Eloise. “Isn’t that something? About Jimmy? What an imagination!”
“Mm. You go get the drinks, huh? And bring the bottle . . . I don’t wanna go out there. The whole damn place smells like orange juice.”
At five minutes past seven, the phone rang. Eloise got up from the window seat and felt in the dark for her shoes. She couldn’t find them. In her stocking feet, she walked steadily, almost languidly, toward the phone. The ringing didn’t disturb Mary Jane, who was asleep on the couch, face down.
“Hello,” Eloise said into the phone, without having turned the overhead light on. “Look, I can’t meet you. Mary Jane’s here. She’s got her car parked right in front of me and she can’t find the key. I can’t get out. We spent about twenty minutes looking for it in the wuddayacallit—the snow and stuff. Maybe you can get a lift with Dick and Mildred.” She listened. “Oh. Well, that’s tough, kid. Why don’t you boys form a platoon and march home? You can say that hut-hope-hoop-hoop business. You can be the big shot.” She listened again. “I’m not funny,” she said. “Really, I’m not. It’s just my face.” She hung up.
She walked, less steadily, back into the living room. At the window seat, she poured what was left in the bottle of Scotch into her glass. It made about a finger. She drank it off, shivered, and sat down.
When Grace turned on the light in the dining room, Eloise jumped. Without getting up, she called in to Grace, “You better not serve until eight, Grace. Mr. Wengler’ll be a little late.”
Grace appeared in the dining-room light but didn’t come forward. “The lady go?” she said.
“She’s resting.”
“Oh,” said Grace. “Miz Wengler, I wondered if it’d be all right if my husband passed the evenin’ here. I got plentya room in my room, and he don’t have to be back in New York till tomorrow mornin’, and it’s so bad out.”
“Your husband? Where is he?”
“Well, right now,” Grace said, “he’s in the kitchen.”