said. He handed Inez a stiff scotch and water and made one for himself. That’s what they told me, Inez said. Oh, brother, Bill said, they might as well advertise. They might as well do it in Macy’s window. Jesus Christ, Inez, what a mistake I made, what a mistake, oh fuck it. He had tears in his eyes and Inez, surprised and moved, put her drink down and held him close. The room was gray and gloomy, cold fog outside its single window. He put his hands under her skirt and moved her against the kitchen table. I love you, he said. I love you, I love you. The baby is sleeping, she said, we have to be quiet. She pulled her panties off and sat on the edge of the table with her skirt around her waist and opened her legs.
They lay in bed watching what looked like a children’s show. Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus and their elves and helpers grinned and rushed about, but the sound was so low that their dialogue was unintelligible. Ralph lit another cigarette. Santa Claus in horn-rimmed glasses, he said, for Christ’s sake. Jenny looked over at him. She was in her slip. There was a water stain in the corner of the ceiling. What class, Ralph said, well, it’s not the St. Francis, but this wasn’t exactly an— amour, was it? However you want to slice it. Was it? You are a real bastard, she said. What? he said, I’m a real bastard? Didn’t you suggest this place and drive us here? Now you think—what?—I’m supposed to be a tender lover? She put out her cigarette and got out of bed, picked her panties up from the floor and went into the bathroom. You’ve got a run in your stocking, he said, as she closed and locked the door. All the folks in Santa’s North Pole house were singing happily, then they disappeared and another Santa appeared, selling Coca-Cola. I hope to Christ that Billy blames the fucking chess set on her, he said to Santa.
The baby woke up, climbed down from bed, and walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She stood in the doorway and was frightened to see Uncle Bill jumping on Mommy on the table, they were bumping and making noises. She began to cry very loudly. Bill, stop! Inez said, Bill! Not now, not now, he said.
Jenny pulled up in the battered and dirty station wagon across the street from the little frame house. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig, Ralph said. Do we need any booze? I can run down to the corner, is it? They ought to still be open. I could use the air anyway. Ralph bought some yesterday, Jenny said, scotch and gin. He’s drunk already anyway from the office party, he’ll be teary and embarrassing and telling Inez how wonderful she is, how pretty, how wonderful, what a great mother. Wonderful. You think we can order Chinese tonight? Ralph said. Or pizza? Don’t kill yourself cooking? She smiled at him, then nodded toward the house. No lights in the front room, she said. Bill must be home and they’re both in the kitchen getting plastered. Ho ho ho, Ralph said.
Cold Supper
J ACK GOT HOME ABOUT 8:30, WELL AFTER DARK. ANNA WAS sitting at the kitchen table, reading another drugstorelibrary novel by Fanny Hurst or Faith Baldwin, some ladies’ hogwash. Was that all she did all day? His place was set and his supper was on the kitchen counter, all of it cold. Is that my delicious supper? he said, and she looked up from her book as if suddenly aware of him, and then at her watch. Oh, I get it, he said. Let’s see, a cardboard pork chop sitting in fat, Ann Page carrots and peas, mmm, and what’s this? plaster? oh, mashed potatoes à la skins and lumps, a gravy boat full of, uh-huh, grease! And, of course, a luscious salad with a bright orange gourmet dressing. I can’t wait. The kid’s in bed, I suppose, God forbid you should keep him up a few minutes so he can see his father. Anna looked up again from her book and asked him where he’d been, he said he’d be home for supper, my God, you can’t spare an hour for your son on a Saturday? He sat down at the table and tapped
They lay in bed watching what looked like a children’s show. Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus and their elves and helpers grinned and rushed about, but the sound was so low that their dialogue was unintelligible. Ralph lit another cigarette. Santa Claus in horn-rimmed glasses, he said, for Christ’s sake. Jenny looked over at him. She was in her slip. There was a water stain in the corner of the ceiling. What class, Ralph said, well, it’s not the St. Francis, but this wasn’t exactly an— amour, was it? However you want to slice it. Was it? You are a real bastard, she said. What? he said, I’m a real bastard? Didn’t you suggest this place and drive us here? Now you think—what?—I’m supposed to be a tender lover? She put out her cigarette and got out of bed, picked her panties up from the floor and went into the bathroom. You’ve got a run in your stocking, he said, as she closed and locked the door. All the folks in Santa’s North Pole house were singing happily, then they disappeared and another Santa appeared, selling Coca-Cola. I hope to Christ that Billy blames the fucking chess set on her, he said to Santa.
The baby woke up, climbed down from bed, and walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She stood in the doorway and was frightened to see Uncle Bill jumping on Mommy on the table, they were bumping and making noises. She began to cry very loudly. Bill, stop! Inez said, Bill! Not now, not now, he said.
Jenny pulled up in the battered and dirty station wagon across the street from the little frame house. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig, Ralph said. Do we need any booze? I can run down to the corner, is it? They ought to still be open. I could use the air anyway. Ralph bought some yesterday, Jenny said, scotch and gin. He’s drunk already anyway from the office party, he’ll be teary and embarrassing and telling Inez how wonderful she is, how pretty, how wonderful, what a great mother. Wonderful. You think we can order Chinese tonight? Ralph said. Or pizza? Don’t kill yourself cooking? She smiled at him, then nodded toward the house. No lights in the front room, she said. Bill must be home and they’re both in the kitchen getting plastered. Ho ho ho, Ralph said.
Cold Supper
J ACK GOT HOME ABOUT 8:30, WELL AFTER DARK. ANNA WAS sitting at the kitchen table, reading another drugstorelibrary novel by Fanny Hurst or Faith Baldwin, some ladies’ hogwash. Was that all she did all day? His place was set and his supper was on the kitchen counter, all of it cold. Is that my delicious supper? he said, and she looked up from her book as if suddenly aware of him, and then at her watch. Oh, I get it, he said. Let’s see, a cardboard pork chop sitting in fat, Ann Page carrots and peas, mmm, and what’s this? plaster? oh, mashed potatoes à la skins and lumps, a gravy boat full of, uh-huh, grease! And, of course, a luscious salad with a bright orange gourmet dressing. I can’t wait. The kid’s in bed, I suppose, God forbid you should keep him up a few minutes so he can see his father. Anna looked up again from her book and asked him where he’d been, he said he’d be home for supper, my God, you can’t spare an hour for your son on a Saturday? He sat down at the table and tapped
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