kind of disinterest, but because she sensed that it wearied him. He had seen her enthusiasm, her spark, her youth, and now he was comfortable with tucking it away and filing it under memory. He didn't really want to hear about McCoy flowerpots anymore. He didn't believe there was that much more to say. Oh, on the other hand, wanted to know everything. Yes, he might have been hoping she'd incriminate herself as a murderer, but nonetheless, a good listener is a good listener.
They each tried to break through the stilted greetings and pleasantries.
"No more bodies, I hope," said Oh, trying to sound like he was joking, but realizing as he heard himself that he never sounded like he was joking.
"I'm not calling about a body," Jane said at the same time, then added, "just a body part."
Both waited for the other to speak. Neither wanted that embarrassing, out-of-synch double-talk again.
"How about coming over for a drink, and I'll show you?" asked Jane, unable to hold out as long as Oh. A good listener, all right, he could listen harder and longer than anyone she had ever met.
"Yes, that would be fine. And what is it you will show me again?"
"My body part," Jane said.
"Oh," he said.
"I know," Jane said. "I'll just see you at five."
* * *
Jane turned the cocktail shaker over and let it drip dry on a feed sack towel. She rinsed four glasses, dried them, and placed them on the matching tray. The glasses, shaker, and tray were part of a bar set that she had kept on her dining room sideboard for two years, admiring it every time she looked its way. Periodically she promised Miriam that she would pack it up and send it to her for a customer who would pay handsomely for this chrome-and-Bakelite martini set, the Chase manufacturing mark firmly engraved on the underside of the tray.
"Don't take forever," Miriam cautioned. "This Cosmopolitan craze will burn itself out when one of these newfangled hipsters gets cirrhosis and writes about it in a self help magazine. Got to sell these puppies while they're hot."
Jane agreed that it was only a matter of time before the cranberry juice and designer vodka craze went down in flames. She had never been able to order a pink drink herself. If she even considered it, in her head she could see an entire row of EZ Way Inn customers shaking their heads and smirking. Still, she couldn't wrap up this bar set for Miriam. Not yet. Maybe she would never follow the Cosmo crowd, but she did love martinis. The shape of the glass, the whole "shaken not stirred" aura of them. Maybe the customers at the EZ Way Inn didn't drink them— the closest they got to a mixed drink was a shot and a beer— but when she went out to dinner with her parents after their long day of pulling draft beers and ladling soup, Don always ordered a martini, dry and straight up. Solemnly he handed Jane one of the olives, while Nellie shook her head and scowled over a cup of black coffee, her cocktail of choice. Don's martinis were made with Tanqueray gin and a whisper of vermouth. Jane made her own with vodka, Grey Goose or Ketel One, and merely nodded at the vermouth bottle she kept in a cupboard; but she, too, like Don, skewered olives onto a toothpick and smiled at the glass before her first sip.
"I don't even know if Detective Oh drinks," she said more to herself than to Nick, who was watching her try to stuff blue cheese into olives, the contemporary version of a task of Sisyphus.
"Where," asked Nick, "would someone get the idea to take awful-tasting things and stuff them with awful-smelling stuff? I mean it's crazy to think about eating them, but it's even crazier to think someone got the idea in the first place."
"Yeah, like artichokes," said Jane.
Nick stared at her. He was used to his mother's responses and their circuitous routes back to his own comments, but he didn't follow this one.
"I mean, whoever looked at an artichoke and thought it would be or could be edible? Who went to the bother of figuring out all the
They each tried to break through the stilted greetings and pleasantries.
"No more bodies, I hope," said Oh, trying to sound like he was joking, but realizing as he heard himself that he never sounded like he was joking.
"I'm not calling about a body," Jane said at the same time, then added, "just a body part."
Both waited for the other to speak. Neither wanted that embarrassing, out-of-synch double-talk again.
"How about coming over for a drink, and I'll show you?" asked Jane, unable to hold out as long as Oh. A good listener, all right, he could listen harder and longer than anyone she had ever met.
"Yes, that would be fine. And what is it you will show me again?"
"My body part," Jane said.
"Oh," he said.
"I know," Jane said. "I'll just see you at five."
* * *
Jane turned the cocktail shaker over and let it drip dry on a feed sack towel. She rinsed four glasses, dried them, and placed them on the matching tray. The glasses, shaker, and tray were part of a bar set that she had kept on her dining room sideboard for two years, admiring it every time she looked its way. Periodically she promised Miriam that she would pack it up and send it to her for a customer who would pay handsomely for this chrome-and-Bakelite martini set, the Chase manufacturing mark firmly engraved on the underside of the tray.
"Don't take forever," Miriam cautioned. "This Cosmopolitan craze will burn itself out when one of these newfangled hipsters gets cirrhosis and writes about it in a self help magazine. Got to sell these puppies while they're hot."
Jane agreed that it was only a matter of time before the cranberry juice and designer vodka craze went down in flames. She had never been able to order a pink drink herself. If she even considered it, in her head she could see an entire row of EZ Way Inn customers shaking their heads and smirking. Still, she couldn't wrap up this bar set for Miriam. Not yet. Maybe she would never follow the Cosmo crowd, but she did love martinis. The shape of the glass, the whole "shaken not stirred" aura of them. Maybe the customers at the EZ Way Inn didn't drink them— the closest they got to a mixed drink was a shot and a beer— but when she went out to dinner with her parents after their long day of pulling draft beers and ladling soup, Don always ordered a martini, dry and straight up. Solemnly he handed Jane one of the olives, while Nellie shook her head and scowled over a cup of black coffee, her cocktail of choice. Don's martinis were made with Tanqueray gin and a whisper of vermouth. Jane made her own with vodka, Grey Goose or Ketel One, and merely nodded at the vermouth bottle she kept in a cupboard; but she, too, like Don, skewered olives onto a toothpick and smiled at the glass before her first sip.
"I don't even know if Detective Oh drinks," she said more to herself than to Nick, who was watching her try to stuff blue cheese into olives, the contemporary version of a task of Sisyphus.
"Where," asked Nick, "would someone get the idea to take awful-tasting things and stuff them with awful-smelling stuff? I mean it's crazy to think about eating them, but it's even crazier to think someone got the idea in the first place."
"Yeah, like artichokes," said Jane.
Nick stared at her. He was used to his mother's responses and their circuitous routes back to his own comments, but he didn't follow this one.
"I mean, whoever looked at an artichoke and thought it would be or could be edible? Who went to the bother of figuring out all the
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