hadn’t time to come in. The Johnsons were due to look in later, around midnight.
‘Tooty-toot-toot, the
Bugle
!
Let’s see it!’ Marion said.
Brett lowered the stack to the floor. ‘Just distributed about three hundred with Norm’s help. Local stores. These I have to distribute tomorrow. Well, some tonight, shops nearby. Things are open late tonight.’
Edith refrained from seizing a copy, went into the kitchen and made a drink for Brett. It promised to be a beautiful Christmas time. She wasn’t even dismayed by the turkey. They’d laugh at it tomorrow.
‘Thanks, darling. Cheers!’ Brett said, lifting his glass. They all drank to the
Bugle
.
Brett had on his padded army jacket with its belt hanging at the sides now, chino trousers under which, however, Edith knew he wore long underwear. Pennsylvania was often eight below zero in winter. ‘Where’s Cliffie?’ Brett asked.
‘Don’t know. Maybe out somewhere,’ Edith said.
She had baked a ham for that evening, and it was now almost done in a low oven. Somehow it was already after 6, and Edith went into the kitchen to get the dinner moving, while the Zylstras took off with Brett to help with the
Bugle
deliveries. It had grown dark, which Edith thought dramatic tonight, with the white snow everywhere outside. And it was nice to think of the earth (since yesterday) tipping toward the sun again, and to know that the days would start to become longer.
Cliffie strolled into the kitchen.
‘Well, where were you?’
‘In my room.’
Edith suddenly thought,
My God, I didn’t ask George down for a drink
.
But George often slept from 5 until dinnertime. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about the turkey,’ Edith said as she shook the lettuce swinger over the sink.
‘The turkey? I haven’t seen it.’
‘Of course not. You don’t go into the larder usually, do you, because your Coca-Cola’s in the fridge, but —’
‘I don’t know what you’re
talking
about.’
Edith had had enough to drink to pursue it. ‘Who opened the larder door? I didn’t. Didn’t you know the turkey was there – naked?’
‘Naked? Naked turkey!’ said Cliffie, and laughed.
Edith could have slapped him. She forced herself to be calm. ‘You didn’t possibly show Mildew the turkey?’
‘No!’ Cliffie protested, all innocence.
‘You’re a liar,’ Edith said, and went about her work.
Cliffie lingered, a wishy-washy vertical object which Edith avoided looking at directly.
‘Or did you just poke at the turkey yourself with a knife?’
‘I don’t know anything
about
the turkey!’ Cliffie said, his face reddening, tears starting. Then he went aggressively to the fridge and extracted a bottle of Coca-Cola.
Dinner was merrier. George had come down, dressed. Edith was feeling mellow with the wine, and it didn’t seem of earth-shaking importance if the dishes weren’t done till tomorrow morning. The
Bugle
had been thoroughly examined. The paper was slightly glazed, the print dark, the lay-out pleasant, Edith thought.
‘Want to see some before and after snaps?’ Edith asked, dragging an album from the coffee table shelf. ‘Very
few
,
so you won’t get bored.’
They were of the house, of course, and this led Marion to look back in the album to earlier pictures of Edith and Brett and Cliffie when he was in diapers. Edith laughed loudly at some of them.
‘Here’s Poughkeepsie,’ Edith said, ‘versus Virginia. You have to admit Virginia is prettier.’
On opposite pages, Brett’s family’s redbrick house in a city street confronted Edith’s family’s house with its grounds and trees. A fact, Edith thought, of geography, not money, because Brett’s family wasn’t any poorer than hers was rich, which was to say they were both medium. Only great-aunt Melanie was rich in Edith’s family, and that because of her husband, now deceased, who had inherited part of a tobacco firm. There was a fine color picture of Aunt Melanie serving tea on her sunlit
‘Tooty-toot-toot, the
Bugle
!
Let’s see it!’ Marion said.
Brett lowered the stack to the floor. ‘Just distributed about three hundred with Norm’s help. Local stores. These I have to distribute tomorrow. Well, some tonight, shops nearby. Things are open late tonight.’
Edith refrained from seizing a copy, went into the kitchen and made a drink for Brett. It promised to be a beautiful Christmas time. She wasn’t even dismayed by the turkey. They’d laugh at it tomorrow.
‘Thanks, darling. Cheers!’ Brett said, lifting his glass. They all drank to the
Bugle
.
Brett had on his padded army jacket with its belt hanging at the sides now, chino trousers under which, however, Edith knew he wore long underwear. Pennsylvania was often eight below zero in winter. ‘Where’s Cliffie?’ Brett asked.
‘Don’t know. Maybe out somewhere,’ Edith said.
She had baked a ham for that evening, and it was now almost done in a low oven. Somehow it was already after 6, and Edith went into the kitchen to get the dinner moving, while the Zylstras took off with Brett to help with the
Bugle
deliveries. It had grown dark, which Edith thought dramatic tonight, with the white snow everywhere outside. And it was nice to think of the earth (since yesterday) tipping toward the sun again, and to know that the days would start to become longer.
Cliffie strolled into the kitchen.
‘Well, where were you?’
‘In my room.’
Edith suddenly thought,
My God, I didn’t ask George down for a drink
.
But George often slept from 5 until dinnertime. ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about the turkey,’ Edith said as she shook the lettuce swinger over the sink.
‘The turkey? I haven’t seen it.’
‘Of course not. You don’t go into the larder usually, do you, because your Coca-Cola’s in the fridge, but —’
‘I don’t know what you’re
talking
about.’
Edith had had enough to drink to pursue it. ‘Who opened the larder door? I didn’t. Didn’t you know the turkey was there – naked?’
‘Naked? Naked turkey!’ said Cliffie, and laughed.
Edith could have slapped him. She forced herself to be calm. ‘You didn’t possibly show Mildew the turkey?’
‘No!’ Cliffie protested, all innocence.
‘You’re a liar,’ Edith said, and went about her work.
Cliffie lingered, a wishy-washy vertical object which Edith avoided looking at directly.
‘Or did you just poke at the turkey yourself with a knife?’
‘I don’t know anything
about
the turkey!’ Cliffie said, his face reddening, tears starting. Then he went aggressively to the fridge and extracted a bottle of Coca-Cola.
Dinner was merrier. George had come down, dressed. Edith was feeling mellow with the wine, and it didn’t seem of earth-shaking importance if the dishes weren’t done till tomorrow morning. The
Bugle
had been thoroughly examined. The paper was slightly glazed, the print dark, the lay-out pleasant, Edith thought.
‘Want to see some before and after snaps?’ Edith asked, dragging an album from the coffee table shelf. ‘Very
few
,
so you won’t get bored.’
They were of the house, of course, and this led Marion to look back in the album to earlier pictures of Edith and Brett and Cliffie when he was in diapers. Edith laughed loudly at some of them.
‘Here’s Poughkeepsie,’ Edith said, ‘versus Virginia. You have to admit Virginia is prettier.’
On opposite pages, Brett’s family’s redbrick house in a city street confronted Edith’s family’s house with its grounds and trees. A fact, Edith thought, of geography, not money, because Brett’s family wasn’t any poorer than hers was rich, which was to say they were both medium. Only great-aunt Melanie was rich in Edith’s family, and that because of her husband, now deceased, who had inherited part of a tobacco firm. There was a fine color picture of Aunt Melanie serving tea on her sunlit
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