be?”
“Studly is fishing to find out if you heard something about Marcus,” Rita says, jabbing a piece of lettuce. “Like, what did it to him? Who did it to him?”
Egon is desolate. “Marcus. Oh, dear. So dreadful.”
“Stud is Mr. Energizer Bunny,” Rita says. “He never stops, you know, on the intellectual quest? You’ve heard of it? Fill up your brain with facts?”
“Hey, Rita, cut it out, huh?” Scott says.
Rita says, “Why?”
Egon says, “Oh, dear.”
“Any more little tchochkes missing, Egon?” Rita asks. “Maybe Stud’s been collecting them.” She turns to me. “You heard about it. They’ve been disappearing at the rate of—oh—one a day. Right, Egon?”
“Alas,” Egon says. “Yes. And we are so careful. Rita, dear, settle down, please.”
Rita, who has been poised on the edge of her chair, surprises me by subsiding. Maybe it’s the presence of the extra person at the table, Mrs. Bunny Modjeska, that does it. Bunny is the guard. (“Just call me Bunny. It sure is easier than Modjeska.”) She leans forward now, exhibiting fat shoulders and flattering interest. She views the visible enmity at the table. “Wow.”
Rita settles back. “Pass the mashed potatoes, please.” Egon waves a hand over his beautiful table and its crystal, china, linen, platter of tasty-looking roast chicken. Tonight’s menu is American. There is a printed menu card, labeled AMERICAN DINNER.
“Congrats, Rita,” Scott tells her. “You look sort of like you some more.”
Rita ladles out mashed potatoes and pours gravy.
“I didn’t like that other stuff,” Scott says. “The lost Goth look. ‘ Shifting of face is the name of him who’ et cetera—remember those lines, Reet?”
Rita eats a forkful of food and stares at Scott, eyes narrowed.
“And, chicklet, I bet you never looked in a mirror once. Not to mention the invective. Hey, Rita . . .”
Egon intervenes. “Scott. Please. Bygones, and . . . well, please. This is Rita back.”
Rita has been eating potatoes stolidly, her head straight forward. The platter of chicken sits in the middle of the table, untouched.
“Rita is back?” says Scott. “How do you tell? Rita, the bleater, are you back, my darling?”
Bunny puts her fork down with emphasis. “Listen, mister. Cool it some, okay?”
Rita is still unresponsive. Back straight, even though the shoulders are twitching slightly.
Daddy says, “Oh, dear. Perhaps some of us have been out in the sun too long?”
And I’m fired to action. “Scott, for God’s sake, what’s with you? Let it go. So Rita wasn’t feeling good for a while; now she’s better. Why’re you keeping at it? I just don’t get it.”
Somehow the spectacle of Rita’s stolid back and shoulders is more touching than crying would be, or seeing her with her head in her hands. She doesn’t do any of that. She eats for a while and then raises her eyes and says at Scott, “Quit pretending like I’m dirt on your shoe. There’s plenty of times you wanted it different, if you can scrape your brains together enough to remember. And quit pretending Ed here is some kinda new acquaintance. You’ve known Ed since the flood. For Christ’s sake. You look at him now like you never saw him before.”
A sound intrudes from the outside, a train whistle. That’s from the weedy triple railway line on the other side of Route One. “Hear that lonesome whistle / Sounding on the trestle,” says, or rather, sings, my dad. He has a nice tenor voice. He supplies the chorus, “Ah—whooee, ah—whooee.”
Egon bangs a little gong for more wine.
“I really like those trains,” says my father.
I’m inspired to a speech. Maybe this isn’t a good time, but I need to make it.
“Scott, you’re being mean to Rita; she’s off-base but she’s vulnerable, she’s like . . .” I’m about to say, Like a snail without a shell , when Rita turns such a poisonous glance my way that I cancel that. “I don’t care about your
“Studly is fishing to find out if you heard something about Marcus,” Rita says, jabbing a piece of lettuce. “Like, what did it to him? Who did it to him?”
Egon is desolate. “Marcus. Oh, dear. So dreadful.”
“Stud is Mr. Energizer Bunny,” Rita says. “He never stops, you know, on the intellectual quest? You’ve heard of it? Fill up your brain with facts?”
“Hey, Rita, cut it out, huh?” Scott says.
Rita says, “Why?”
Egon says, “Oh, dear.”
“Any more little tchochkes missing, Egon?” Rita asks. “Maybe Stud’s been collecting them.” She turns to me. “You heard about it. They’ve been disappearing at the rate of—oh—one a day. Right, Egon?”
“Alas,” Egon says. “Yes. And we are so careful. Rita, dear, settle down, please.”
Rita, who has been poised on the edge of her chair, surprises me by subsiding. Maybe it’s the presence of the extra person at the table, Mrs. Bunny Modjeska, that does it. Bunny is the guard. (“Just call me Bunny. It sure is easier than Modjeska.”) She leans forward now, exhibiting fat shoulders and flattering interest. She views the visible enmity at the table. “Wow.”
Rita settles back. “Pass the mashed potatoes, please.” Egon waves a hand over his beautiful table and its crystal, china, linen, platter of tasty-looking roast chicken. Tonight’s menu is American. There is a printed menu card, labeled AMERICAN DINNER.
“Congrats, Rita,” Scott tells her. “You look sort of like you some more.”
Rita ladles out mashed potatoes and pours gravy.
“I didn’t like that other stuff,” Scott says. “The lost Goth look. ‘ Shifting of face is the name of him who’ et cetera—remember those lines, Reet?”
Rita eats a forkful of food and stares at Scott, eyes narrowed.
“And, chicklet, I bet you never looked in a mirror once. Not to mention the invective. Hey, Rita . . .”
Egon intervenes. “Scott. Please. Bygones, and . . . well, please. This is Rita back.”
Rita has been eating potatoes stolidly, her head straight forward. The platter of chicken sits in the middle of the table, untouched.
“Rita is back?” says Scott. “How do you tell? Rita, the bleater, are you back, my darling?”
Bunny puts her fork down with emphasis. “Listen, mister. Cool it some, okay?”
Rita is still unresponsive. Back straight, even though the shoulders are twitching slightly.
Daddy says, “Oh, dear. Perhaps some of us have been out in the sun too long?”
And I’m fired to action. “Scott, for God’s sake, what’s with you? Let it go. So Rita wasn’t feeling good for a while; now she’s better. Why’re you keeping at it? I just don’t get it.”
Somehow the spectacle of Rita’s stolid back and shoulders is more touching than crying would be, or seeing her with her head in her hands. She doesn’t do any of that. She eats for a while and then raises her eyes and says at Scott, “Quit pretending like I’m dirt on your shoe. There’s plenty of times you wanted it different, if you can scrape your brains together enough to remember. And quit pretending Ed here is some kinda new acquaintance. You’ve known Ed since the flood. For Christ’s sake. You look at him now like you never saw him before.”
A sound intrudes from the outside, a train whistle. That’s from the weedy triple railway line on the other side of Route One. “Hear that lonesome whistle / Sounding on the trestle,” says, or rather, sings, my dad. He has a nice tenor voice. He supplies the chorus, “Ah—whooee, ah—whooee.”
Egon bangs a little gong for more wine.
“I really like those trains,” says my father.
I’m inspired to a speech. Maybe this isn’t a good time, but I need to make it.
“Scott, you’re being mean to Rita; she’s off-base but she’s vulnerable, she’s like . . .” I’m about to say, Like a snail without a shell , when Rita turns such a poisonous glance my way that I cancel that. “I don’t care about your
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