Late at Night by William Schoell

able to bask in everyone’s undivided attention, when the kitchen door swung open an an agitated-looking John Everson came wandering out. All eyes turned toward him. “I’m afraid, my friends, that the rest of dinner will be delayed while Mrs. Plushing masters the operation of our antediluvian stove. It seems Lynn’s aunt was an eccentric who liked the quaint old kitchen equipment and decided to leave it just the way it was.”
    “I’m glad she wasn’t too eccentric,” Gloria chortled, “or we’d all wind up squatting in the woods.”
    John smiled for the first time that evening. “No, luckily Mrs. Hornbee saw fit to install modern bathrooms, electric lights, and many other luxuries from our decadent society. Mrs. Plushing simply miscalculated the time it would take for her roast to cook. We might as well stay here and enjoy some more salad—perhaps have another drink some of us, hmmm—and in twenty minutes or so we can resume our dinner. Let me assure you that Mrs. Plushing’s cooking is well worth the wait.” Everson sat down with a flourish. His spirits seemed to have revived.
    “Her red cabbage was certainly tasty,” Gloria said, “although I’m not quite sure why she brought it out if her pot roast wasn’t done.”
    Cynthia had a ready answer. “She probably figured she’d better serve the meal in stages before we started eating one another!”
    “This island ever have any cannibals?” Jerry asked Ernest in a stage whisper. “I don’t think so,” Ernie answered, smiling and shaking his head.
    “Actually, Gloria,” Mr. Everson replied, “Margaret had assumed when she started bringing out the side dishes that her roast beef was done. She didn’t realize that on those old stoves it takes much longer to cook something than it would on a modern apparatus.”
    Margaret came out at that moment, a harried expression on her face, a big bowl of extra salad in her hands. “Here, this should tide you over for awhile. I’m so sorry.” She looked at Mr. Everson. “Eric and Hans and Joanne are in the kitchen with their tongues hanging out.” Then to the others: “Joanne will be here in a moment with the rolls. I’ll bring in the wine. Eric will be out to make your drinks in a minute.” She bent down near Everson and whispered, “I told him he had better wash up and change first if he’s gonna come out here with you people.”
    Everson stood and held up his hand. “Tell Eric to relax. He’s a chauffeur, not a bartender.”
    “As long as he’s got nothing to do on this island, he might as well make himself useful.”
    “Oh he will, don’t worry. In the meantime, I’ll make the drinks. Orders, please.”
    Everson busied himself over at a table in the corner where glasses and assorted liquor bottles had been placed. Everyone was so hungry that the conversation automatically turned to food. Ernest sensed that no one was interested any more in hearing about the island’s history, so he sat back, nibbled his lettuce, and studied the others.
    There was no doubt that for him the most intriguing personality was Andrea Peters. She was, like him, comparatively quiet, but not as painfully or awkwardly shy as Betty Sanders— that was something he did not like in a woman, or anyone else for that matter. Neither was Andrea the natural charismatic performer that Cynthia was, and for that he was also grateful. The soap-opera actress, while amusing and likable, was so intense and energetic, always “on camera,” that she made Ernie rather nervous. Anton’s droll delivery could become tiresome after awhile, and Ernie really had nothing in common with either Gloria or Jerry, and sensed the feeling was mutual. He hardly knew Lynn—and from her abrupt departure it was a certainty that he would not have the opportunity to get to know her better tonight. About his cousin John he knew all he ever needed or would want to know.
    So if there were anyone whose attention he should court throughout this weekend, it