Pascal's Wager by Nancy Rue Page B

I make a cup?”
    â€œHelp yourself.”
    â€œYou want any?”
    â€œAny what?” Tea.
    As I trailed behind her to the kitchen, I tried not to wonder whether she’d be any more alert if I offered her a gin and tonic. I glanced back at the foyer and craned to see into the living room. So far everything looked, as usual, compulsively neat and orderly. The Hans Hofmann and Willem de Kooning prints were still on the walls. I caught a peek of the baby grand piano—my mother’s only frivolous possession. Everything else in her house was rigid and decidedly unfeminine. She preferred clean lines, she’d always said. Everything uncluttered, unfussy.
    So it still seemed—until I got to the kitchen and saw a mound of dirty dishes the size of Mt. Shasta in the sink. I pretended not to see it as I opened a cabinet to get a mug, but it was empty and I was forced to paw through the pile to locate one to recycle.
    â€œDid you have a dinner party last night?” I said.
    â€œNo. Why?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. It was Friday night—you like to entertain—”
And you have enough dirty dishes in here to have served the entire Santa Clara Valley
.
    I found the English breakfast tea and pretended to be choosy about which bag I picked from the box as I mentally groped for another approach. I was so bad at being subtle.
    â€œSo…Max said he was over for dinner this week,” I said finally.
    â€œYes, and he talked insheshantly.”
    â€œIncessantly,” I corrected automatically.
    â€œThat’s what I said.”
    â€œJust confirming. What was he going on about?”
    â€œMusic-school politics—about which I could care less and he knows it. Why he felt it nesheshary to tell me that the chairman—no, don’t use that!”
    I stopped with my hand on the door to the microwave, tea mug ready to go in.
    â€œWhy not?” I said. “Is it broken?”
    â€œI can’t tolerate the noise it makes,” Liz said.
    â€œWhat noise? Is there something wrong with it?”
    â€œIt beeps. I said I can’t—can’t—”
    â€œTolerate it,” I said.
    â€œDo not finish my sentences for me. I am perfectly capable of expressing my own—”
    She was cut off by the ringing of the phone, which caused her to jump as if the thing had exploded. Then she snatched up the receiver and said into it, “What is it?”
    I set the mug of still-cold water with its floating tea bag on the counter and worked at keeping my teeth from falling out of my mouth. My mother had never been known for her phone cordiality, but it was beneath her to be outright rude. What the
heck
was going on? She couldn’t stand the microwave beeping? She was jumping at the telephone ringing?
    I paused and listened. Except for Mother snapping into the receiver, there wasn’t a sound in the house. Normally on a Saturday morning, she had NPR on, but a glance at the radio revealed the plug dangling from the shelf. If she didn’t like what was on, she would at least put some classical music on the CD player. In fact, the only thing close to bizarre I ever saw the woman do was stand in the living room and conduct a concerto that was coming through the speakers. But the place was completely silent. I didn’t even hear the clock ticking in the foyer.
    I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion
, I thought.
Max has got me freaked out
.
    I made myself go into the entrance hall to look at the black-oak grandfather clock that kept stern tabs on the comings and goings of the McGavock house. The pendulum hung motionless behind the glass door. It wasn’t like Mother to let it run down. By now, I strongly suspected she’d stopped it on purpose.
    I got back to the kitchen just in time to hear Liz say, “I do
not
have time for this. Under no shircumshtances are you to call here again!” She then yanked the phone set off the wall and