time, wrote out two greeting cards and stalled on the third.
“I ask you, Macavity,” I said. “Is it worse to mail factory-signed, computer-labeled completely impersonal greeting cards or mean to send cards with wonderful, personal messages, but never complete them?”
Instead of answering, he began worrying the top of my stack of unmailed missives, tapping gently, experimentally, until the top card slid off. Satisfied, he began on the next card down. Tap, tap, a furry scientist conducting an experiment. “But why,” I asked, “must I arbitrarily use this particular New Year’s, after all?” I decided to choose another New Year’s as a deadline. The Russian Orthodox was too soon. Maybe the Chinese? Or the Jewish—that gave me till next autumn.
I finally remembered to listen to my phone messages. Mackenzie said he’d call later if possible. That he was glad to see that I had mastered the machine. That he was pretty tied up, so maybe tomorrow. Or late tonight. But I shouldn’t count on anything.
Live or on tape, the man said the same damn thing.
“Miss Pepper? This is Jenny Crittendon? From Silverwood?” The Pillsbury Dough Grandma’s voice sounded sixty years younger than she was. “We’re so upset because we forgot to invite you to the Tuesday group’s holiday party. It’s this coming Tuesday—of course!” She giggled. “The day after Christmas. Cookies at one. And we thought, since you’re on vacation this week, maybe you could be part of our daytime group this one time? We’d really like you to come. Really. Please? Oh, I hope this isn’t too late. They’ll be so mad. I was supposed to ask you last week! We all hope to see you. Tuesday. One o’clock. In the dayroom. Oh, and we sent you that copy of our stories and we hope it doesn’t get lost in the Christmas rush and we all hope you enjoy them.” She sounded out of breath by the end.
There were certain disadvantages to a machine, I now knew. If I had never gotten the message from Jenny Crittendon, then I wouldn’t feel uneasy about an invitation I hadn’t sought and wasn’t overly excited about. I liked those people, certainly, but I’d be busy getting ready for Florida next Tuesday and Silverwood was across the city. I wished I hadn’t heard how eager Jenny sounded, and I wished I wasn’t now wondering about how her Christmas was going to be with her children two thousand miles away. Minna White was in that class, too, and I wondered if the dreadful Junior would visit her or whether Tuesday’s party was going to be the event of the season for lots of the people at Silverwood.
The tape continued. “What’s this? A machine?” My mother’s feelings were audibly hurt. “I called to see how your party went, but…well, a machine! This feels like talking to myself. So, ah, good-bye.” Pause. “Oh, yes. This was your mother. Beatrice Pepper. And oh! You wanted the time, right? It’s—it’s—Amanda, I don’t have my glasses on and I don’t know where they are, and my watch is—why do I have to tell you the time, anyway? I taught you how to tell it yourself twenty-five years ago. Call me.”
I was so bemused by my mother that the next message almost escaped me. I ran the tape back and listened again. “Miss Pepper?” It took a second to realize it was Laura Clausen. We had spoken so infrequently, and on those few occasions I had prompted and begun the conversation. Laura sounded as surprised as she sounded timid. “The police—they said you called my house? I’m at my aunt’s in the city because—well, you know, the house is…and I’ll…” I could hear her breathe, could almost hear her deciding what she wanted to say. “I guess you’re still at school, so I’ll call again. Tomorrow, because I have to go out now.” Silence. Then, “Uh, good-bye,” and a click.
No number to call. I had planned to be out all the next day, doing a blitz of just-under-the-wire Christmas shopping, but if I were gone, Laura and
“I ask you, Macavity,” I said. “Is it worse to mail factory-signed, computer-labeled completely impersonal greeting cards or mean to send cards with wonderful, personal messages, but never complete them?”
Instead of answering, he began worrying the top of my stack of unmailed missives, tapping gently, experimentally, until the top card slid off. Satisfied, he began on the next card down. Tap, tap, a furry scientist conducting an experiment. “But why,” I asked, “must I arbitrarily use this particular New Year’s, after all?” I decided to choose another New Year’s as a deadline. The Russian Orthodox was too soon. Maybe the Chinese? Or the Jewish—that gave me till next autumn.
I finally remembered to listen to my phone messages. Mackenzie said he’d call later if possible. That he was glad to see that I had mastered the machine. That he was pretty tied up, so maybe tomorrow. Or late tonight. But I shouldn’t count on anything.
Live or on tape, the man said the same damn thing.
“Miss Pepper? This is Jenny Crittendon? From Silverwood?” The Pillsbury Dough Grandma’s voice sounded sixty years younger than she was. “We’re so upset because we forgot to invite you to the Tuesday group’s holiday party. It’s this coming Tuesday—of course!” She giggled. “The day after Christmas. Cookies at one. And we thought, since you’re on vacation this week, maybe you could be part of our daytime group this one time? We’d really like you to come. Really. Please? Oh, I hope this isn’t too late. They’ll be so mad. I was supposed to ask you last week! We all hope to see you. Tuesday. One o’clock. In the dayroom. Oh, and we sent you that copy of our stories and we hope it doesn’t get lost in the Christmas rush and we all hope you enjoy them.” She sounded out of breath by the end.
There were certain disadvantages to a machine, I now knew. If I had never gotten the message from Jenny Crittendon, then I wouldn’t feel uneasy about an invitation I hadn’t sought and wasn’t overly excited about. I liked those people, certainly, but I’d be busy getting ready for Florida next Tuesday and Silverwood was across the city. I wished I hadn’t heard how eager Jenny sounded, and I wished I wasn’t now wondering about how her Christmas was going to be with her children two thousand miles away. Minna White was in that class, too, and I wondered if the dreadful Junior would visit her or whether Tuesday’s party was going to be the event of the season for lots of the people at Silverwood.
The tape continued. “What’s this? A machine?” My mother’s feelings were audibly hurt. “I called to see how your party went, but…well, a machine! This feels like talking to myself. So, ah, good-bye.” Pause. “Oh, yes. This was your mother. Beatrice Pepper. And oh! You wanted the time, right? It’s—it’s—Amanda, I don’t have my glasses on and I don’t know where they are, and my watch is—why do I have to tell you the time, anyway? I taught you how to tell it yourself twenty-five years ago. Call me.”
I was so bemused by my mother that the next message almost escaped me. I ran the tape back and listened again. “Miss Pepper?” It took a second to realize it was Laura Clausen. We had spoken so infrequently, and on those few occasions I had prompted and begun the conversation. Laura sounded as surprised as she sounded timid. “The police—they said you called my house? I’m at my aunt’s in the city because—well, you know, the house is…and I’ll…” I could hear her breathe, could almost hear her deciding what she wanted to say. “I guess you’re still at school, so I’ll call again. Tomorrow, because I have to go out now.” Silence. Then, “Uh, good-bye,” and a click.
No number to call. I had planned to be out all the next day, doing a blitz of just-under-the-wire Christmas shopping, but if I were gone, Laura and
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