the sawmill manager as a tall tree which had fallen beneath God’s axe. It was not the first time that the congregation had heard this comparison. Outside the church, stall number 4 stood empty in homage to the dead man. He had made no provision in his will, and his son had moved to Stockholm. After suitable consultation, the stall was awarded to the captain of the steamboat, a man conspicuous for his civic merit.
The Things You Know
1
C offee, ladies?”
They both looked up at the waiter, but he was already advancing the flask towards Merrill’s cup. When he’d finished pouring, he moved his eyes, not to Janice, but to Janice’s cup. She covered it with her hand. Even after all these years, she didn’t understand why Americans wanted coffee immediately the waiter arrived. They drank hot coffee, then cold orange juice, then more coffee. It didn’t make sense at all.
“No coffee?” the waiter asked, as if her gesture could have been ambiguous. He wore a green linen apron and his hair was so gelled that you could see every comb-mark.
“I’ll have tea. Later.”
“English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey?”
“English Breakfast. But later.”
The waiter moved off as though offended, and still without making eye contact. Janice wasn’t surprised, let alone hurt. They were two elderly ladies and he was probably a homosexual. It seemed to her that American waiters were becoming more and more homosexual, or at least more and more openly so. Perhaps they always had been. It must, after all, be a good way to meet lonely businessmen. Assuming that lonely businessmen were themselves homosexual, which wasn’t, she admitted, necessarily the case.
“I like the look of the poached egg,” said Merrill.
“Poached egg sounds nice.” But Janice’s agreement didn’t mean she’d be ordering it. She thought poached egg was lunch, not breakfast. There were a lot of things on this menu that weren’t breakfast either in her book: waffles, home-style pancakes, Arctic halibut. Fish for breakfast? That had never made sense to her. Bill used to like kippers, but she would only let him have them when they were staying at a hotel. They stank the kitchen out, she’d tell him. And they repeated all day. Which was largely, though not entirely, his problem, but still. It had been a matter of some contention between them.
“Bill used to love a kipper,” she said fondly.
Merrill glanced at her, wondering whether she’d missed some logical step in the conversation.
“Of course, you never knew Bill,” said Janice, as if it had been a solecism on Bill’s part—one for which she was now apologizing—to have died before he could meet Merrill.
“My dear,” said Merrill, “with me it’s Tom this, Tom that, you have to stop me or I’m off and running.”
They settled down with the menu again, now that the terms on which breakfast was to be conducted had somehow been agreed.
“We went to see The Thin Red Line ,” said Janice. “We enjoyed it very much.”
Merrill wondered who “we” might be. “We” would have meant “Bill and I” at one time. Who did it mean now? Or was it just a habit? Perhaps Janice, even after three years of widowhood, couldn’t bear to slip back into “I.”
“I didn’t like it,” said Merrill.
“Oh.” Janice gave a sidelong glance to her menu, as if looking for a prompt. “We thought it was very well filmed.”
“Yes,” said Merrill. “But I found it, well, boring.”
“We didn’t like Little Voice ,” said Janice, as an offering.
“Oh, I loved it.”
“To tell you the truth, we only went for Michael Caine.”
“Oh, I loved it.”
“Do you think he’s won an Oscar?”
“Michael Caine? For Little Voice ?”
“No, I mean—generally.”
“Generally? I should think so. After all this time.”
“After all this time, yes. He must be nearly as old as us by now.”
“Do you think so?” In Merrill’s opinion, Janice talked far too much about getting old,
The Things You Know
1
C offee, ladies?”
They both looked up at the waiter, but he was already advancing the flask towards Merrill’s cup. When he’d finished pouring, he moved his eyes, not to Janice, but to Janice’s cup. She covered it with her hand. Even after all these years, she didn’t understand why Americans wanted coffee immediately the waiter arrived. They drank hot coffee, then cold orange juice, then more coffee. It didn’t make sense at all.
“No coffee?” the waiter asked, as if her gesture could have been ambiguous. He wore a green linen apron and his hair was so gelled that you could see every comb-mark.
“I’ll have tea. Later.”
“English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey?”
“English Breakfast. But later.”
The waiter moved off as though offended, and still without making eye contact. Janice wasn’t surprised, let alone hurt. They were two elderly ladies and he was probably a homosexual. It seemed to her that American waiters were becoming more and more homosexual, or at least more and more openly so. Perhaps they always had been. It must, after all, be a good way to meet lonely businessmen. Assuming that lonely businessmen were themselves homosexual, which wasn’t, she admitted, necessarily the case.
“I like the look of the poached egg,” said Merrill.
“Poached egg sounds nice.” But Janice’s agreement didn’t mean she’d be ordering it. She thought poached egg was lunch, not breakfast. There were a lot of things on this menu that weren’t breakfast either in her book: waffles, home-style pancakes, Arctic halibut. Fish for breakfast? That had never made sense to her. Bill used to like kippers, but she would only let him have them when they were staying at a hotel. They stank the kitchen out, she’d tell him. And they repeated all day. Which was largely, though not entirely, his problem, but still. It had been a matter of some contention between them.
“Bill used to love a kipper,” she said fondly.
Merrill glanced at her, wondering whether she’d missed some logical step in the conversation.
“Of course, you never knew Bill,” said Janice, as if it had been a solecism on Bill’s part—one for which she was now apologizing—to have died before he could meet Merrill.
“My dear,” said Merrill, “with me it’s Tom this, Tom that, you have to stop me or I’m off and running.”
They settled down with the menu again, now that the terms on which breakfast was to be conducted had somehow been agreed.
“We went to see The Thin Red Line ,” said Janice. “We enjoyed it very much.”
Merrill wondered who “we” might be. “We” would have meant “Bill and I” at one time. Who did it mean now? Or was it just a habit? Perhaps Janice, even after three years of widowhood, couldn’t bear to slip back into “I.”
“I didn’t like it,” said Merrill.
“Oh.” Janice gave a sidelong glance to her menu, as if looking for a prompt. “We thought it was very well filmed.”
“Yes,” said Merrill. “But I found it, well, boring.”
“We didn’t like Little Voice ,” said Janice, as an offering.
“Oh, I loved it.”
“To tell you the truth, we only went for Michael Caine.”
“Oh, I loved it.”
“Do you think he’s won an Oscar?”
“Michael Caine? For Little Voice ?”
“No, I mean—generally.”
“Generally? I should think so. After all this time.”
“After all this time, yes. He must be nearly as old as us by now.”
“Do you think so?” In Merrill’s opinion, Janice talked far too much about getting old,
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