or at least older. It must be on account of being so European.
“Or if not now, he soon will be,” said Janice. They both thought about this, and then laughed. Not that Merrill agreed, even allowing for the joke. That was the thing about movie stars, they managed not to age at the normal rate. Nothing to do with the surgery either. They somehow remained the age they were when you first saw them. Even when they started playing maturer characters, you didn’t really believe it; you still thought of them as young, but acting old—and often not very convincingly.
Merrill was fond of Janice, but always found her a little dowdy. She did insist on greys and pale greens and beiges, and she’d let her hair go streaky-grey which didn’t help. It was so natural it looked false. Even that big scarf, pinned across one shoulder in some kind of a gesture, was greenygrey, for God’s sake. And it certainly didn’t call for pants, or at least, not pants like those. A pity. She might have been a pretty thing once. Never a beauty, of course. But pretty. Nice eyes. Well, nice enough. Not that she did anything to draw attention to them.
“It’s terrible what’s happening in the Balkans,” said Janice.
“Yes.” Merrill had long ago stopped reading those pages of the Sun-Times .
“Milošević must be taught a lesson.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“The Serbs never change their spots.”
“I don’t know what to think,” repeated Merrill.
“I remember Munich.”
That seemed to clinch the discussion. Janice had been saying “I remember Munich” a lot lately, though in truth what she meant was that she must, in early childhood, have heard grown-ups referring to Munich as a recent and shameful betrayal. But this wasn’t worth explaining; it would only take away from the authority of the statement.
“I might just have the granola and some whole wheat toast.”
“It’s what you always have,” Merrill pointed out, though without impatience, more as a matter of indulgent fact.
“Yes, but I like to think I might have something else.” Also, every time she had the granola she had to remember that shaky molar.
“Well, I guess I’ll have the poached egg.”
“It’s what you always have,” Janice replied. Eggs were binding, kippers repeated, waffles weren’t breakfast.
“Will you make the sign for him?”
That was just like Merrill. She always arrived first and chose the seat from which you couldn’t catch the waiter’s eye without getting a crick in your neck. Which left Janice to flap her hand a few times and try not to get embarrassed when the waiter displayed other priorities. It was as bad as trying to hail a taxi. They just didn’t notice you nowadays, she thought.
2
T hey met here, in the breakfast room of the Harborview, among the hurrying businessmen and lounging vacationers, on the first Tuesday of every month. Come rain or shine, they said. Come hell or high water. Actually, it was more, come Janice’s hip operation and come Merrill’s ill-advised trip to Mexico with her daughter. Apart from that, they’d made it a regular date these last three years.
“I’m ready for my tea now,” said Janice.
“English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey?”
“English Breakfast.” She said it with a nervous crispness which made the waiter stop checking the table. An indeterminate nod was as near as he came to an apology.
“Coming right up,” he said, as he was already moving off.
“Do you think he’s a pansy?” For some reason unknown to her, Janice had deliberately avoided a modern word, though the effect was, if anything, more pointed.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Merrill.
“I couldn’t care less either,” said Janice. “Especially not at my age. Anyway, they make very good waiters.” This didn’t seem right either, so she added, “That’s what Bill used to say.” Bill hadn’t said anything of the kind, as far as she could remember, but his posthumous corroboration
“Or if not now, he soon will be,” said Janice. They both thought about this, and then laughed. Not that Merrill agreed, even allowing for the joke. That was the thing about movie stars, they managed not to age at the normal rate. Nothing to do with the surgery either. They somehow remained the age they were when you first saw them. Even when they started playing maturer characters, you didn’t really believe it; you still thought of them as young, but acting old—and often not very convincingly.
Merrill was fond of Janice, but always found her a little dowdy. She did insist on greys and pale greens and beiges, and she’d let her hair go streaky-grey which didn’t help. It was so natural it looked false. Even that big scarf, pinned across one shoulder in some kind of a gesture, was greenygrey, for God’s sake. And it certainly didn’t call for pants, or at least, not pants like those. A pity. She might have been a pretty thing once. Never a beauty, of course. But pretty. Nice eyes. Well, nice enough. Not that she did anything to draw attention to them.
“It’s terrible what’s happening in the Balkans,” said Janice.
“Yes.” Merrill had long ago stopped reading those pages of the Sun-Times .
“Milošević must be taught a lesson.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“The Serbs never change their spots.”
“I don’t know what to think,” repeated Merrill.
“I remember Munich.”
That seemed to clinch the discussion. Janice had been saying “I remember Munich” a lot lately, though in truth what she meant was that she must, in early childhood, have heard grown-ups referring to Munich as a recent and shameful betrayal. But this wasn’t worth explaining; it would only take away from the authority of the statement.
“I might just have the granola and some whole wheat toast.”
“It’s what you always have,” Merrill pointed out, though without impatience, more as a matter of indulgent fact.
“Yes, but I like to think I might have something else.” Also, every time she had the granola she had to remember that shaky molar.
“Well, I guess I’ll have the poached egg.”
“It’s what you always have,” Janice replied. Eggs were binding, kippers repeated, waffles weren’t breakfast.
“Will you make the sign for him?”
That was just like Merrill. She always arrived first and chose the seat from which you couldn’t catch the waiter’s eye without getting a crick in your neck. Which left Janice to flap her hand a few times and try not to get embarrassed when the waiter displayed other priorities. It was as bad as trying to hail a taxi. They just didn’t notice you nowadays, she thought.
2
T hey met here, in the breakfast room of the Harborview, among the hurrying businessmen and lounging vacationers, on the first Tuesday of every month. Come rain or shine, they said. Come hell or high water. Actually, it was more, come Janice’s hip operation and come Merrill’s ill-advised trip to Mexico with her daughter. Apart from that, they’d made it a regular date these last three years.
“I’m ready for my tea now,” said Janice.
“English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe, Earl Grey?”
“English Breakfast.” She said it with a nervous crispness which made the waiter stop checking the table. An indeterminate nod was as near as he came to an apology.
“Coming right up,” he said, as he was already moving off.
“Do you think he’s a pansy?” For some reason unknown to her, Janice had deliberately avoided a modern word, though the effect was, if anything, more pointed.
“I couldn’t care less,” said Merrill.
“I couldn’t care less either,” said Janice. “Especially not at my age. Anyway, they make very good waiters.” This didn’t seem right either, so she added, “That’s what Bill used to say.” Bill hadn’t said anything of the kind, as far as she could remember, but his posthumous corroboration
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