half-peeled. She goes into the living room and looks out the window.
Catherine is climbing off the wall. Or she’s trying to. Her dress is caught in the wire.
“That pretty li’l old dress is giving her all sorts of trouble today,” Stella says, surprising herself with the bad accent and a certain viciousness of tone.
“Stella. I wish you’d keep this picture for me.”
“Me keep it?”
“I’m afraid I’ll show it to Catherine. I keep wanting to. I’m afraid I will.”
Catherine has disengaged herself, and has spotted them at the window. She waves, and Stella waves back.
“I’m sure you have others,” says Stella. “Pictures.”
“Not with me. It’s not that I want to hurt her.”
“Then don’t.”
“She makes me want to hurt her. She hangs on me with her weepy looks. She takes pills. Mood elevators. She drinks. Sometimes I think the best thing to do would be to give her the big chop. Coup de grâce. Coup de grâce, Catherine. Here you are. Big chop. But I worry about what she’ll do.”
“Mood elevator,” says Stella. “Mood elevator, going up!”
“I’m serious, Stella. Those pills are deadly.”
“That’s your affair.”
“Very funny.”
“I didn’t even mean it to be. Whenever something slips out like that, I always pretend I meant it, though. I’ll take all the credit I can get!”
These three people feel better at dinnertime than any of them might have expected. David feels better because he has remembered that there is a telephone booth across from the liquor store. Stella always feels better when she has cooked a meal and it has turned out so well. Catherine’s reasons for feeling better are chemical.
Conversation is not difficult. Stella tells stories that she has come across in doing research for her article, about wrecks on the Great Lakes. Catherine knows something about wrecks. She has a boyfriend—a former boyfriend—who is a diver. David is gallant enough to assert that he is jealous of this fellow, does not care to hear about his deep-water prowess. Perhaps this is the truth.
After dinner, David says he needs to go for a walk. Catherine tells him to go ahead. “Go on,” she says merrily. “We don’t need you here. Stella and I will
get
along fine without you!”Stella wonders where this new voice of Catherine’s comes from, this pert and rather foolish and flirtatious voice. Drink wouldn’t do it. Whatever Catherine has taken has made her sharper, not blunter. Several layers of wispy apology, tentative flattery, fearfulness, or hopefulness have simply blown away in this brisk chemical breeze.
But when Catherine gets up and tries to clear the table it becomes apparent that the sharpening is not physical. Catherine bumps into a corner of the counter. She makes Stella think of an amputee. Not much cut off, just the tips of her fingers and maybe her toes. Stella has to keep an eye on her, relieving her of the dishes before they slide away.
“Did you notice the hair?” says Catherine. Her voice goes up and down like a Ferris wheel; it dips and sparkles. “He’s dyeing it!”
“David is?” says Stella, in genuine surprise.
“Every time he’d think of it, he’d tilt his head back, so you couldn’t get too close a look. I think he was afraid you’d say something. He’s slightly afraid of you. Actually, it looks very natural.”
“I really didn’t notice.”
“He started a couple of months ago. I said, ‘David, what does it matter—your hair was getting gray when I fell in love with you, do you think it’s going to bother me now?’ Love is strange, it does strange things. David is actually a sensitive person—he’s a vulnerable person.” Stella rescues a wineglass that is drooping from Catherine’s fingers. “It can make you mean. Love can make you mean. If you feel dependent on somebody, then you can be mean to them. I understand that in David.”
They drink mead at dinner. This is the first time Stella has tried this batch of
Catherine is climbing off the wall. Or she’s trying to. Her dress is caught in the wire.
“That pretty li’l old dress is giving her all sorts of trouble today,” Stella says, surprising herself with the bad accent and a certain viciousness of tone.
“Stella. I wish you’d keep this picture for me.”
“Me keep it?”
“I’m afraid I’ll show it to Catherine. I keep wanting to. I’m afraid I will.”
Catherine has disengaged herself, and has spotted them at the window. She waves, and Stella waves back.
“I’m sure you have others,” says Stella. “Pictures.”
“Not with me. It’s not that I want to hurt her.”
“Then don’t.”
“She makes me want to hurt her. She hangs on me with her weepy looks. She takes pills. Mood elevators. She drinks. Sometimes I think the best thing to do would be to give her the big chop. Coup de grâce. Coup de grâce, Catherine. Here you are. Big chop. But I worry about what she’ll do.”
“Mood elevator,” says Stella. “Mood elevator, going up!”
“I’m serious, Stella. Those pills are deadly.”
“That’s your affair.”
“Very funny.”
“I didn’t even mean it to be. Whenever something slips out like that, I always pretend I meant it, though. I’ll take all the credit I can get!”
These three people feel better at dinnertime than any of them might have expected. David feels better because he has remembered that there is a telephone booth across from the liquor store. Stella always feels better when she has cooked a meal and it has turned out so well. Catherine’s reasons for feeling better are chemical.
Conversation is not difficult. Stella tells stories that she has come across in doing research for her article, about wrecks on the Great Lakes. Catherine knows something about wrecks. She has a boyfriend—a former boyfriend—who is a diver. David is gallant enough to assert that he is jealous of this fellow, does not care to hear about his deep-water prowess. Perhaps this is the truth.
After dinner, David says he needs to go for a walk. Catherine tells him to go ahead. “Go on,” she says merrily. “We don’t need you here. Stella and I will
get
along fine without you!”Stella wonders where this new voice of Catherine’s comes from, this pert and rather foolish and flirtatious voice. Drink wouldn’t do it. Whatever Catherine has taken has made her sharper, not blunter. Several layers of wispy apology, tentative flattery, fearfulness, or hopefulness have simply blown away in this brisk chemical breeze.
But when Catherine gets up and tries to clear the table it becomes apparent that the sharpening is not physical. Catherine bumps into a corner of the counter. She makes Stella think of an amputee. Not much cut off, just the tips of her fingers and maybe her toes. Stella has to keep an eye on her, relieving her of the dishes before they slide away.
“Did you notice the hair?” says Catherine. Her voice goes up and down like a Ferris wheel; it dips and sparkles. “He’s dyeing it!”
“David is?” says Stella, in genuine surprise.
“Every time he’d think of it, he’d tilt his head back, so you couldn’t get too close a look. I think he was afraid you’d say something. He’s slightly afraid of you. Actually, it looks very natural.”
“I really didn’t notice.”
“He started a couple of months ago. I said, ‘David, what does it matter—your hair was getting gray when I fell in love with you, do you think it’s going to bother me now?’ Love is strange, it does strange things. David is actually a sensitive person—he’s a vulnerable person.” Stella rescues a wineglass that is drooping from Catherine’s fingers. “It can make you mean. Love can make you mean. If you feel dependent on somebody, then you can be mean to them. I understand that in David.”
They drink mead at dinner. This is the first time Stella has tried this batch of
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