and stitched and sawed, and from somewhere—a cloud, perhaps—Bing Crosby singing “Silent Night” with the little catch in his voice.
“Let’s share a room in the door,” said Marsha. She pushed Ben ahead of her into the revolving door and squeezed in behind him. The door wedged tight. Panic froze him. A man in the section behind them tapped the glass, and Marsha started to laugh.
“Ben, move your feet!”
He moved them. The door opened. Why did she like to humiliate him? I’ve got to be patient, he told himself. He had made a bargain with God: If I am kind and helpful to everyone I meet from this day forward, God will forgive me for striking down Clare Bishop, even if I don’t tell her I did it. Why should I tell? What good would it do? In his mind rose a jeweler’s balance. The words “Clare Bishop’s concussion” hovered over the right pan, and a throng of faces, known and unknown, floated in the other one, the faces of everyone he would help for the rest of his life.
They passed the perfume counter. Marsha paused at a rack of men’s leather caps.
“Nobody would know if I took one,” she said.
“Marsha, please.”
“The stuff on the main floor is overpriced. Think of all the times I’ve paid too much. I could take that cap and even the score.”
“Don’t,” said Ben. “That man is watching us.”
“Which man?”
“That man next to the bathrobes. If you wore your glasses, you’d see him.”
She shrugged.
“Some day when I’m alone in here, I’ll take it.”
“You don’t need that cap,” said Ben.
“It was for you,” she said. “I was taking it for you.”
Riding the escalator to the ninth floor, she whispered in his ear, “What I really want for Christmas is butterfly-wing eye shadow, but I don’t think it’s been invented yet.”
The dining room was nearly full. All women, he noticed, and a few elderly men. Oriental carpets, white tablecloths, French windows with drapes of rose satin—oh, he didn’t belong here. A matronly hostess showed them to a table for two by a window.
“I want a table in the middle of the room,” said Marsha. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
She hung her purse on the chair and slipped off her jacket and sat down. She had a way of taking off her jacket that made you think she was taking off everything.
“This beats taking an exam in calculus,” she said.
“Why are you taking calculus?” demanded Ben.
“Because I’m good at it,” replied Marsha.
The waiter, in a red dinner jacket and green vest, brought two menus and stood discreetly aside.
“Crab,” said Marsha, glancing at the menu. “Have the stuffed crab. I’m paying.”
Ben knew she wanted him to pay, and he knew she did not like him to contradict her. Was she testing him? Whether he paid or not, he would fail.
The waiter stepped forward, sleek as a muskrat, pencil poised over his pad, and turned to Marsha, who turned to Ben.
“What looks good to you?” she asked him.
“Everything,” said Ben. “Everything looks good.”
“I’ll have plain Jell-O and tea,” said Marsha to the waiter. “I’m on a diet. My friend will have everything.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the waiter.
“I said everything. The crab, the broiled spring chicken, the oyster croquette, the celery soufflé, the black bass baked in cream, the shrimp, the celery and pineapple salad, the raisins molded in wine jelly, the pistachio cake, the chestnut parfait. And coffee and tea.”
“That’s luncheons number one, two, three, four, and five,” said the waiter. “I think I’d better move you to a larger table.”
“I don’t want to move,” said Marsha. “You can bring an extra table over here.”
“Marsha, the crab is fine,” pleaded Ben.
But the awful feast had been set into motion. Two more waiters emerged from the kitchen bearing the extra table and three stands for the trays, which they unfolded to the left and right of Ben. The muskrat waiter brought a large bowl
“Let’s share a room in the door,” said Marsha. She pushed Ben ahead of her into the revolving door and squeezed in behind him. The door wedged tight. Panic froze him. A man in the section behind them tapped the glass, and Marsha started to laugh.
“Ben, move your feet!”
He moved them. The door opened. Why did she like to humiliate him? I’ve got to be patient, he told himself. He had made a bargain with God: If I am kind and helpful to everyone I meet from this day forward, God will forgive me for striking down Clare Bishop, even if I don’t tell her I did it. Why should I tell? What good would it do? In his mind rose a jeweler’s balance. The words “Clare Bishop’s concussion” hovered over the right pan, and a throng of faces, known and unknown, floated in the other one, the faces of everyone he would help for the rest of his life.
They passed the perfume counter. Marsha paused at a rack of men’s leather caps.
“Nobody would know if I took one,” she said.
“Marsha, please.”
“The stuff on the main floor is overpriced. Think of all the times I’ve paid too much. I could take that cap and even the score.”
“Don’t,” said Ben. “That man is watching us.”
“Which man?”
“That man next to the bathrobes. If you wore your glasses, you’d see him.”
She shrugged.
“Some day when I’m alone in here, I’ll take it.”
“You don’t need that cap,” said Ben.
“It was for you,” she said. “I was taking it for you.”
Riding the escalator to the ninth floor, she whispered in his ear, “What I really want for Christmas is butterfly-wing eye shadow, but I don’t think it’s been invented yet.”
The dining room was nearly full. All women, he noticed, and a few elderly men. Oriental carpets, white tablecloths, French windows with drapes of rose satin—oh, he didn’t belong here. A matronly hostess showed them to a table for two by a window.
“I want a table in the middle of the room,” said Marsha. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
She hung her purse on the chair and slipped off her jacket and sat down. She had a way of taking off her jacket that made you think she was taking off everything.
“This beats taking an exam in calculus,” she said.
“Why are you taking calculus?” demanded Ben.
“Because I’m good at it,” replied Marsha.
The waiter, in a red dinner jacket and green vest, brought two menus and stood discreetly aside.
“Crab,” said Marsha, glancing at the menu. “Have the stuffed crab. I’m paying.”
Ben knew she wanted him to pay, and he knew she did not like him to contradict her. Was she testing him? Whether he paid or not, he would fail.
The waiter stepped forward, sleek as a muskrat, pencil poised over his pad, and turned to Marsha, who turned to Ben.
“What looks good to you?” she asked him.
“Everything,” said Ben. “Everything looks good.”
“I’ll have plain Jell-O and tea,” said Marsha to the waiter. “I’m on a diet. My friend will have everything.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the waiter.
“I said everything. The crab, the broiled spring chicken, the oyster croquette, the celery soufflé, the black bass baked in cream, the shrimp, the celery and pineapple salad, the raisins molded in wine jelly, the pistachio cake, the chestnut parfait. And coffee and tea.”
“That’s luncheons number one, two, three, four, and five,” said the waiter. “I think I’d better move you to a larger table.”
“I don’t want to move,” said Marsha. “You can bring an extra table over here.”
“Marsha, the crab is fine,” pleaded Ben.
But the awful feast had been set into motion. Two more waiters emerged from the kitchen bearing the extra table and three stands for the trays, which they unfolded to the left and right of Ben. The muskrat waiter brought a large bowl
Similar Books
