kids, for Omaha and the irretrievable past.
With the table set, she bathed; then powdered and perfumed herself, did her eyes and lips and hair, and put on a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas that Guy had given her the previous Christmas.
He came home late, after six. “Mmm,” he said, kissing her, “you look good enough to eat. Shall we? Damn!”
“What?”
“I forgot the pie.”
He had told her not to make a dessert; he would bring home his absolute all-time favorite, a Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie.
“I could kick myself,” he said. “I passed two of those damn retail stores; not one but two.”
“It’s all right,” Rosemary said. “We can have fruit and cheese. That’s the best dessert anyway, really.”
“It is not; Horn and Hardart pumpkin pie is.”
He went in to wash up and she put a tray of stuffed mushrooms into the oven and mixed the salad dressing.
In a few minutes Guy came to the kitchen door, buttoning the collar of a blue velour shirt. He was bright-eyed and a bit on edge, the way he had been the first time they slept together, when he knew it was going to happen. It pleased Rosemary to see him that way.
“Your pal the Pope really loused up traffic today,” he said.
“Did you see any of the television?” she asked. “They’ve had fantastic coverage.”
“I got a glimpse up at Allan’s,” he said. “Glasses in the freezer?”
“Yes. He made a wonderful speech at the UN. ‘War never again,’ he told them.”
“Rotsa ruck. Hey, those look good.”
They had Gibsons and the stuffed mushrooms in the living room. Guy put crumpled newspaper and sticks of kindling on the fireplace grate, and two big chunks of cannel coal. “Here goes nothing,” he said, and struck a match and lit the paper. It flamed high and caught the kindling. Dark smoke began spilling out over the front of the mantel and up toward the ceiling. “Good grief,” Guy said, and groped inside the fireplace. “The paint, the paint!” Rosemary cried.
He got the flue opened; and the air conditioner, set at exhaust, drew out the smoke.
“Nobody, but nobody, has a fire tonight,” Guy said.
Rosemary, kneeling with her drink and staring into the spitting flamewrapped coals, said, “Isn’t it gorgeous? I hope we have the coldest winter in eighty years.”
Guy put on Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter.
They were halfway through the swordfish when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” Guy said. He got up, tossed down his napkin, and went to answer it. Rosemary cocked her head and listened.
The door opened and Minnie said, “Hi, Guy!” and more that was unintelligible. Oh, no, Rosemary thought. Don’t let her in, Guy. Not now, not tonight.
Guy spoke, and then Minnie again: “. . . extra. We don’t need them.” Guy again and Minnie again. Rosemary eased out held-in breath; it didn’t sound as if she was coming in, thank God.
The door closed and was chained (Good!) and bolted (Good!). Rosemary watched and waited, and Guy sidled into the archway, smiling smugly, with both hands behind his back. “Who says there’s nothing to ESP?” he said, and coming toward the table brought forth his hands with two white custard cups sitting one on each palm. “Madame and Monsieur shall have ze dessairt after all,” he said, setting one cup by Rosemary’s wineglass and the other by his own. “Mousse au chocolat.” he said, “or ‘chocolate mouse,’ as Minnie calls it. Of course with her it could be chocolate mouse, so eat with care.”
Rosemary laughed happily. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s what I was going to make.”
“See?” Guy said, sitting. “ESP.” He replaced his napkin and poured more wine.
“I was afraid she was going to come charging in and stay all evening,” Rosemary said, forking up carrots.
“No,” Guy said, “she just wanted us to try her chocolate mouse, seem’ as how it’s one of her speci-al- ities.”
“It looks good.”
“It does, doesn’t it.”
The cups were filled with peaked swirls of chocolate. Guy’s was topped with a sprinkling of chopped nuts, and Rosemary’s with a half walnut.
“It’s sweet of her, really,” Rosemary said. “We shouldn’t make fun of her.” “You’re right,” Guy said, “you’re right.”
The mousse was excellent, but it had a chalky undertaste that reminded Rosemary of blackboards and grade school. Guy tried but could find no “undertaste” at all, chalky or otherwise. Rosemary put her spoon down after two swallows. Guy said, “Aren’t you going to finish it? That’s silly, honey; there’s no ‘undertaste.’ “
Rosemary said there was.
“Come on,” Guy said, “the old bat slaved all day over a hot stove; eat it.” “But I don’t like it,” Rosemary said.
“It’s delicious.”
“You can have mine.”
Guy scowled. “All right, don’t eat it,” he said; “you don’t wear the charm she gave you, you might as well not eat her dessert too.”
Confused, Rosemary said, “What does one thing have to do with the other?” “They’re both examples of-well, unkindness, that’s all.” Guy said. “Two minutes ago you said we should stop making fun of her. That’s a form of making fun too, accepting something and then not using it.”
“Oh—” Rosemary picked up her spoon. “If it’s going to turn into a big scene —’She took a full spoonful of the mousse and thrust it into her mouth.
“It isn’t going to turn into a big scene,” Guy said. “Look, if you really can’t stand it, don’t eat it.”
“Delicious,” Rosemary said, full-mouthed and taking another spoonful, “no undertaste at all. Turn the records over.”
Guy got up and went to the record player. Rosemary doubled her napkin in her lap and plopped two spoonfuls of the mousse into it, and another half-spoonful for good measure. She folded the napkin closed and then showily scraped clean the inside of the cup and swallowed down the scrapings as Guy came back to the table. “There, Daddy,” she said, tilting the cup toward him. “Do I get a gold star on my chart?”
“Two of them,” he said. “I’m sorry if I was stuffy.”
“You were.”
“I’m sorry.” He smiled.
Rosemary melted. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “It’s nice that you’re considerate of old ladies. It means you’ll be considerate of me when I’m one.”
They had coffee and creme de menthe.
“Margaret called this afternoon,” Rosemary said.
“Margaret?”
“My sister.”
“Oh. Everything okay?”
“Yes. She was afraid something had happened to me. She had a feeling.” “Oh?”
“We’re to stay home tonight.”
“Drat. And I made a reservation at Nedick’s. In the Orange Room.”
“You’ll have to cancel it.”
“How come you turned out sane when the rest of your family is nutty?”
The first wave of dizziness caught Rosemary at the kitchen sink as she scraped the uneaten mousse from her napkin into the drain. She swayed for a moment, then blinked and frowned. Guy, in the den, said, “He isn’t there yet. Christ, what a mob.” The Pope at Yankee Stadium.
“I’ll be in in a minute,” Rosemary said.
Shaking her head to clear it, she rolled the napkins up inside the tablecloth and put the bundle aside for the hamper. She put the stopper in the drain, turned on the hot water, squeezed in some Joy, and began loading in the
