“And a bull’s-eye painted on the lid.”
“And a lock that only closes if you kick it, but opens with a hairpin and the key is…” Valerian stopped and looked up at Sydney. Sydney looked at Valerian. They said it together. “…at the top of Kilimanjaro.”
“Some joke,” said Valerian.
“Pretty good for a seven-year-old.”
They were quiet for a while, Valerian chewing pineapple, Sydney leaning against the sideboard. Then Valerian said, “Why do you suppose he hangs on to it? A boy’s camp footlocker.”
“Keep his clothes in.”
“Foolish. All of it. The trunk, him and this visit. Besides, he won’t show.”
“She thinks so this time.”
“She’s not thinking. She’s dreaming, poor baby. Are you sure there was nothing between those towels?”
“Here comes the lady. Ask her yourself.”
A light clicking of heels on Mexican tile was getting louder.
“When the boy goes to the airport,” whispered Valerian, “tell him to pick up some Maalox on the way back.” “Well,” he said to his wife, “what have we here? Wonder Woman?”
“Please,” she said, “it’s too hot. Good morning, Sydney.”
“Morning, Mrs. Street.”
“Then what is that between your eyebrows?”
“Frownies.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Frownies.”
Sydney walked around the table, tilted the pot and poured coffee soundlessly into her cup.
“You have trouble frowning?” asked her husband.
“Yes.”
“And that helps?”
“Supposed to.” She held the cup in front of her lips and closed her eyes. The steam floated into her face while she inhaled.
“I am confused. Not senile, mind you. Just confused. Why would you want to frown?”
Margaret took another breath of coffee steam and opened her eyes very slowly. She looked at her husband with the complete dislike of a natural late-sleeper for a cheerful early-riser.
“I don’t want to frown. Frownies don’t make you frown. They erase the consequences of frowning.”
Valerian opened his mouth but said nothing for a moment. Then: “But why don’t you just stop frowning? Then you won’t need to paste your face with little pieces of tape.”
Margaret sipped more coffee and returned the cup to its saucer. Lifting the neckline of her dress away from her she blew gently into her bosom and looked at the pale wedges Sydney placed before her. Ondine had left the spiky skin on the underside deliberately—just to hurt and confuse her. “I thought we’d have…mangoes.” Sydney removed the fruit and hurried to the swinging doors. “What gets into everybody? The same thing every morning?”
“I wanted pineapple. If you don’t, tell Sydney at night what you’d like for breakfast the next morning. That way he can—”
“She knows I hate fresh pineapple. The threads get in my teeth. I like canned. Is that so terrible?”
“Yes. Terrible.”
“They tell
“Whom. If you give Ondine menus for the whole week—that is exactly what she will prepare.”
“Really? You’ve been doing that for thirty years and you can’t even get her to fix you a cup of coffee. She makes you drink Postum.”
“That’s different.”
“Sure.”
Sydney returned with a bowl of crushed ice in which a mango stood. The peeling had been pulled back from the shiny fruit in perfect curls. The slits along the pulp were barely visible. Valerian yawned behind his fist, then said, “Sydney, can I or can I not order a cup of coffee and get it?”
“Yes, sir. ’Course you can.” He put down the mango and filled Valerian’s cup.
“See, Margaret. And there’s your mango. Four hundred and twenty-five calories.”
“What about your croissant?”
“One twenty-seven.”
“God.” Margaret closed her eyes, her blue-if-it’s-a-boy blue eyes and put down her fork.
“Have a grapefruit.”
