Renie’s latest parroting of her husband’s expertise
was mercifully interrupted by Arlene, who poked her
head in the back door. “I took your mother’s supper out
to her. I’ve got to go home now and feed my darling,
patient Carl. To the dogs,” she added with a sinister expression.
“Thanks again, Arlene, I really appreciate . . .” But
Arlene was gone before Judith could finish the sentence.
“Have a drink on me, ladies,” Joe offered, taking
down a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Canadian
whiskey from the cupboard. “What are the guests up
to?”
Judith slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Listening to how wonderful Bruno is, from Bruno’s own
lips.”
“And,” Renie put in, opening the cupboard door by
the sink to get three glasses, “listening to Bruno tell
them how marvelous
they already know, having been involved in the making
of it.” Handing the glasses to Joe, she closed the cupboard door behind her. Or tried to. “Damn! What’s
with this thing? It won’t stay shut.”
Judith heaved a sigh. “Mr. Tolvang supposedly fixed
it when he was here, but the door still swings open on
its own.” She gave Joe a plaintive look from under her
dark lashes. “I don’t mean to nag, but I have mentioned
that you might look at it. I hate to ask Mr. Tolvang.
He’s so stubborn, he’d probably tell me I was imagining the problem.”
“I’ll give it a go,” Joe answered airily, handing Judith her Scotch. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”
Judith didn’t respond. While Joe was slightly more
adept at household repairs than Bill, the Flynn to-do
list was never a priority.
“So what’s this movie about anyway?” Joe asked.
“A public utility?”
“Not exactly,” Renie replied. “Dade Costello—the
screenwriter—explained the basic plot to me.”
“That’s more than he did for me,” Judith remarked.
“Maybe you used the wrong approach,” Renie said.
“He’s kind of touchy. Sullen, too. Of course I’m used
to moody writers. Freelancers are the worst. They can’t
bear to have their precious copy rearranged so it will fit
the graphics. Anyway, the bare bones Dade sketched
out for me involve the entire history of the world as
seen through the eyes of a simple gasman. That is, an
employee who works for a gas company somewhere in
the Midwest.” Renie paused for effect. “Get it? Everyman in the middle of the country, the center of the universe.”
“I got it,” Joe murmured into his Scotch.
“Anyway,” Renie continued, sitting on the counter
