meowed at me. I finally got fed up with the mess and spent the last few hours cleaning. I hauled out a dozen trash bags full of cat food cans, bottles, newspapers, and other debris, changed ten litter boxes, and vacuumed--it didn't seem to bother Mrs. Thornhill. Halfway through the dusting, a car screeched up outside and a frantic couple rushed in. I met them at the door, dustrag in hand.
'Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill?'
'Oh,' said the woman, 'I thought you came on Tuesdays.'
'No,' I said, puzzled, 'I've never been here before.'
'Aren't you the new cleaning lady?'
I explained who I was and why I was there. They overwhelmed me with apologies and thanks. I went home and took a shower, followed by a long hot bath.
'Meg,' Mother said over dinner that evening, 'you haven't touched your salmon.'
I didn't even try to explain.
Tuesday, June 28
Mother tagged along the next morning when I fetched the new envelopes, and then shanghaied me to help her pick out some upholstery fabric. Unfortunately, by the time I staggered home carrying five giant bolts of blue fabric, Samantha had already heard about Mrs. Thornhill from parties other than me, parties who had no interest in breaking the news to her gently and putting the best face on it. The ensuing tantrum was not pretty. I had to promise that the invitations would be out by Friday to calm her down. My mood was not improved when Mrs. Thornhill the younger called me up and tried to hire me to 'do' once a week for her mother-in-law. And to top it all off, Mother decided the blue in Great-Aunt Sophy's vase was the exact shade she wanted for the living room. She spent several hours dragging it and the bolts of fabric around, looking at them together and separately in daylight and lamplight. I was a nervous wreck, waiting for her to detect Sophy's absence. Once she actually tipped the vase and dropped the top on the top of the sofa. I replaced it quietly and she never seemed to notice that nothing had spilled. After Mother finally lost steam and went to bed, I stayed up until two addressing envelopes, fretting all the while because I hadn't seen Dad in several days.
Wednesday, June 29
The next day, Mother decided she had chosen the wrong upholstery fabric. I had to lug the bolts back down to the store and exchange them. Not, of course, without endless time-consuming consultation with Mrs. Fenniman. I caught a glimpse of Dad as Mother and I drove to the fabric store, so at least I knew nothing had happened to him. I discovered, to my vast irritation, that Barry had brought down all his tools and set up a shop in Professor Donleavy's garage, thus giving him less reason than ever to leave town. Professor Donleavy was about as thrilled as I was, but several relatives and neighbors had already given Barry commissions. I tried calling Dad when I got home, with no luck, and was up until two-thirty addressing invitations.
Thursday, June 30
Mother then decided the first fabric had been right, after all. At least she thought it was. I had to chauffeur her and half a dozen friends to half a dozen fabric stores before we were sure, though. Back home with the original five bolts of fabric. Mrs. Thornhill the younger called to up the ante on her offer. I refrained, with difficulty, from resorting to unladylike language. No word from Dad. After Mother went to bed, I snuck down to Pam's house with the five bolts of blue fabric and asked her to hide them. While I was there, I asked her if she'd seen Dad.
'Only in passing,' she said. 'He's behaving very oddly.'
'What do you mean oddly?'
Pam thought for a moment. 'Furtively,' she said at last.
Great.
I only managed to stay up till midnight before falling asleep over Samantha's beastly new envelopes.
Friday, July 1
By the time I woke up Friday morning, Mother and the advisory board had decided they needed to exchange the upholstery fabric again. However, my foresight in hiding the fabric at Pam's thwarted them. I told them I'd be glad to ferry them back to the fabric store when they found the bolts, and retired to the hammock with the remaining invitations, leaving them twittering over the sample swatches. I was able to finish all the invitations and drop them off at the post office before noon. On my way back, an inspiration struck me, and I stopped at Be- Stitched just as Michael was taking off for lunch.
'Meg!' he cried. 'I've hardly seen you all week.'
'Is that why you've given up shaving?'
'I'm getting ready for the costume party tomorrow,' he said, with enthusiasm. Drat; I'd completely forgotten the party.
'I'm going as a pirate,' Michael said. 'What about you?'
'I haven't decided yet.'
'But it's tomorrow!'
'Now that I've finally finished Samantha's invitations, I'll think about it.'
'Have you been doing those bloody envelopes all this week?'
'That, and running a fabric delivery service,' I said. I explained about the blue fabric I'd been shuffling back and forth. 'Any chance you could drop by this weekend, look at the swatch I left lying around, and convince Mother she's made the right decision?'
'Your wish is my command. Tell you what: I'll drop by tomorrow and do it, and bring you a costume to boot. I'll have the ladies throw something together; they've got your measurements.'
'You're on. As long as it's not made of velvet and doesn't have hoops.'
I was relieved when Dad dropped by for dinner that night, proving he hadn't yet fallen victim to the local homicidal maniac.
Jake and Mrs. Fenniman also showed up, as did Reverend Pugh, making it yet another of those dinners that should have been more awkward than it was.
Although Dad did his best to make it awkward. His obsession with homicide seemed to have mutated into a fixation on death and funerals. He spent the entire meal talking about them. Once Mother realized there was no stopping him, she gave in gracefully--nay, aided and abetted him--and we were treated to lengthy discussion of the final illnesses, deaths, and burials of both her parents, together with amusing anecdotes about the departures of a dozen or so collateral relatives.
Mrs. Fenniman told several improbable but entertaining anecdotes about the last words or deeds of several of her cronies. Reverend Pugh related poignant or amusing stories about the deaths of past parishioners. Dad discoursed eloquently on funeral customs in a variety of cultures. Whenever the conversation threatened to veer off on a nonmorbid tangent--for example, the amusing incidents that occurred at the wedding of a relative whose death we'd just discussed--Dad would drag it back on course. Everyone got into the act, except Jake. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and resisted all temptation to join the conversation. And just as Mother was dishing out peaches and ice cream for dessert, it suddenly dawned on me. Dad was trying to find out what Jake had done with his wife's ashes.
I burst out laughing, right in the middle of one of Reverend Pugh's more touching anecdotes. Everyone looked at me disapprovingly. Including Dad, damn it.
'Sorry,' I said. 'I don't know what came over me.' And I fled to the kitchen to get the giggles out of my
