thief distilling the foxglove leaves to extract the poison, but it sounded to me as if almost any way you could get the plant into someone's system would be highly effective. Michael and I were both in a depressed state when we headed off to the day's tasks--the shop for him, and for me, frog-marching wedding participants into the shop to be fitted. Samantha and her friends spent their day racketing up and down the river on speedboats, so I spent most of mine dashing up and down the river in Dad's not very speedy boat, capturing recalcitrant ushers and bridesmaids and ferrying them back to shore and hauling their wet, bedraggled, beer-bloated carcasses into Be- Stitched.
'No offense,' Michael said, toward the end of the day, 'But your brother has highly questionable taste in friends.'
'On the contrary. Rob has excellent taste in friends. These are Samantha's friends.'
'That would account for it,' Michael said. 'I have to keep telling myself that it would do no good to throttle them; we'd only have to detain and outfit a new set.'
'Let's hope our foxglove bandit isn't targeting them too. I'm not sure I could take another day like this.'
Samantha was having another party that night. I passed. I stayed home. I did my laundry, balanced my checkbook, and cleaned the bathrooms. I had a lot more fun than I'd had Friday night.
Sunday, July 10
By the next day, everyone in the neighborhood-- probably everyone in the county--knew about the theft of Dad's foxglove plants. Dozens of people called up wanting to know what foxglove looked like. Five of the more notable local hypochondriacs dropped by to be examined for symptoms of digitalis poisoning. The leading local miser, an elderly uncle of Mother's who had a heart problem, dropped by to insist that Dad give him instructions for making his own digitalis, so he could 'cut out the middleman and stop lining the pockets of the big drug companies.' He went off mad because Dad tried to talk him out of it, and it was weeks before we were really convinced he wasn't going to experiment on himself. I don't know if our family was typical--I suspect that for once it was--but we spent the greater portion of an otherwise lovely Sunday dinner discussing digitalis. The more squeamish souls, like Rob and Jake, ate sparingly.
The whole neighborhood also knew the details of Scotty's misadventure. Apparently the next-door neighbors had seen his unclad form leaving our yard. I had been forced, in self-defense, to reveal the whole story, calling Michael as a witness.
'Sorry to drag you into this,' I said, after the seventeenth time he'd been forced to produce the little squeeze bottle for inspection and say that no, he had no idea what was in it, but he'd be sure to ask his mother the next time he called her.
'It gives me great pleasure to defend your honor against this rank calumny,' he said, with a sweeping bow.
'Hang my honor. It's my taste and my sanity you're defending. And possibly Scotty's life; if I see him around here anytime soon, I'll probably rip up the remaining foxgloves and shove them down his throat.'
'Don't exaggerate, Meg,' Mother said.
'I'm sure you wouldn't do that,' Barry chirped up.
I looked around the porch at the assembled family and friends. They were all smiling and nodding as if they thought Scotty's behavior were the most amusing thing in the world. Except for Michael, who looked as exasperated as I felt. And Jake, who was cringing back in the shadows at the edge of the porch as if he were afraid I would confuse him with Scotty.
Just then--speak of the devil--Scotty appeared around the corner of the porch.
'Hi,' he said cheerfully, waving at me. I could hear muffled titters from several places on the porch. Scotty had the good grace to look embarrassed.
'I came to apologize,' he said, still looking at me. I crossed my arms and glowered at him.
'That's all right, Scotty,' Mother said, graciously. 'Just be more careful in future.'
Careful? I gave her an exasperated look. So, I noticed, did Samantha. Obviously Scotty's fitness for usherhood was seriously in question.
'I saw the oddest thing last night,' Scotty went on. He glanced at Dad, who had his nose buried in the Merck manual, and then back at me.
'Really? You too?' I said, coldly. More titters from somewhere on the porch.
'Saw? Or hallucinated?' Samantha said, even more coldly. Scotty looked startled.
'No, saw,' he said. 'I wanted to tell you, Meg.'
'Some other time,' I said, losing patience. I went back to the kitchen and took my irritation out on some greasy pots and pans. Michael followed shortly afterward.
'Need some help?' he asked. I handed him a soap pad and a particularly awful pot. He tackled it energetically. 'Aren't you curious what the odd thing was?' Michael asked.
'Not particularly, but tell me anyway.'
'He didn't say,' Michael replied.
'He left after you did.'
'Probably nothing important.'
'And you're not the least bit curious?' I sighed.
'I suppose I ought to go find out what it is,' I said. 'After all, I suppose it is possible that he saw the foxglove bandit and wasn't too drunk to remember who it was.'
But by the time I got back outside, Scotty was long gone. I'd tackle him later.
Eileen and Steven arrived late that night from their last craft fair before the wedding. They called up to invite me to go to dinner with them the next day. I agreed to meet them at Eileen's house at five o'clock the next evening. I had plans for them.
Monday, July 11
Mother, Pam, and I spent the morning helping Dad pick out a new gray suit for Rob's wedding. He'd ruined his last gray suit a few weeks ago, shinnying up a pine tree to look at a buzzard's nest. We planned to hide this one until the day of the wedding. Then I spent the afternoon ferrying back another enormous pile of inspected wedding presents from the sheriff's office and inventorying them.
Steven and Eileen were a little surprised when I showed up at Professor Donleavy's house at five sharp, bearing a bag of sandwiches and a large stack of their notecards.
'I thought we were going to take you out to dinner,' Steven said.
'Our treat,' Eileen added.
'I thought of something that will be an even bigger treat for me,' I said. 'You're going to write thank-you notes for your presents.'
They turned a little pale, but once they realized I had already gotten a list of donors and gifts all organized for them--or perhaps once they realized there was no escaping--they gave in and cheerfully sat around writing notes.
I stood over them, doling out the index cards on which I'd written the name and address of each donor and what they'd given, then taking back the finished notes, proofing them, addressing them, and sealing them.
It was slow work, much like forcing restless children to do homework.
'What's an ee-perg-nay?' Steven would ask.
'A what?'
'Every-people-every-rather-go-not-every,' Steven said.
'Oh, epergne,' I said, correcting his pronunciation. 'Eileen's aunt Louise sent it.'
'Yes, I see, but what is it?'
'What do you care?' I said. 'Just thank her for it.'
'How can I thank her if I don't know what it is?'
