in his face that he had had a hard day. He kissed her mother, touched Amy on the head, and got behind the wheel. “You know,” her mother said, “there’s something terribly wrong with the guest-room shower.”
“Damn it, Marcia,” he said, “I wish you wouldn’t always greet me with bad news!”
His grating voice oppressed Amy, and she began to fiddle with the button that raised and lowered the window.
“Stop that, Amy!” he said.
“Oh, well, the shower isn’t important,” her mother said. She laughed weakly.
“When I got back from San Francisco last week,” he said, “you couldn’t wait to tell me that we need a new oil burner.”
“Well, I’ve got a part-time cook. That’s good news.”
“Is she a lush?” her father asked.
“Don’t be disagreeable, dear. She’ll get us some dinner and wash the dishes and take the bus home. We’re going to the Farquarsons’.”
“I’m really too tired to go anywhere,” he said.
“Who’s going to take care of me?” Amy asked.
“You always have a good time at the Farquarsons’,” her mother said.
“Well, let’s leave early,” he said.
“Who’s going to take care of me?” Amy asked.
“Mrs. Henlein,” her mother said.
When they got home, Amy went over to the piano.
Her father washed his hands in the bathroom off the hall and then went to the bar. He came into the living room holding the empty gin bottle. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“Ruby,” her mother said.
“She’s exceptional. She’s drunk a quart of gin on her first day.”
“Oh dear!” her mother said. “Well, let’s not make any trouble now.”
“Everybody is drinking my liquor,” her father shouted, “and I am Goddamned sick and tired of it!”
“There’s plenty of gin in the closet,” her mother said. “Open another bottle.”
“We paid that gardener three dollars an hour and all he did was sneak in here and drink up my Scotch. The sitter we had before we got Mrs. Henlein used to water my bourbon, and I don’t have to remind you about Rosemary. The cook before Rosemary not only drank everything in my liquor cabinet but she drank all the rum, kirsch, sherry, and wine that we had in the kitchen for cooking. Then, there’s that Polish woman we had last summer. Even that old laundress. And the painters. I think they must have put some kind of a mark on my door. I think the agency must have checked me off as an easy touch.”
“Well, let’s get through dinner, and then you can speak to her.”
“The hell with that!” he said. “I’m not going to encourage people to rob me. Ruby!” He shouted her name several times, but she didn’t answer. Then she appeared in the dining-room doorway anyway, wearing her hat and coat.
“I’m sick,” she said. Amy could see that she was frightened.
“I should think that you would be,” her father said.
‘Tm sick,” the cook mumbled, “and I can’t find anything around here, and I’m going home.”
“Good,” he said. “Good! I’m through with paying people to come in here and drink my liquor.”
