VII
“Mom’s in a grumpy mood because she didn’t get a lick done all day,” Teddy said.
“Is that why we’re having chicken potpies?” Marella asked.
“The grumpiness I admit to,” Stevie said testily, stooping before the oven to peer at the potpies dripping beige lava on the burnt-black baking sheet. “What that has to do with our evening menu, though, escapes me. There’s nothing wrong with potpies, for God’s sake. They’re inexpensive, and reasonably nutritious, and you’ve both said you like them.”
“Once in a while,” Teddy said.
“I don’t like them,” Marella corrected her mother, “I never told you I liked them.”
“And you always fix ’em when you’re in a grumpy mood, Mom. If you were feelin’ great and somebody served you one, you’d turn grumpy. That’s the way it is with you and potpies.”
“Listen, buster, if anybody in this house served me anything, I’d turn a cartwheel for joy. As soon as basketball season’s over—season’s a great word for it; you never even play any games—anyway, as soon as these nightly practice sessions are over, you can take over the chef’s duties.” One hand hidden in a padded glove, Stevie carried the baking sheet to the table and upended a potpie on each plate. “Beggars can’t be choosers, and fanny-sitters can’t be grousers. My alleged grumpiness does not revoke these hallowed rules, and I’m damn tired of hearing about it.”
“It’s not alleged,” Teddy said. “You admitted it yourself.”
Stevie gave the boy a long withering look, and they ate for a while in silence. Marella, Stevie noticed, toyed with her dinner, plunging a fork into each tidbit of chicken and revolving it skeptically in front of her before either eating it or dislodging it from the tines beside her salad. Had she fully recovered from her virus? Her face looked drawn, almost transparently pale. As for the potpies, well, they would probably never elicit a rave review from Julia Child or Gourmet magazine, and Stevie began to feel sorry for the girl.
“Why couldn’t you get anything done?” Teddy asked. “I thought those people Sam and Elsa know fixed your typewriter.”
“The typewriter wouldn’t cooperate,” Marella said. “It’s fixed, but it wrote Mama a nasty note.”
“I was being facetious, Marella. It just seemed the silly thing was acting up, resisting me. That’s the kind of day I had. Of course, being told how grumpy I am and having my delicious dinner insulted has improved my spirits so much that I may try to do some work this evening.”
“Oh, Mama,” said Marella, crestfallen. “Please don’t.”
“Why not? If you’d like to see sirloin strip on this table again, or even prime ground round, Mama’s gotta grind it out. Otherwise it’s vitamin bars and chicken tripe forever.”
The children stared at her, uncomprehending.
“That’s a sort of a joke, just to prove I’m not all that horrendously grumpy. Bars and tripe forever. Stars and stripes forever. See?”
Marella said, “I wanted you to help me memorize my lines for our Fabulous February skit.”
“You were home all day yesterday,” Stevie pointed out. “Why didn’t you mention your skit then? This is the first I’ve heard about it.”
“She was having too much fun pretending to be sick.”
“I was not!” Marella replied, glowering at Ted. “I forgot about it. Miss Kirkland reminded us today.”
“Now who’s the grump?” Teddy said.
Lord, thought Stevie. Spare me this persnickety hassle. I was almost coming out of it, but if these two get going, I’m liable to lapse and dump my potpie right into somebody’s lap.
Blessedly, the telephone rang. Teddy left the table to answer it. “It’s for you, Mom,” he said, bringing her the receiver on its curly elastic cord. “Long distance, I think. Sounds sorta echoey, anyway.” Stevie took the receiver and murmured a hesitant hello.
“Mrs. Crye,” came the familiar monotone. “Mrs. Crye, this is Seaton Benecke. In Columbus. I . . . I called to see if your typewriter was working okay. I’m the person who fixed it. I’m just checking up for the company. It’s our policy to do that a day or two after a repair.”
“Oh,” said Stevie, nonplused by both the caller’s identity and the inquiring looks on her children’s faces. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s working just fine. It’s me who needs a tune-up, I’m afraid. My brain’s a little muzzy. The work didn’t go well today. The typewriter, though, it worked just fine.”
“That’s good.”
The words simply hung there, awaiting Stevie’s disagreement or concurrence. “Yes, it’s good,” she obliged the young man. “I’m lost without that machine, even when I exasperate myself by not using it well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well,” she said, “is that all? I’d talk longer, but we’re right in the middle of dinner.”
“I wanted to thank you for the five-dollar tip. My dad gave it to me yesterday afternoon.”
“You’re perfectly welcome, Seaton. You earned it. I’m sorry it couldn’t have been more.”
“I think a writer’s machine should be in tiptop shape.” Again, an annoying pause designed to prompt her response or to let Benecke think. But before Stevie could mutter another broad hint about their dinner hour, he found his tongue: “So if you have any trouble, Mrs. Crye, I’d be glad to ride up and fix it. It wouldn’t cost much. I have a motorcycle.” His next pause was briefer. “Probably, though, you won’t need to call me.”
“I appreciate your concern, Seaton.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Crye.”
“Good night. Thanks for calling.”
When Seaton broke the connection, Stevie gave the receiver to Teddy to hang back up. The boy returned to the table wearing a Cheshire cat grin.
“What’s that for?” Stevie demanded.
“I guess it’s about time you had a gentleman caller, huh? I guess Marella and me wouldn’t mind having a new dad.”
“Ugh,” said the girl. “Yuck.”
Stevie shuddered. Marella had succinctly articulated her own feelings about the prospect. Especially, she was afraid of this woebegone prospect (a word altogether unacceptable in its application to Seaton), who was almost a decade younger than she.
“You’re way off base, young man. Way off base.”
“I’m basketball, Mom. You’ve got the wrong sport.”
“I probably do,” Stevie observed. “I probably do.”