Here we go.
***
Uncle Arnold sipped his coffee. “Now, Patsy, how did it go with showing Sylvia around the town? You didn’t meet with any potential suitors, I trust?”
“Absolutely not, Daddy,” said the offended Patsy, who had no idea what a potential suitor was but didn’t want to be associated with anything that had that many syllables.
Francie blew down the stairs in a whirl of blue striped seersucker and not-quite-dry nail polish, scattering miniature trains as she went. “Timmy, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times not to leave toys on the stairs, especially the wheeled kind, and if you had any idea how dangerously easy it is to slip on one of those and fall all the way to the bottom and suffer a fatality of the worst possible kind--”
“I thooouuught I put them away,” said Timmy, who was following Francie’s flurry with the measured tread of offended dignity. His face was Sunday-clean and his fingernails very nearly flawless-- it had been an ordeal he was loath to repeat, and every freckle on his nose was crinkled in reproachful disgust. “If you weren’t going so fast,” he added quietly, “I’d step on the hem of your dress. That would teach you not to scrub me so hard.”
“Hold up, hold up. One at a time.” Uncle Arnold scooped chicken and rice onto Patsy’s plate. “Yes, the letter has been shown to me, but Patsy, perhaps in the future you could try to pause for a second or take a breath before launching into conversation after we’ve prayed. Yes, you must have at least two carrots. Eat them and they’ll make your hair curl.”
“Daddy, my hair’s curly already.” Patsy grimaced at the carrot pieces on her plate.
“So it is,” said Uncle Arnold tranquilly. “Very well, eat the carrots and they’ll make your hair straight.”
There wasn’t any lettuce in the crisper drawer. It was very rude of the lettuce, Sylvia thought crossly, and pretty silly too, considering the refrigerator (crisper drawer included) was just about the nicest place in the house to be at the moment. Annoyed at having to go back into the sultry rest of the kitchen, she banged the drawer shut and went in search of Celia, who happened to be coming into the kitchen with her book. They collided just outside the doorway.
Sylvia, who didn’t care to go through the ordeal of searching and hunting and asking clerks and trying to be polite through clouds of frustration again, nevertheless still rather wanted to be a bridesmaid. “But, um, Francie...”
“She can’t prance down the aisle in her underwear,” said Celia, who never wasted time in getting to the point. The inopportune moment in which she chose to make this valid observation, however, unfortunately happened to be the one in which a thin waiter of middle age and unattractive facial hair appeared at their table. He did an admirable job of pretending not to have heard Celia’s remark, but his mustache bristled disapprobation in her direction when he asked for her order. The amount of condescension he put into the word “miss” added to the general feeling of guilt around the table, even on the parts of those who had not made off-color remarks in loud voices.
“It isn’t necessarily better to get wet all at once,” said Alice, moving in just a little bit more so that her ankles were now covered. “If you get used to it in small increments--”
“Small increments indeed,” Francie snorted. “You’ll be barely up to your knees by dinnertime, Alice.”
“Is George going to pick up Alice and throw her in like he did last year?” asked Patsy, forgetting to glare at Mark for splashing her.
“If George picks up Alice and throws her in like he did last year, George may not live to see next year,” said George solemnly, picking up Mark and throwing him in instead.
“George knows what’s good for him in that respect,” said Alice, smiling sweetly.
***
As for the status of the Rochesters, in case anyone's been wondering about them (and if you have, I heartily thank you and appreciate you, because after all it HAS been six months since I talked about them), they are still being Worked Upon, and their name has been changed to The Extra-Ordinary Rochesters, and by the end of the summer I should like to get them an Agent of their Very Own, but these things take time and the editing has to get finished first. Tedious process, that.
“Hold up, hold up. One at a time.” Uncle Arnold scooped chicken and rice onto Patsy’s plate. “Yes, the letter has been shown to me, but Patsy, perhaps in the future you could try to pause for a second or take a breath before launching into conversation after we’ve prayed. Yes, you must have at least two carrots. Eat them and they’ll make your hair curl.”
“Daddy, my hair’s curly already.” Patsy grimaced at the carrot pieces on her plate.
“So it is,” said Uncle Arnold tranquilly. “Very well, eat the carrots and they’ll make your hair straight.”
There wasn’t any lettuce in the crisper drawer. It was very rude of the lettuce, Sylvia thought crossly, and pretty silly too, considering the refrigerator (crisper drawer included) was just about the nicest place in the house to be at the moment. Annoyed at having to go back into the sultry rest of the kitchen, she banged the drawer shut and went in search of Celia, who happened to be coming into the kitchen with her book. They collided just outside the doorway.
Sylvia, who didn’t care to go through the ordeal of searching and hunting and asking clerks and trying to be polite through clouds of frustration again, nevertheless still rather wanted to be a bridesmaid. “But, um, Francie...”
“She can’t prance down the aisle in her underwear,” said Celia, who never wasted time in getting to the point. The inopportune moment in which she chose to make this valid observation, however, unfortunately happened to be the one in which a thin waiter of middle age and unattractive facial hair appeared at their table. He did an admirable job of pretending not to have heard Celia’s remark, but his mustache bristled disapprobation in her direction when he asked for her order. The amount of condescension he put into the word “miss” added to the general feeling of guilt around the table, even on the parts of those who had not made off-color remarks in loud voices.
“It isn’t necessarily better to get wet all at once,” said Alice, moving in just a little bit more so that her ankles were now covered. “If you get used to it in small increments--”
“Small increments indeed,” Francie snorted. “You’ll be barely up to your knees by dinnertime, Alice.”
“Is George going to pick up Alice and throw her in like he did last year?” asked Patsy, forgetting to glare at Mark for splashing her.
“If George picks up Alice and throws her in like he did last year, George may not live to see next year,” said George solemnly, picking up Mark and throwing him in instead.
“George knows what’s good for him in that respect,” said Alice, smiling sweetly.
***
As for the status of the Rochesters, in case anyone's been wondering about them (and if you have, I heartily thank you and appreciate you, because after all it HAS been six months since I talked about them), they are still being Worked Upon, and their name has been changed to The Extra-Ordinary Rochesters, and by the end of the summer I should like to get them an Agent of their Very Own, but these things take time and the editing has to get finished first. Tedious process, that.
