could
see
that.” Grandma nodded and smiled at she knew not what.
“He’s wearing a Hood,” I said.
“I noticed.” Grandma was still unaffected and amiable.
“He needs a room.”
“To need, the Bible says, is to have. Can he find his way up? Excuse the question.”
“And
board
,” I added.
“Beg pardon, how’s he going to eat through that
thing?
”
“Hood,” I said.
“
Hood?
”
“I can manage,” Mr. Mysterious murmured.
“He can manage,” I translated.
“That’ll be worth watching.” Grandma stitched out more green peas. “Sir, do you have a name?”
“I just
told
you,” I said.
“So you did.” Grandma nodded. “Dinner’s at six,” she said, “sharp.”
The supper table, promptly at six, was loud with roomers and boarders. Grandpa having come home from Goldfield and Silver Creek, Nevada, with neither gold nor silver, and hiding out in the library parlor behind his books, allowed Grandma to room three bachelors and two bachelor ladies upstairs, while three boarders came in from various neighborhoods a few blocks away. It made for a lively breakfast, lunch, and dinner and Grandma made enough from this to keep our ark from sinking. Tonight there was five minutes of uproar concerning politics, three minutes on religion,and then the best talk about the food set before them, just as Mr. Mysterious arrived and everyone shut up. He glided among them, nodding his Hood right and left, and as he sat I yelled:
“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mr.—”
“Just call me Phil,” murmured Mr. Mysterious.
I sat back, somewhat aggrieved.
“Phil,” said everyone.
They all stared at him and couldn’t tell if he saw their stares through the black velvet. How’s he going to eat, hid like that, they thought. Mr. Mysterious picked up a big soup spoon.
“Pass the gravy, please,” he whispered.
“Pass the mashed potatoes,” he added quietly.
“Pass the peas,” he finished.
“Also, Mrs. Grandma …” he said. Grandma, in the doorway, smiled. It seemed a nice touch: “Mrs.” He said, “… please bring me my blue-plate special.”
Grandma placed what was indeed a Chinese garden done in blue ceramics but containing what looked to be a dog’s dinner. Mr. Mysterious ladled the gravy, the mashed potatoes, and the peas on and mashed and crushed it shapeless as we watched, trying not to bug our eyes.
There was a moment of silence as the voice under the dark Hood said, “Anyone mind if I say grace?”
Nobody would mind.
“O Lord,” said the hidden voice, “let us receive those gifts of love that shape and change and move our lives to perfection. May others see in us only what wesee in them, perfection and beauty beyond telling. Amen.”
“Amen,” said all as Mr. M. snuck from his coat a thing to astonish the boarders and amaze the rest.
“That,” someone said (me), “is the biggest darn soda fountain straw I ever seen!”
“Quint!” said Grandma.
“Well, it
is!
”
And it was. A soda fountain straw two or three times larger than ordinary which vanished up under the Hood and probed down through the mashed potatoes, peas, and gravy dog’s dinner which silently ascended the straw to vanish in an unseen mouth, silent and soundless as cats at mealtime.
Which made the rest of us fall to, self-consciously cutting, chewing, and swallowing so loud we all blushed.
While Mr. Mysterious sucked his liquid victuals up out of sight with not even so much as a purr. From the corners of our eyes we watched the victuals slide silently and invisibly under the Hood until the plate was hound’s-tooth clean. And all this done with Mr. M.’s fingers and hands fixed to his knees.
“I—” said Grandma, her gaze on that straw, “hope you liked your dinner, sir.”
“Sockdolager,” said Mr. Mysterious.
“Ice cream’s for dessert,” said Grandma. “Mostly melted.”
“Melted!” Mr. M. laughed.
It was a fine summer night with three cigars, one cigarette, and assorted knitting on
see
that.” Grandma nodded and smiled at she knew not what.
“He’s wearing a Hood,” I said.
“I noticed.” Grandma was still unaffected and amiable.
“He needs a room.”
“To need, the Bible says, is to have. Can he find his way up? Excuse the question.”
“And
board
,” I added.
“Beg pardon, how’s he going to eat through that
thing?
”
“Hood,” I said.
“
Hood?
”
“I can manage,” Mr. Mysterious murmured.
“He can manage,” I translated.
“That’ll be worth watching.” Grandma stitched out more green peas. “Sir, do you have a name?”
“I just
told
you,” I said.
“So you did.” Grandma nodded. “Dinner’s at six,” she said, “sharp.”
The supper table, promptly at six, was loud with roomers and boarders. Grandpa having come home from Goldfield and Silver Creek, Nevada, with neither gold nor silver, and hiding out in the library parlor behind his books, allowed Grandma to room three bachelors and two bachelor ladies upstairs, while three boarders came in from various neighborhoods a few blocks away. It made for a lively breakfast, lunch, and dinner and Grandma made enough from this to keep our ark from sinking. Tonight there was five minutes of uproar concerning politics, three minutes on religion,and then the best talk about the food set before them, just as Mr. Mysterious arrived and everyone shut up. He glided among them, nodding his Hood right and left, and as he sat I yelled:
“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mr.—”
“Just call me Phil,” murmured Mr. Mysterious.
I sat back, somewhat aggrieved.
“Phil,” said everyone.
They all stared at him and couldn’t tell if he saw their stares through the black velvet. How’s he going to eat, hid like that, they thought. Mr. Mysterious picked up a big soup spoon.
“Pass the gravy, please,” he whispered.
“Pass the mashed potatoes,” he added quietly.
“Pass the peas,” he finished.
“Also, Mrs. Grandma …” he said. Grandma, in the doorway, smiled. It seemed a nice touch: “Mrs.” He said, “… please bring me my blue-plate special.”
Grandma placed what was indeed a Chinese garden done in blue ceramics but containing what looked to be a dog’s dinner. Mr. Mysterious ladled the gravy, the mashed potatoes, and the peas on and mashed and crushed it shapeless as we watched, trying not to bug our eyes.
There was a moment of silence as the voice under the dark Hood said, “Anyone mind if I say grace?”
Nobody would mind.
“O Lord,” said the hidden voice, “let us receive those gifts of love that shape and change and move our lives to perfection. May others see in us only what wesee in them, perfection and beauty beyond telling. Amen.”
“Amen,” said all as Mr. M. snuck from his coat a thing to astonish the boarders and amaze the rest.
“That,” someone said (me), “is the biggest darn soda fountain straw I ever seen!”
“Quint!” said Grandma.
“Well, it
is!
”
And it was. A soda fountain straw two or three times larger than ordinary which vanished up under the Hood and probed down through the mashed potatoes, peas, and gravy dog’s dinner which silently ascended the straw to vanish in an unseen mouth, silent and soundless as cats at mealtime.
Which made the rest of us fall to, self-consciously cutting, chewing, and swallowing so loud we all blushed.
While Mr. Mysterious sucked his liquid victuals up out of sight with not even so much as a purr. From the corners of our eyes we watched the victuals slide silently and invisibly under the Hood until the plate was hound’s-tooth clean. And all this done with Mr. M.’s fingers and hands fixed to his knees.
“I—” said Grandma, her gaze on that straw, “hope you liked your dinner, sir.”
“Sockdolager,” said Mr. Mysterious.
“Ice cream’s for dessert,” said Grandma. “Mostly melted.”
“Melted!” Mr. M. laughed.
It was a fine summer night with three cigars, one cigarette, and assorted knitting on
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