Read Online Mummers' Curse by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online Page A

commenting on the condition of her answering machine, Barbs left, arms full of my coat, hat, and bag. She was back in two or three seconds.
    “I called all morning. I was worried.”
    Barbs’s eyes flitted from her husband to me, and she rubbed the knuckles of one hand with the other. Perhaps she had a tic. Perhaps arthritic pain. More likely she was suspicious of both her husband and, now, of me. Of having had the vacuumed rug pulled out from under her secure world.
    “Why?” Barbs asked after a too-long pause. “Why would you worry?”
    Hadn’t Vincent told her he was in trouble? Had he told her he’d been with me? What reason would he have given for seeking me out during the parade, and wouldn’t she know it wasn’t true? No wonder she watched me warily. I tried to ease her palpable fear. “I guess, considering what happened to…to Jimmy Pat,” I said. “Practically in front of me. It leaves a person twitchy.” That should be sufficiently obvious and nonthreatening.
    “You were there, then?” she blurted out.
    So I’d been right. She didn’t believe her husband. She knew his story was suspect.
    “I told you she was!” Vincent said sharply.
    “I meant…” she began lamely, then she gave up looking for a face-saving edit. She blinked a few times and switched to a hostess mode. “Did you enjoy the parade?”
    “Did you enjoy the parade?” Vincent echoed. “Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you like the play? Jimmy Pat got killed, Barbs, so how could she enjoy the parade?”
    Whereupon he took my elbow, steering me away. Barbs stood with her mouth agape. “Sorry,” he said to her. “Didn’t mean to be short. Kid’s making me nuts. Those shows! Come down—but bring coffee or something?”
    “Sure, Vinny,” Barbs said overeagerly.
    I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to atone for spousal disbelief. Her spouse was lying. But instead, I said, “Please don’t bother yourself. I don’t want a thing.” Actually, I felt the vague nausea of too little sleep, and the idea of food was not pleasant.
    “Any fruitcake left?” Vincent asked.
    “No, please, I really don’t feel like eating.”
    “Or how about whatever’s left of your Christmas cookies, or the Bûche de Noël? Hey!” he said with special emphasis. “It’s lunchtime, so how about Pepper Pot?” He put a finger up and declaimed:
    Here we stand at your front door
    Just as we did the year before.
    Open the door and let us in,
    Give us all a drink of gin.
    Or better give us something hot,
    A steaming bowl of Pepper Pot.
    “What could be more appropriate for our Miss Pepper, huh, Barbs?” He sounded feverish, manic. “It’s probably named for Mandy’s family.”
    Nothing was named for my family, except me.
    Barbs continued to look apprehensive. I didn’t blame her. Vincent was rushing out words in a nervous torrent, as if he were on amphetamines or his first date.
    Or as if he were nervously trying to stave off a deserved accusation.
    “Truly, I’m not hungry,” I said. “Thanks, but—”
    “It’s traditional,” Vincent said. “New Year’s Eve open house with Philadelphia Pepper Pot soup. New Year’s Day, too. Lots of people, they don’t make it anymore, even on Two Street. Nowadays, it’s more cold cuts, but Barbs and me, we like traditions.”
    I wish something more glamorous than a soup made of the muscular lining of beef stomach bore my family name. Prince Orloff got veal, Melba got a peach dessert, Caesar got a salad, and I got tripe soup. Oh, it’s historically interesting, being said to have turned the tide of the American Revolution. When Washington’s troops were starving, often deserting, all the cook had on hand was tripe, peppercorns, and scraps. His improvised soup saved the day and maybe the whole campaign at Valley Forge. Maybe, therefore, the country.
    I’m glad we’re no longer a colony of Great Britain’s, but all the same, tripe is tripe. I had never tasted the stuff, and had no desire