into one of the chairs. He tried to pat the seat next to him, but his hand swished past the edge and he almost toppled over. With a faint squeak, Suzetta sat down.
When the waiter came, she ordered for both of them, although it was obvious that Harmon was far beyond the food-as-redemption stage. His face was blotched, his lips flecked with spittle. It was only a matter of time before the fall from grace.
Those of us at the table again took up the topic of croquet rules, politely ignoring the occasional belch from Harmon and the increasingly acerbic whispers from his companion. Caron was mortified by the adult antics; I could sense her bristle with indignation. When dinner arrived, we began to eat with ravenous concentration, as if we hadn’t been stuffing ourselves with tea-party food earlier.
Harmon looked at his plate. “Waz that?”
“Dinner, Harmon. Please try to eat something, honey bear,” Suzetta said, nudging him upright and tucking a napkin in his collar. A bib did seem appropriate.
“Can’t eat thiz. Might be drugged, ya know. Lez ask that man—he’s a cop and he oughta know about that stuff. Isn’t that right, Mr. Policeman?”
“I believe it’s safe,” Peter said, puzzled.
“Eat, Harmon,” Suzetta commanded in a low voice. “It may help you feel a teensy bit better.”
Harmon managed to find his fork, but its purpose eluded him. He was tapping it on the edge of the table and
humming an accompaniment when Mrs. Bella Crundall came into the room, spotted him, and crossed to his chair.
“Oh, Harmon, how could you?”
“Waz that?” Harmon blinked at the shadow across his plate. “Iz that some kinda eclipse?”
“You’re drunk,” said Bella Crundall, her expression surprisingly harsh. She rapped her hasband’s sagging shoulder. “You ought to lie down, Harmon—and you ought to be ashamed of yourself! I have already accepted the fact that our marriage is over, ruined by your self-centered, piggish desire to recapture your youth by taking up with some girl young enough to be your daughter.”
“Suzetta my sec’ertary,” he protested petulantly.
“You’re hopeless, and the only thing I can do to avoid being pulled into your whirlpool of degradation is to divorce you.”
He gave her a crafty, albeit lopsided, smile. “You better not divorce me, Bella. I’m going to divorce you first, and then I’m going tell my policeman—I mean my lawyer—whoever … Anyway, I’m going to put ever’thing in Suzetta’s name. You won’t get a penny of my money. You’ll be a pooper!”
“I doubt I’ll be a pauper, Harmon Crundall. You, on the other hand, are apt to end up in a hospital with a terminal liver ailment. I hope this girl will be at your bedside when your time comes. I shall not!” Bella shot Suzetta a pitying look and swooped out of the dining room, a schooner under full sail.
I wanted to applaud, but it seemed inappropriate. I went back to my broiled trout, carefully keeping my face lowered. Gradually, the murmur of conversation started up once more. Harmon was befuddled but quiet, and Suzetta, her cheeks pink, began to eat.
As soon as I was finished, I nudged Caron and we stood up. We took a few steps toward the doorway, but were
stopped by a peculiar, slushy sound from behind us. Mystified, I looked over my shoulder.
Harmon Crundall had taken a swan dive into his plate. His nose was embedded in the potatoes au gratin; a tidbit of lettuce dangled from one ear. The rhythmic drone of a chainsaw filled the air as he began to snore.
Suzetta looked at him, then methodically ate the final bite on her plate and folded her napkin. “Poor Harmon’s exhausted from all his work. He just works so hard, and then needs a tiny nap,” she explained in a serene voice, as if he weren’t in immediate danger of suffocating on a lungful of cheese sauce.
Mimi hurried over, and the two women managed to extricate Harmon from his dinner. Suzetta flicked the lettuce leaf off his ear,
When the waiter came, she ordered for both of them, although it was obvious that Harmon was far beyond the food-as-redemption stage. His face was blotched, his lips flecked with spittle. It was only a matter of time before the fall from grace.
Those of us at the table again took up the topic of croquet rules, politely ignoring the occasional belch from Harmon and the increasingly acerbic whispers from his companion. Caron was mortified by the adult antics; I could sense her bristle with indignation. When dinner arrived, we began to eat with ravenous concentration, as if we hadn’t been stuffing ourselves with tea-party food earlier.
Harmon looked at his plate. “Waz that?”
“Dinner, Harmon. Please try to eat something, honey bear,” Suzetta said, nudging him upright and tucking a napkin in his collar. A bib did seem appropriate.
“Can’t eat thiz. Might be drugged, ya know. Lez ask that man—he’s a cop and he oughta know about that stuff. Isn’t that right, Mr. Policeman?”
“I believe it’s safe,” Peter said, puzzled.
“Eat, Harmon,” Suzetta commanded in a low voice. “It may help you feel a teensy bit better.”
Harmon managed to find his fork, but its purpose eluded him. He was tapping it on the edge of the table and
humming an accompaniment when Mrs. Bella Crundall came into the room, spotted him, and crossed to his chair.
“Oh, Harmon, how could you?”
“Waz that?” Harmon blinked at the shadow across his plate. “Iz that some kinda eclipse?”
“You’re drunk,” said Bella Crundall, her expression surprisingly harsh. She rapped her hasband’s sagging shoulder. “You ought to lie down, Harmon—and you ought to be ashamed of yourself! I have already accepted the fact that our marriage is over, ruined by your self-centered, piggish desire to recapture your youth by taking up with some girl young enough to be your daughter.”
“Suzetta my sec’ertary,” he protested petulantly.
“You’re hopeless, and the only thing I can do to avoid being pulled into your whirlpool of degradation is to divorce you.”
He gave her a crafty, albeit lopsided, smile. “You better not divorce me, Bella. I’m going to divorce you first, and then I’m going tell my policeman—I mean my lawyer—whoever … Anyway, I’m going to put ever’thing in Suzetta’s name. You won’t get a penny of my money. You’ll be a pooper!”
“I doubt I’ll be a pauper, Harmon Crundall. You, on the other hand, are apt to end up in a hospital with a terminal liver ailment. I hope this girl will be at your bedside when your time comes. I shall not!” Bella shot Suzetta a pitying look and swooped out of the dining room, a schooner under full sail.
I wanted to applaud, but it seemed inappropriate. I went back to my broiled trout, carefully keeping my face lowered. Gradually, the murmur of conversation started up once more. Harmon was befuddled but quiet, and Suzetta, her cheeks pink, began to eat.
As soon as I was finished, I nudged Caron and we stood up. We took a few steps toward the doorway, but were
stopped by a peculiar, slushy sound from behind us. Mystified, I looked over my shoulder.
Harmon Crundall had taken a swan dive into his plate. His nose was embedded in the potatoes au gratin; a tidbit of lettuce dangled from one ear. The rhythmic drone of a chainsaw filled the air as he began to snore.
Suzetta looked at him, then methodically ate the final bite on her plate and folded her napkin. “Poor Harmon’s exhausted from all his work. He just works so hard, and then needs a tiny nap,” she explained in a serene voice, as if he weren’t in immediate danger of suffocating on a lungful of cheese sauce.
Mimi hurried over, and the two women managed to extricate Harmon from his dinner. Suzetta flicked the lettuce leaf off his ear,
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