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Authors: Lore Segal
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Winterneet, “your three boxes moved to Amherst with us.” Joe settled back; Jenny’s face continued anxious.
Winterneet said, “When I get back from London, I’ll come over and spend the day, and sort out what I want to throw away.”
Leslie returned, “It’s Una. She’s at Kennedy.”
Eliza said, “Tell her no.”
Leslie said, “She just got in from London.”
Eliza said, “No.”
Leslie went out.
Winnie asked, “And how is our little Una?”
“I was happy, until a minute ago, to have heard nothing about little Una for the last six months,” said Eliza.
“She wrote me,” said Leslie returning into the room.
“Well, I was happy to hear nothing about it,” said Eliza.
“Well, I thought you would be happy,” said Leslie.
“Little Una in the granny dress with straw in her hair!” said Winterneet.
“That,” said Eliza, “is our Una.”
The Bernstines offered to give Ilka a lift home. Winterneet said he’d stay if someone would offer him a nightcap.
In the car Ilka asked the Bernstines about Una.
“Poor Una! Fell rather in love with Leslie and Eliza. Leslie-and-Eliza.”
“I can understand that,” said Ilka.
“The Shakespeares brought her back to the States with them. Her father is the theologian, Paul Thayer.”
“Uncle” said Joe, and they argued about Una’s relationship to this Paul Thayer until they arrived at Ilka’s gate.
Sunday morning Leslie called and fetched Ilka in the car. Ilka walked into Eliza’s kitchen and there was Winterneet sitting at the table smiling at Ilka.
Ilka was not some young thing; it annoyed her not to be able to keep up her end—like Eliza, who could cut and slice, correct the seasoning, and perform last-minute maneuvers at the stove and keep the conversation flying like some high-wire act. Ilka developed a crick in the neck looking from a joke of Eliza’s to Winterneet, who swung with it into a mutual reminiscence. Eliza, tossing and tasting the salad, elaborated a very tall tale that Winterneet topped with a deliciously nasty quip. Ilka wanted to play with them, up there, in the middle air, but the palpitation of her heart preempted her breathing. Ilka hunkered down waiting for the laughter to run its course before she took the running start to get her own joke airborne with enough breath for the punch line, but Eliza, removing her beautiful French bread from the oven, had started a story that grew naturally out of Winterneet’s point, which Ilka missed, because it took off from what she suspected herself of not having recognized as a quotation. Ilka crouched to wait for the next opening in the hope of having thought of something that would fit whatever might by that time be under discussion.
Leslie, leaning back in his chair, observed his wife and his friend with the air of a man eating the best bread and butter, and listening to the best conversation, in his own house, at his own breakfast. Eliza had glided two coddled eggs onto Leslie’s plate when the doorbell rang. Leslie looked regretful, got reluctantly up, and went to answer the door. He came back. He said, “Dear. It’s Una.”
“Tell her no,” Eliza said.
“She’s come straight from the airport,” said Leslie. “She has her bags.”
Eliza said, “I recommend the Concordance Hotel, corner Euclid and Main, a clean, well-lighted place.”
Leslie went out.
“You can’t do that! Can you do that?” asked Ilka in an excited whisper. “Can you tell someone to go away?”
“Watch me,” said Eliza. “Or watch me tell Leslie to tell her.”
“But I mean—imagine having just arrived from New York . . .”
“From London,” Eliza corrected her.
“What can you say to her?”
“You say, ‘If you bother me, I’ll set the Concordance police on you.’ ”
Leslie returned. Eliza gave him back the eggs she had kept warm for him and said, “I make Leslie go and do the dirty work.”
“Yes, you do,” said Leslie.
Ilka said, “What were the actual
Winterneet said, “When I get back from London, I’ll come over and spend the day, and sort out what I want to throw away.”
Leslie returned, “It’s Una. She’s at Kennedy.”
Eliza said, “Tell her no.”
Leslie said, “She just got in from London.”
Eliza said, “No.”
Leslie went out.
Winnie asked, “And how is our little Una?”
“I was happy, until a minute ago, to have heard nothing about little Una for the last six months,” said Eliza.
“She wrote me,” said Leslie returning into the room.
“Well, I was happy to hear nothing about it,” said Eliza.
“Well, I thought you would be happy,” said Leslie.
“Little Una in the granny dress with straw in her hair!” said Winterneet.
“That,” said Eliza, “is our Una.”
The Bernstines offered to give Ilka a lift home. Winterneet said he’d stay if someone would offer him a nightcap.
In the car Ilka asked the Bernstines about Una.
“Poor Una! Fell rather in love with Leslie and Eliza. Leslie-and-Eliza.”
“I can understand that,” said Ilka.
“The Shakespeares brought her back to the States with them. Her father is the theologian, Paul Thayer.”
“Uncle” said Joe, and they argued about Una’s relationship to this Paul Thayer until they arrived at Ilka’s gate.
Sunday morning Leslie called and fetched Ilka in the car. Ilka walked into Eliza’s kitchen and there was Winterneet sitting at the table smiling at Ilka.
Ilka was not some young thing; it annoyed her not to be able to keep up her end—like Eliza, who could cut and slice, correct the seasoning, and perform last-minute maneuvers at the stove and keep the conversation flying like some high-wire act. Ilka developed a crick in the neck looking from a joke of Eliza’s to Winterneet, who swung with it into a mutual reminiscence. Eliza, tossing and tasting the salad, elaborated a very tall tale that Winterneet topped with a deliciously nasty quip. Ilka wanted to play with them, up there, in the middle air, but the palpitation of her heart preempted her breathing. Ilka hunkered down waiting for the laughter to run its course before she took the running start to get her own joke airborne with enough breath for the punch line, but Eliza, removing her beautiful French bread from the oven, had started a story that grew naturally out of Winterneet’s point, which Ilka missed, because it took off from what she suspected herself of not having recognized as a quotation. Ilka crouched to wait for the next opening in the hope of having thought of something that would fit whatever might by that time be under discussion.
Leslie, leaning back in his chair, observed his wife and his friend with the air of a man eating the best bread and butter, and listening to the best conversation, in his own house, at his own breakfast. Eliza had glided two coddled eggs onto Leslie’s plate when the doorbell rang. Leslie looked regretful, got reluctantly up, and went to answer the door. He came back. He said, “Dear. It’s Una.”
“Tell her no,” Eliza said.
“She’s come straight from the airport,” said Leslie. “She has her bags.”
Eliza said, “I recommend the Concordance Hotel, corner Euclid and Main, a clean, well-lighted place.”
Leslie went out.
“You can’t do that! Can you do that?” asked Ilka in an excited whisper. “Can you tell someone to go away?”
“Watch me,” said Eliza. “Or watch me tell Leslie to tell her.”
“But I mean—imagine having just arrived from New York . . .”
“From London,” Eliza corrected her.
“What can you say to her?”
“You say, ‘If you bother me, I’ll set the Concordance police on you.’ ”
Leslie returned. Eliza gave him back the eggs she had kept warm for him and said, “I make Leslie go and do the dirty work.”
“Yes, you do,” said Leslie.
Ilka said, “What were the actual
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