Jill Churchill: A Quiche Before Dying

“No, thanks. These are your assignments for class. Yours and your mother's copies. I notice that you didn't turn anything in, Jane.”

Jane explained to Shelley, "We were supposed to write a first chapter to be copied to the rest of the class before the first meeting. We're all supposed to read and critique each other's."

“I think you can learn a lot about your own writing by studying the flaws and virtues in other people's," Missy said. "So why don't I have anything from you, Jane?"

“Missy, I'm not really taking the class; just paying for it so I can go with my mother. What are these two books? Don't tell me somebody already wrote a whole book?"

“Exactly. It's a self-published autobiography of Agnes Pryce."

“Agnes Pryce is in this class!" Jane groaned. Seeing Shelley's puzzled expression, she said, "Shelley, you know who she is—that terrible old woman who's always writing letters to the editor and trying to start petitions—Mrs. General Pryce."

“Oh! Mrs. General. Of course. She's the hateful one who's forever pestering the city council and the school board to impose a full-time eight-o'clock curfew for everybody under twenty-one. Anybody who objects is made to look like a neglectful parent who really wants their children out drinking and having sex all night," Shelley said. "She's a first-class bitch."

“She's a career military wife who really gets into the concept of martial law," Jane said to Missy. "And she hates kids."

“That's obvious from her book. Actually, I think she hates everybody—except herself," Missy said. "The whole thing is one long, masturbatory—is that a word?—account of her making everybody she’s ever run across do the right thing whether they want to or not. Right according to her, naturally."

“If she's already written a whole autobiography, why is she taking a class in how to do it?" Shelley asked.

“Just to show off," Missy said. "Her nose is out of joint because I was asked to teach this class instead of her. I think she's laying on a campaign to wrest control from me. She's going to be unpleasantly surprised at how difficult that proves to be." Missy grinned with anticipation.

Shelley sat forward. "Isit too late to get into this class?"

“You want to come?" Missy said. "Just bring twenty dollars and I'll give you a form to fill in."

“You want to write an autobiography?" Jane asked. "You're as boring as I am."

“I know I am. But my mother's been after me for years to organize a trunkful of diaries and pictures of our family. She dumped it on me years ago when she sold the house and moved into an apartment. A collective biography would be pretty much the same rules, wouldn't it, Missy?"

“Sure. Come along. Basement. City Hall. Seven-thirty to nine-thirty—unless I bump off Mrs. General by eight. In that case, class would probably get out early."

“What else have we got here?" Jane asked, shuffling through the folders.

“There's something from your mother, of course. Then a nice piece from Grady Wells."

“I'll bet he's not happy to be stuck with Mrs. General." Grady Wells was fortyish, a short, florid-faced, and good-natured bachelor who served in the largely honorary position of mayor of their city. At least it was honorary in pay, which was a hundred dollars a year. For that piddling sum he conducted the city council meetings, attended important civic functions like the opening of the new dry cleaner's, and put up with the troublemakers like Mrs. Pryce. In real life, he was the president of a small company that made playing cards, dice, poker chips, and accessories like bridge score pads. He was a cheerful individual, appropriate to his work.

“He doesn't know yet," Missy said. "I'm on my way down to his office to give him his stack of manuscripts."

“Grady will be fun to have in the group. Who else is there?" Jane asked.

“Ruth Rogers and her sister are coming. You know, the ladies who live at the end of the block with the fantastic gardens? I haven't seen anything from them yet, but Ruth told me they intend to write a joint autobiography. Very interesting concept. They were separated as infants and raised apart. Ruth was in a well-run, compassionate orphanage for a while, then adopted by a nice family. Her sister went to a series of foster homes, most of which were pretty dismal, I believe. They just located each other two years or so ago and want to write a book with sort of alternating chapters about their lives. It could work—if they can write well enough. All too often the people with the most interesting lives are deadly dull writers. And sometimes vice versa. They've turned in a rough outline, but no actual writing, so I didn't copy it to the rest of you."

“I like Ruth," Jane said, "but she's one Mrs. General will smash under her heel with no trouble."

“I don't know about that," Shelley said. "There's a tough core deep in that fluffiness. Don't you remember that incident at the pool six or seven years ago?"

“Oh, yes! Ruth was sitting there with her umbrella and sun hat and books and cute little beach slippers and all."

“I don't remember this. What happened?" Missy asked.

“A kid got in trouble in the deep end of the pool, and before the lifeguards even knew what was happening, Ruth leaped from her vast nest of paraphernalia, flung herself in, and rescued the kid. Really took over. Grady wanted to strike some kind of hero medal for her, but she wouldn't have it."

“What's her sister like?" Shelley asked Missy. "I don't know. .I haven't met her yet."

“Shelly, you know her," Jane said. "Remember the block party last fall? She's the one who made all those fantastic pastries. We all got the recipe for them in Christmas cards."

“Oh, yes. Fiftyish, real frail-looking?"

“Right. Is there anyone else in the class?" Jane asked Missy.

“A couple others, but I'll let them introduce themselves in their writing," she said, patting the stack of folders. "I've got to run. See you tomorrow night.”

Shelley had been flipping through Mrs. General's book. She waved good-bye to Missy and said, "What a loathsome woman Mrs. Pryce is! This whole chapter is about how she raised her children. Listen to this: 'I knew that their childish resentment of my firmness, though painful for a loving mother to behold, was temporary and that they would grow up to honor and venerate those high principles I was endeavoring to instill in them from their earliest days.' "

“Ugh!" Jane said. "Imagine having a mother who thought that way. They must despise her, and they probably need a live-in shrink. Maybe we ought to loan our daughters to her for a little while—they might learn to appreciate us."

“Daughters!" Shelley said, leaping up. "I'd forgotten for a minute. I should be home offering platitudes and having them flung back in my face. See you at seven-thirty." She started around the side of the house and stopped in her tracks, looking down. "Jane, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I think your cats have blundered into a chipmunk nest."

“ Oh, no!"

2

Jane rescued one chipmunk and buried another, then she took the cats inside over their yowling protestations. "This is sheer bloodlust and very unbecoming in house cats. We aren't in the jungle, you know," she told them as she dumped them on the kitchen floor. They raced back to the door, pressing their little triangular noses to the crack. She told herself not to be so upset; it was the nature of cats to catch and torture small, cute animals. But then, it was Jane's nature to try to stop them.

She set the pile of folders and the two copies of Mrs. General Pryce's book on the kitchen table and yelled up at her daughter, "Katie, are you up? You've got to be at work at noon!"

“I know that, Mother!" Katie screamed down the steps. "I've got tons of time.”