Thomas Disch - 334

“I’m very upset!”

But she let herself be mollified on condition that Lottie cleared away Shrimp’s debris.

Mrs. Hanson, meanwhile, started the dinner. The dessert first, since it would have to cool after it cooked. Cream-style Strawberry Granola. Len had mentioned liking Granola as a boy in Nebraska, before he’d been sent to a home. Once it was bubbling she added a packet of Juicy Fruit bits, then poured it into her two glass bowls. Lottie licked the pot.

Then they transported Shrimp from the front bedroom to Mickey’s bunk. Shrimp wouldn’t let loose of the pillow Mrs. Hanson had put out for Len, and rather than risk waking her she let her keep it. The fork had left four tiny punctures like squeezed pimples all in a row.

The stew, which came in a kit with instructions in three languages, would have taken no time at all, except that Mrs. Hanson intended to supplement it with meat. She’d bought eight cubes at Stuyvesant Town for $3.20, not a bargain but when was beef ever a bargain? The cubes came out of two Baggies dark red and slimy with blood, but after a fry in the pan they had a nice brown crust. Even so she decided not to add them to the stew till the last minute so as not to upset the flavor.

A fresh salad of carrots and parsnips, with a small onion added for zest—she’d been able to get these with her regular stamps—and she was done.

It was seven o’clock.

Lottie came into the kitchen and sniffed at the fried cubes of beef. “You’re certainly going to a lot of trouble.” Meaning expense.

“First impressions are important.”

“How long is he going to stay here?”

“It probably depends. Oh, go ahead—eat one.”

“There’ll still be a lot left.” Lottie chose the smallest cube and nibbled at it delicately. “Mm. Mm!”

“Are you going to be late tonight?” Mrs. Hanson asked.

Lottie waved her hand about (“I can’t talk now”) and nodded.

“Till when do you think?”

She closed her eyes and swallowed. “Till morning sometime if Juan is there. Lee made a point of inviting him. Thanks. That was good.”

Lottie set off. Amparo had been fed some snaps and sent up to the roof. Mickey, plugged into the teevee, was as good as invisible. In effect, till Len came, she was alone. The feelings of love that she had felt all day on the street and in stores returned, like some shy child who hides when there is company but torments you afterwards. The little rascal frolicked through the apartment, shrieking, sticking his tongue out, putting tacks on chairs, flashing images at her, like the glimpses you’d catch, switching past Channel 5 in the afternoon, of fingers sliding up a leg, of lips touching a nipple, of a cock stiffening. Oh, the anxiety! She delved into Lottie’s makeup drawer, but there wasn’t time for more than a dab of powder. She returned a moment later to put a drop of Molly Bloom beneath each earlobe. And lipstick? A hint.

No, it looked macabre. She wiped it off.

It was eight o’clock.

He wasn’t going to come.

He knocked.

She opened the door, and he stood before her, smiling with his eyes. His chest in its furry maroon rose and fell, rose and fell. She had forgotten, amid the abstractions of love, the reality of his flesh. Her erotic fancies of a moment before were all images, but the creature who came into the kitchen, hefting a black suitcase and a paper carrier full of books, existed solidly in three dimensions. She wanted to walk around him as though he were a statue in Washington Square. He shook her hand and said hello. No more.

His reticence infected her. She couldn’t meet his gaze. She tried to speak to him, as he spoke to her, in silences and trivialities. She led him to his room.

His hand stroked the bedspread and she wanted to surrender to him then and there, but his manner didn’t allow it. He was afraid. Men were always afraid at the start.

“I’m so happy,” she said. “To think you’ll really be staying here.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“You must let me go into the kitchen now. So that I can … We’re having stew, and a spring salad.”

“That sounds terrific, Mrs. Hanson.”

“I think you’ll like it.”

She put the fried cubes of meat into the simmering paste and turned up the heat. She took the salad and the wine out of the icebox. As she turned round he was in the doorway looking at her. She held up the wine bottle with a gesture of immemorial affirmation. The weariness was gone from her back and shoulders as though by the pressure of his gaze he’d smoothed the soreness from the muscles. What a gift it is to be in love. “Haven’t you done your hair differently?”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed the moment you came to the door.”

She started laughing but stopped short. Her laughter, though its source lay deep in her happiness, had sounded harshly in her ears.

“I like it,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The red wine spurting from the Gallo tetrahedron seemed to issue from the same depths as her laughter.

“I really do,” Len insisted.

“I think the stew must be ready. You sit.”

She dished the stew out onto the plates at the burner so that he wouldn’t see that she was giving him all of the real meat. But in the end she did take one of the cubes for herself.

They sat down. She lifted her glass. “What shall we drink to?”

“To?” Smiling uncertainly he picked up his own glass. Then, getting her drift: “To life?”

“Yes! Yes, to life!”

They toasted life, ate their stew and salad, drank the red wine. They spoke seldom but their eyes often met in complex and graceful dialogues. Any words either of them might have spoken at this point would have been in some way untrue; their eyes couldn’t lie.

They’d finished the dinner and Mrs. Hanson had set out the chilled pink Granola, when there was a thud and a loud cry from Lottie’s room. Shrimp had awakened!

Len looked at Mrs. Hanson questioningly.

“I forgot to tell you, Lenny. My daughter came home. But it isn’t anything for you to—”

It was too late. Shrimp had stumbled into the kitchen in one of Lottie’s dilapidated transparencies, unbuckled and candid as an ad for Pier 19. Not till she’d reached the refrigerator did she become aware of Len, and it took her another little while for her to remember to wrap her attractions in the yellow mists of the nightgown.

Mrs. Hanson made introductions. Len insisted that Shrimp join them at the table and took it on himself to spoon out some Granola into a third bowl.

“Why was I in Mickey’s bed?” Shrimp asked.

There was no help for it. Briefly she explained Shrimp to Len, and Len to Shrimp. When Len expressed what polite interest the situation required, Shrimp started in on the sordid details, baring her shoulder to show the tine wounds.

Mrs. Hanson said, “Shrimp, please—”

Shrimp said, “I’m not ashamed, Mother, not anymore.” And went right on. Mrs. Hanson stared at the fork resting on her greasy dinner plate. She could have taken it and torn Shrimp to pieces.

When Shrimp led Len off into the living room, Mrs. Hanson got out of hearing any more by pleading the dishes.

Len had left three of the cubes of beef on the side of his plate untasted. The ounce of Granola he’d kept for himself was stirred about in the bowl. He’d hated the meal.

His wine glass was three-quarters full. She thought, should she pour it down the sink. She wanted to but it seemed such a waste. She drank it. Len came back to the kitchen finally with the news that Shrimp had returned to bed. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She just waited for the blade to drop, and it didn’t take long.

“Mrs. Hanson.” he said “it should be obvious that I can’t stay here now, not if it means putting your pregnant daughter out on the street.”