Mark Dunn - American Decameron

After striking out with the fifth cab company he phoned, Cliff turned to look up at Adelaide, who was standing next to the little phone table. It was a heavy table — Stickley maybe. Miss Stillwell wouldn’t be caught dead with a house filled with Heywood-Wakefield’s Contessa Danish Modern, thought Cliff. She was practical. She was sensible. Miss Stillwell didn’t even get into a car unless she knew that the ride would be safe. “No dice,” he said.

Adelaide tutted. Forever the school marm, thought Cliff.

“Any chance you might reconsi—?”

“Absolutely not.”

“May I have some coffee?”

“I’ll be happy to make you a cup of coffee, Mr. Fredericks, but studies have shown that simply drinking a cup or two of coffee doesn’t magically sober a person up.” She cleared some phlegm from her throat. “If that’s what you’re aiming at here.”

“And just how long do you think it will take for me to sober up, Miss Stillwell?”

“It depends on how many drinks you’ve had. Will you be honest and tell me that, Mr. Fredericks? And would you also take a guess at how strong you made each one of them? Or was it Janice who made them?”

“No, no. I mix my own drinks. I think I had two. I got home a little late and I had to shower and dress for the party. Two. I’m sure that was it.”

“It smells like more.”

“I can’t help what it smells like. I’m telling you two. How long for two drinks, Miss Stillwell? How long before you think I’ll be clearheaded enough to drive you the six or seven miles to my house?”

“Two hours, I should think. One hour for each drink. Yes, I’m fairly certain I’d be comfortable riding with you after I was sure that you hadn’t been drinking for two hours.”

“I suppose we could be late. I could just say that something came up with one of the kids. Yes. That might be doable. Can I use your phone to call Janice and tell her?”

“Of course.”

Cliff called Janice and explained where things stood. “So, I’ll come on home and wait there and then in a couple of hours—”

Adelaide interrupted. “Not acceptable. How do I know that you aren’t going to treat yourself to another drink once you get home?”

Cliff snorted. It was actually a half-snort, half growl. He spoke into the phone’s mouthpiece: “She doesn’t trust me.”

“Yes, I heard her,” said Janice.

“Can’t you promise her that you’ll keep me on the straight and narrow?”

“I can try.”

Cliff handed the phone to Adelaide. “Hello, Adelaide,” said Janice.

“Hello, Janice. I hate to be so difficult, but you know what happened to Dot Sparrell last week.”

“Yes, I do. It was so tragic. She was going to be a nurse.”

“Janice, I would certainly trust you to keep an eye on Cliff, but that isn’t the only issue. When he drives in this condition he puts other people at risk besides himself and whomever happens to be in the car with him — other motorists, other passengers, innocent pedestrians. It’s best, I think, that he stay here with me until he sobers up.”

“You’re probably right,” said Janice. “Maybe you could feed him while he’s there. He didn’t eat much for dinner. It’s no wonder the alcohol went straight to his head.”

“The alcohol went straight to his head because there was a great lot of it, Janice. Let’s not kid ourselves. I made myself a little New Year’s Eve hors d’oeuvres platter to take with me to your house tonight. He can have some of that. Do you want me to put your husband back on the line?”

As Janice was saying that it wasn’t necessary, Cliff was shaking his head as well. Adelaide returned the phone receiver to its cradle and placed her hands on her hips.

“Well, little man, let’s get you some coffee. I have Eight O’Clock coffee. That’s the A&P brand. Would that be all right?”

“It’ll be eight o’clock soon. Why not?”

Cliff sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading a Red Smith sports column in the New York Herald Tribune . Adelaide sat across from him. She pushed the hors d’oeuvres plate a little closer to him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a canapé?”

“Well, hell, why not?” Cliff picked up a cracker with a thin slice of prosciutto on it and popped it into his mouth.

“You like it?”

Cliff nodded.

“Have another. I can make more.” She sat back in her chair and studied Cliff.

“What is it? Am I chewing recklessly?”

She shook her head. “You look like a boy I used to know.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, years and years ago. He died in the Spanish flu epidemic. We were engaged to be married.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wouldn’t have worked out. He drank.” She looked embarrassed. “That was rude. I’m sorry. I’m sure you aren’t nearly the drinker he was. It’s terribly ironic — the fact that he died so close to the start of Prohibition.”

“People drank during Prohibition. You should know. You lived through it.”

“You’re right. You’re quite right. Try one of those little mushroom thingies.”

“You made all this just for yourself?”

“I was going to give Judy and Dicky a taste. But most of it is pretty rich, and I didn’t want them to get a tummy ache.”

“Smart. It’s good. The mushroom thing. It’s all very good. I should pay you for this tray and take it to the party. Never much care for the spread that Marilyn Powell sets out.”

A silence passed, Cliff turning desultorily through the pages of the newspaper while taking an occasional bite from the hors d’oeuvres tray, Adelaide puttering around the kitchen. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

“Not at all.”

Adelaide tuned her kitchen radio to big band music. “I usually can’t find anything but rock and roll these days,” she pronounced.

Cliff grunted agreement.

After another couple of minutes, Adelaide turned the music down and said, “Cliff. Is it all right for me to call you Cliff?”

“You can call me whatever you like, Miss Stillwell. Just don’t call me a cab, because you won’t have any luck.” Cliff’s little joke was chased by a glimmer of a smile.

“There’s something I haven’t told you. Something that I should have told you.”

Cliff, whose head had been largely in the paper, now looked up. “What?”

“I can drive. I even have a car. I let my brother borrow it. He wanted to drive down to Atlantic City for the weekend.”

“You can drive? Since when can you drive?”

“Since I finished my lessons last month.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this? You could have driven my car! Why did you put me through all this?”

“You shouldn’t drink and drive. I was trying to make a point that would stick.”

Cliff could feel his face turning red. “You know, Miss Stillwell, this really shouldn’t be any of your business.”

“I disagree. You’re going to kill somebody one of these days — if not me, then your wife or one of your children, or somebody you meet coming around one of those curves on Highway 119. Or yourself.”

“So you’ve been teaching me a lesson.”

“I suppose I have.”

Cliff got up. “So can we go? You know, of course, that I don’t intend to pay you for all the time that we’ve wasted here.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. Let me get my purse. Can I have your keys? Be a dear, if you would, and carry out my hors d’oeuvres platter.”

As the two were walking out to the car, Cliff stopped. Adelaide, who was walking next to him, stopped too. “Just going to take a wild guess here, but your boyfriend didn’t die in the Spanish flu epidemic, did he?”