Looking forward to a quiet supper of Nellie Starling’s chicken fricassee sending forth a mouth-watering aroma from the bottom of the bag in his arms and the company of a new mystery thriller from the library, Wayne Trimble opened his front door. The door had been unlocked. That was funny. Wayne couldn’t remember whether or not he’d locked it that morning. People in Minchville didn’t bother to lock their doors very much. It wasn’t neighborly. Oh, well, it didn’t matter. Wayne Trimble opened his front door and stepped into his parlor.
“Is that you, Way-yun?” The voice came shrieking at him from the back of the house. Startled, he dropped the bag of food and stood riveted to the spot. “How come you’re using the front door, Way-yun?” Sharp, purposeful footsteps approached, and a scrabbling of tiny paws and an awful high-pitched yipping accompanied them.
Had he dreamed the whole thing? Were all the events of the past week nothing but a brainstorm, the results of an overheated imagination? No, of course not. There on the floor lay proof that Mildred Trimble and her nagging voice were well and truly laid to rest. All that lovely chicken mingled pinkly with a shattered rhubarb pie, and molasses cookies crumbling wetly into pools of chicken gravy. Oh, my. Wayne gazed sadly at the destruction of his quiet supper. But that voice. That irritating nasal voice. So like, so very like. Who?
“Oh, Way-yun! Look at that mess. Will you just look at that mess. All over the nice clean floor. Well, you’ll just have to clean it up. No, no, Precious Lotus, you keep away from that. You’ll get a nasty old chicken bone in your little throatie, and you wouldn’t like that.”
Wayne raised suddenly tear-filled eyes.
“Hello, Verna,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, you old silly,” she screeched. “Why on earth shouldn’t I come over and cook for you? After all, we are engaged. Now you clean that up while I get dinner on the table. I don’t know what gets into a man when he lives alone, but I had to clear a whole heap of scrap wood off the dining room table before I could set a plate.”
She bustled off to the kitchen, followed by Precious Lotus, who leered back over his shoulder at Wayne.
“Verna,” Wayne called after her. “What did you do with that scrap wood?”
“Threw it away, of course.”
Wayne ate silently, swallowing his food mechanically without tasting it. Verna, sitting in his mother’s chair, seemed not to notice his brooding silence, for she chattered shrilly throughout the meal. It was not until dessert that he could bring himself to speak.
“Verna,” he began.
“Now stop fiddling with your rice pudding,” she interrupted. “Eat it. It’s good for you.”
“Verna,” he tried again.
“Way-yun, I think we have something important to discuss.” Wayne shuddered as she simpered at him across the table. How was it, he thought, that he’d never noticed the likeness. Her voice, the things she said. She’d never been like that in the trailer. Or had she, and he’d never noticed?
“Way-yun dear. Do you think it’s too soon to set the date? I don’t think we need to wait too long, do you? After all, we have been engaged for eight years. Nobody would think it was disrespectful if we got married right away. Everybody knows you need someone to look after you.”
“Now, wait a minute, Verna.” Wayne had no intention of letting himself be stampeded into another 40 years with a nagging, whining voice controlling his destiny. “I can take care of myself, and—”
“Oh, by the way, Way-yun. There’s something else I forgot to mention. Or rather, I forgot to mention it to Officer Hupp. Remember that night, that awful night when your mother was— Well, when Officer Hupp came to the trailer that night, I was so upset I plumb forgot to tell him about your forgetting to bring the butter pecan.”
“Verna, what are you talking about?” Wayne’s eyes narrowed, but his heart sank.
“Oh, you remember, Way-yun. You forgot to bring the ice cream, and after supper you went back to the drug store to get some from the freezer chest while I washed the dishes. I thought you were a pretty long time getting it, and it was all melty and mushy when we ate it. And I forgot all about it in all the hullabaloo and only just remembered it today.”
“I see,” said Wayne Trimble.
“Do you think I should remember it to Officer Hupp?”
“No, Verna. I don’t think you should do that.”
“Well, then, how about next Saturday afternoon?”
“Saturday afternoon?”
“For the wedding, Way-yun.”
“Why, yes, Verna. Next Saturday afternoon will be just fine.”
Verna bustled around the table and planted a wifely peck on Wayne’s cheek.
“Now that that’s all settled,” she announced, “I think I’ll take Precious Lotus for a little walk. You can do the dishes while I’m gone, Way-yun.”
A cloud of gloom settled over Wayne Trimble as he wielded the dishrag in a pan of greasy water. He tried to turn his thoughts into pleasanter channels, to think of the drug store, the center of his life, of his jars of many-colored pills and capsules, his bottles of syrups and elixirs, but all of these happy visions ended with the inevitable one of coming home to Verna every day.
He thought of all the catalogues and brochures sent out by the drug companies advertising new cures for old complaints. Wayne dearly loved poring over these catalogues when business was slack. All the new pills, new potions to add to his teeming shelves. So many new things. New.
It occurred to Wayne that his window display was hardly in keeping with the newness of developments in the drug business. Maybe he should completely redecorate the window — get rid of those old jars, they were only full of colored water anyway, make a clean sweep of all the trusses and bedpans, and fill the window with new things. Newfangled humidifiers, elaborate equipment for the care and feeding of babies, maybe even a pry amid of expensive cosmetics to beautify the craggy-faced farm wives who were his customers.
And the old mortar and pestle — well, that was an antique and probably valuable. He would bring that home. Yes, indeed, that would be a real nice thing to have around the house, particularly the pestle.
Plus ca change, plus c’est la même chose.
The more things change, the more they are the same.
Right on, Chick!
by S. S. Rafferty[4]
Chick Kelly, the medium-time night-club comic with a slanguage all his own, was finding show biz tough. Out-of-town bookings were as scarce as roosters’ eggs, so Chick opened up a small Third Avenue club to keep doing his act.
Kelly’s calling card might read:
A refreshing change of reading pace — call ’em, Chick!
When I quit the road and opened up a small Third Avenue night club, I thought I’d left all my troubles behind me. I overlooked two important details. One, that the national economy was going to opt for instant poverty; two, that my sister would now have my phone number. She sometimes uses it instead of 911, Manhattan’s police emergency number.