Priscilla failed to notice the beets right away. Her gaze was concentrated upon Dr. Dannyboy. That a one-eyed man of fifty could be so handsome! Dannyboy was slender, svelte, and nimble, a tanned, athletic man with an Airstream nest of silver curls, teeth like the spots on dominoes, and more twinkle in his single eye than most men have in a pair. A high-voltage blue, the eye color was in aesthetic contrast to the patch that he wore on the right side, the patch being white vinyl with a painted green shamrock in its center. Priscilla had seen photographs of him, of course, taken both before and after he lost his eye, but they had barely hinted at the charm that spilled out of him like foam out of an ale mug.
Of his background, she knew a little. Brilliant young anthropologist who left his native Dublin to teach at Harvard, where he experimented with mind-altering chemicals beyond the call of academic duty. Lost his professorship, journeyed to the Amazon to munch vision vine with the Indians, returning to the United States as a self-styled psychedelic prophet, or “electronic shaman,” as he called himself, appearing on TV talk shows, lecturing on campuses everywhere, promoting with considerable flair the notion that certain drugs can raise consciousness and that persons with elevated consciousness are less apt to be violent, greedy, fearful, or repressed. Since it was hardly in the best national interest to relieve citizens of their violence, greed, fear, or repression, the government acted to silence Dr. Dannyboy by arresting him on a phony marijuana charge and checking him into the steel hotel. Escaped, only to be nabbed two years later on a Costa Rican orchid farm, and imprisoned again. Paroled after nearly a decade, during which time he lost an eye to a sadistic prison guard and impregnated his wife by smuggling out his semen in a dinner roll. Turned up in Seattle a couple of years back to quietly (for him) found an institution devoted to “immortality and longevity research.”
All this Priscilla knew, but it seemed to have nothing to do with the attractive man who sat at the head of the table in Irish tweeds, sipping red wine, tapping from time to time his garish eye patch with his salad fork, and holding forth on a variety of topics. “England!” she heard him bellow with distaste. “How can a country that cannot produce ice cubes in abundance be hopin' to palm itself off as a major civilization?” Moments later, he had turned his attention to grammar: “There are no such things as synonyms!” he practically shouted. “Deluge is not the same as flood!” After each of these pronouncements, he erupted with laughter, almost as if making fun of what he'd just so passionately proclaimed.
At the other end of the table, acting as hostess, was Dannyboy's young daughter, Huxley Anne. Priscilla sat to Huxley Anne's left. The place directly across from Priscilla was vacant. “There was a colored woman supposed to eat there,” volunteered Huxley Anne, “but she didn't come. Maybe she's late. She lives long away.” The place to the right of Dannyboy was likewise unoccupied. “That's Dr. Morgenstern's dish,” explained the little girl. “He'll be downstairs soon as he finishes jumping.”
“Jumping?” asked Priscilla.
“Uh-huh,” said Huxley Anne, giggling. Before she could say more, Professor Morgenstern entered the room and made to take his place. A tall, thickset German, gray-suited, bespectacled, bald as a bomb, the noted chemist might have appeared the epitome of the cold, clear-eyed, methodical, reasoning man were he not panting like a Saint Bernard on avalanche patrol. His face was as red as a Christmas sock, and his heart was pounding so hard that his bow tie was bouncing.
Despite the fact that the guest of honor was obviously and oddly out of breath, the others at table were relieved to see him. They were, for the most part, members of Seattle's scientific fraternity — department heads from the University of Washington, Boeing Aircraft physicists, research chemists at Swedish Hospital, mayoral advisers on medicine and technology — and they had been ill at ease in the company of Wiggs Dannyboy, what with his careless pronouncements and boisterous laughter. Wary of Dannyboy's reputation, the good academics probably believed their host loaded on some arcane substance, though Priscilla had been around both French Quarter trippers and Irish Channel blarneymongers long enough to recognize that this particular brand of bullshit was not artificially induced.
At any rate, the guests were visibly relieved when Dr. Morgenstern joined them, and they applauded when Wiggs lifted his much-consulted wineglass and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, let us be welcomin' to Seattle, to the Last Laugh Foundation, to our pleasant company here on this rainy November eve, the world's only double Nobel laureate, your Dr. Wolfgang Morgenstern.”
As the applause died out and the chemist sat down to analyze the minestrone soup, little Huxley Anne leaned over to Pris and whispered, “Wolfgang, show us some tricks on your Nobel lariat. That's what my daddy says. Hee hee.” Priscilla laughed at that. Wiggs must have heard her laugh, because he grinned approvingly in her direction and waved at her with his soup spoon.
The salmon linguine was tasty, and Huxley Anne, who was edging toward roly-poliness, got seriously involved with it. The seat across from Priscilla remained vacant. The other guests attempted to converse with the rather taciturn Dr. Morgenstern. Most of their questions were fielded by Wiggs Dannyboy, who, after a rational sentence or two, would issue some immortalist epigram, such as, “If you can't take it with you, don't go,” or “Death is a grave mistake,” followed by a jolly roar from deep within his tweeds — and pained smiles from the polite diners. Eating in silence, Priscilla was mildly amused by it all — until she spotted the trio of raw beets in the centerpiece.
Could Dannyboy be behind the produce deposits at her doorsill? And if so, to what possible end? She sank into a swamp of spooky speculation, from which she emerged with a start when a maid inquired if she wanted chocolate mousse or apple slices for dessert. “Uh, er, beg your pardon?” mumbled Priscilla.
“How do you feel about calories?” asked the maid, displaying the dessert tray.
“Well, there are more of them than there are of us,” said Pris. She selected the mousse.
Huxley Anne squealed at this, and for the second time during the meal, Wiggs wagged a utensil at Priscilla and regarded her warmly.
After coffee, the guests thinned out rapidly. They had obviously come solely to meet Wolfgang Morgenstern, and having accomplished that, to greater or lesser degrees of disappointment, they made for the exit. (Exit, not egress. There are no such things as synonyms.) “Interesting,” thought Priscilla, “these people wanting out so badly and all those others on the street wanting in.” She elected to join the small, brave group that gathered in the front room for brandy and tobacco. She thought perhaps there might be a tour of the laboratories later. Mostly she wished to inquire about those beets on the table.
“I have to go to bed now, Miz. .?”
“Partido. Miz Partido. But you can call me Priscilla.”
“I have to go to bed now, Priscilla. It's after ten and the cigar smoke makes me dizzy.”
“Goodnight, Huxley Anne. It's been totally awesome.” She shook the child's chubby hand. “Say, do you think your daddy will let us have a peek at his laboratories?”
The little girl looked puzzled. “What labbertories?” she asked.