“Do you like my whiskey tumblers?” She was being unusually spry and talkative. “I don’t usually have much time to buy stuff. But I had to, of course. Bozoe never bought anything in her life. She’s what you’d call a dead weight. She’s getting fatter, too, all the time.”
“They’re good tumblers,” said Sis McEvoy. “They hold a lot of whiskey.”
Janet flushed slightly at the compliment. She attributed the unaccustomed excitement she felt to her freedom from the presence of Bozoe Flanner.
“Bozoe was very thin when I first knew her,” she told Sis. “And she didn’t show any signs that she was going to sit night and day making up problems and worrying about God and asking me questions. There wasn’t any of that in the beginning. Mainly she was meek, I guess, and she had soft-looking eyes, like a doe or a calf. Maybe she had the problems the whole time and was just planning to spring them on me later. I don’t know. I never thought she was going to get so tied up in knots, or so fat either. Naturally if she were heavy and happy too it would be better.”
“I have no flesh on my bones at all,” said Sis McEvoy, as if she had not even heard the rest of the conversation. “The whole family’s thin, and every last one of us has a rotten lousy temper inherited from both sides. My father and my mother had rotten tempers.”
“I don’t mind if you have a temper display in my apartment,” said Janet. “Go to it. I believe in people expressing themselves. If you’ve inherited a temper there isn’t much you can do about it except express it. I think it’s much better for you to break this crockery pumpkin, for instance, than to hold your temper in and become unnatural. For instance, I could buy another pumpkin and you’d feel relieved. I’d gather that, at any rate. I don’t know much about people, really. I never dabbled in people. They were never my specialty. But surely if you’ve inherited a temper from both sides it would seem to me that you would have to express it. It isn’t your fault, is it, after all?” Janet seemed determined to show admiration for Sis McEvoy.
“I’m having fun,” she continued unexpectedly. “It’s a long time since I’ve had any fun. I’ve been too busy getting the garage into shape. Then there’s Bozoe trouble. I’ve kept to the routine. Late Sunday breakfast with popovers and home-made jam. She eats maybe six of them, but with the same solemn expression on her face. I’m husky but a small eater. We have record players and television. But nothing takes her mind off herself. There’s no point in my getting any more machines. I’ve got the cash and the good will, but there’s absolutely no point.”
“You seem to be very well set up,” said Sis McEvoy, narrowing her eyes. “Here’s to you.” She tipped her glass and drained it.
Janet filled Sister’s glass at once. “I’m having a whale of a good time,” she said. “I hope you are. Of course I don’t want to butt into your business. Bozoe always thought I pored over my account books for such a long time on purpose. She thought I was purposely trying to get away from her. What do you think, Sis McEvoy?” She asked this almost in a playful tone that bordered on a yet unexpressed flirtatiousness.
“I’m not interested in women’s arguments with each other,” said Sis at once. “I’m interested in women’s arguments with men. What else is there? The rest doesn’t amount to a row of monkeys.”
“Oh, I agree,” Janet said, as if she were delighted by this statement which might supply her with the stimulus she was after. “I agree one thousand percent. Remember I spend more time in the garage with the men than I do with Bozoe Flanner.”
“I’m not actually living with my husband because of my temper,” said Sis. “I don’t like long-standing relationships. They disagree with me. I get the blues. I don’t want anyone staying in my life for a long time. It gives me the creeps. Men are crazy about me. I like the cocktails and the compliments. Then after a while they turn my stomach.”
“You’re a very interesting woman,” Janet Murphy announced, throwing caution to the winds and finding it pleasant.
“I know I’m interesting,” said Sis. “But I’m not so sure life is interesting.”
“Are you interested in money?” Janet asked her. “I don’t mean money for the sake of money, but for buying things.”
Sis did not answer, and Janet feared that she had been rude. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said. “After all, money comes up in everybody’s life. Even duchesses have to talk about money. But I won’t, any more. Come on. Let’s shake.” She held out her hand to Sis McEvoy, but Sis allowed it to stay there foolishly, without accepting the warm grip Janet had intended for her.
“I’m really sorry,” she went on, “if you think I was trying to be insulting and personal. I honestly was not. The fact is that I have been so busy building up a reputation for the garage that I behave like a savage. I’ll never mention money again.” In her heart she felt that Sis was somehow pleased that the subject had been brought up, but was not yet ready to admit it. Sis’s tedious work at the combination tearoom and soda fountain where they had met could scarcely make her feel secure.
Bozoe doesn’t play one single feminine trick, she told herself, and after all, after struggling nearly ten years to build up a successful and unusual business I’m entitled to some returns. I’m in a rut with Bozoe and this Sis is going to get me out of it. (By now she was actually furious with Bozoe.) I’m entitled to some fun. The men working for me have more fun than I have.
“I feel grateful to you, Sis,” she said without explaining her remark. “You’ve done me a service. May I tell you that I admire your frankness, without offending you?”
Sis McEvoy was beginning to wonder if Janet were another nut like Bozoe Flanner. This worried her a little, but she was too drunk by now for clear thinking. She was enjoying the compliments, although it was disturbing that they should be coming from a woman. She was very proud of never having been depraved or abnormal, and pleased to be merely mean and discontented to the extent of not having been able to stay with any man for longer than the three months she had spent with her husband.
“I’ll read you more of Bozoe’s letter,” Janet suggested.
“I can’t wait,” said Sis. “I can’t wait to hear a lunatic’s mind at work first-hand. Her letter’s so cheerful and elevating. And so constructive. Go to it. But fill my glass first so I can concentrate. I’d hate to miss a word. It would kill me.”
Janet realized that it was unkind of her to be reading her friend’s letter to someone who so obviously had only contempt for it. But she felt no loyalty — only eagerness to make Sis see how hard her life had been. She felt that in this way the bond between them might be strengthened.