American Boy - Larry Watson [57]
Every Sunday I gave the waitress the same order: orange juice, scrambled eggs, a side order of ham, hash brown potatoes, a cinnamon roll, and coffee with cream and sugar. And each time I placed my order, Dr. Dunbar followed it by remarking, “Is that all for you, Matt, or will you be sharing it with the battalion?” It was my favorite meal, but more than the food, I loved sitting at the Dunbar table on Sunday mornings, letting everyone see me there.
Since becoming part of the Dunbar household, Louisa had also been attending First Presbyterian Church with the family, which meant she also joined us on Sunday mornings at the Heritage House. She sat so quietly at the table that anyone who’d heard rumors of her previous wild life would have had to reassess them in light of this demure, respectable presence. Oatmeal, she would order; oatmeal and tea. It was exactly what Mrs. Dunbar ordered.
On the February morning after our night drinking at Merchants clubhouse, I watched Louisa for some indication that whatever she felt for me before had changed. But I didn’t see a single sign, unless you counted the faintest of smiles that crossed her face when Johnny said he wasn’t hungry and ordered only coffee.
The twins were trying to persuade Louisa to judge a contest they were having over who had made the best bookmark of a Bible verse that morning in Sunday school. Louisa ignored them until Julia stood up, walked behind Louisa, and tilted her head down so she had to see the strips of cardboard the twins had placed in front of her. “Which one?” Julia demanded. Louisa hastily pointed to one of the bookmarks, and even though her judgment was halfhearted, Julia whooped in triumph. Had I been inclined to give Louisa a word of advice at that moment, I would have told her not to be so obvious in her observation of Dr. Dunbar, and to pay attention to his daughters as well. But I didn’t say a thing, and not surprisingly, Janet did not take Louisa’s judgment gracefully. She glared at Louisa, to which Louisa seemed oblivious. Then Julia raised her first-place bookmark high overhead, waved it back and forth, and circled the table as if she were competing in the school carnival cakewalk. Janet slumped in her chair and sulked.
Meanwhile, the good doctor was part of a group—the wing tip, dark-suit, Vitalis crowd—who were gathered near the cash register, arguing over whether Willow Falls should build a new elementary school on the west end of town, in order to accommodate the population growth in that direction.
While the men settled nothing, Mrs. Dunbar looked nervously out the window. Snow had begun falling shortly after sunrise, increasing in intensity with each passing hour. Its descent now was nearly horizontal, and the wind blew so hard that the restaurant’s plate glass window hummed and rattled in its frame. The street in front of the hotel was already drifted over in places, and it was clear that some of the cars parked on the west side of the street would have to be dug out.
“This is a blizzard,” Mrs. Dunbar said more than once, “a real blizzard.” Tornadoes in summer, blizzards in winter—Mrs. Dunbar had storm fear, an affliction not uncommon among residents of the Midwest.
As if he felt his wife’s anxiety from across the room, Dr. Dunbar stepped away from the power brokers and returned to the table.
“I wonder if we should get going,” said Mrs. Dunbar. She brought her napkin up from her lap and dropped it on the table, an action to be taken only at the end of a meal. Louisa did the same. The twins had stopped eating, and though I’d had more food in front of me than anyone, I was the first to finish.
Dr. Dunbar leaned toward the window as if he hadn’t noticed earlier what was happening out there. “By God, it is coming down, isn’t it?”
“We should get going,” Mrs. Dunbar repeated.
“Right you are,” said the doctor, and we all rose as if on command and began to put on our coats. Before we could