Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [33]
Ian shook the dice in one cupped hand and spilled them across the board: a four and a six. “You hear me, Ian?” his mother asked.
Agatha watched their faces, hoping. They could stay, she wanted to tell them. Or they could take the three of them home with them. But then what about their mother?
“Maybe you could bring her too,” she suggested to Grandma Bedloe.
“Bring who, dear?”
“Maybe you could bring us all to your house. Mama too.”
Ian moved one man four spaces. Then he reached toward another man.
“If you wrap her in a blanket, she can walk pretty good,” Agatha said. “Stir coffee into her Coca-Cola and make her drink it and then hold her hand; she can walk anywhere you want her to.”
Ian’s fingers stopped in midair. He and Grandma Bedloe looked at each other.
Just at that moment, footsteps creaked in the hall and here came their mother, tying the sash of her kimono. It was the shiny gray kimono she hardly ever wore, not her usual bathrobe, so she must have known there were visitors. Also her hair was brushed. It puffed around her shoulders and down her back, dark and cloud-shaped, so her face stood out brightly. She gave them all her best smile. “Oh! Mother Bedloe. And Ian,” she said. “This is so embarrassing! Caught napping in the shank of the evening! But I took the children on a long, long walk this afternoon and I guess I must have worn myself out.”
Grandma Bedloe and Ian studied her. Thomas and Agatha held very still.
Then Grandma Bedloe said, “Why, my heavens! Pushing a stroller, on a day like today! Of course you’re worn out. You just sit yourself down and let me bring you some supper.”
Agatha let go of her breath. Thomas was smiling too, now. He had a smile like their mother’s, sort of dipping at the center, and he looked relieved. And Grandma Bedloe was moving toward the kitchen, and Ian reached again for his Parcheesi piece. Everyone was relieved.
So why did Agatha suddenly feel so anxious?
It was past their bedtime but their mother hadn’t noticed yet. She was perched on a stool in the kitchen, reading a cookbook and munching one of the drumsticks Grandma Bedloe had left on the counter. “Beef Goulash,” she read out. “Beef with Pearl Onions. Beef Crescents. Agatha, what was that beef dish Grandma Bedloe told us about?”
“I don’t remember,” Agatha said, switching to a yellow crayon.
“It was rolled up in Bisquick dough.”
“I remember she talked about it but I don’t remember the name.”
“Bisquick dough sprinkled with herbs of some kind. She had it at their neighbors’.”
“Maybe you could call and ask her.”
“I can’t do that. She’d want to know who I was making it for.”
Her mother set down the drumstick and wiped her fingers on a paper towel before turning another page. “Beef a la Oriental,” she read out.
“Couldn’t you just say you were making it for the typewriter man?”
“These things are touchy,” her mother said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
That hurt Agatha’s feelings a little. She scowled and kicked her feet out. By mistake, she kicked Thomas. He was drowsing over a plastic cup of grapefruit juice. He opened his eyes and said, “Stop.”
“Always serve a man red meat,” her mother told Agatha. “Remember that for the future.”
“Red meat,” Agatha repeated dutifully.
“It shows you think of them as strong.”
“What if you served them fish?”
“Men don’t like fish.”
“They like chicken, though.”
“Well, yes.”
“If you served them chicken, would they think you thought they were scared?”
“Hmm?” her mother said.
Thomas said, “Mama, Agatha kicked me.” But his eyes were closing again.
“Well, here goes,” their mother said, and she reached for the phone.
“You’re calling Grandma Bedloe?” Agatha asked.
“No, silly, I’m calling Mr. Rumford.”
She dialed in that special way she had, very fast and zippy. She must know the number by heart. She had called two earlier times that Agatha was aware of—one morning while he was at work, just to make sure he didn’t have anyone else; and then