The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [262]
Put mushroom garden on downstairs desk, where I will not forget it (next to large pile of bookplates waiting to be signed, which I will make every effort to forget, but the secretary’s coming round Monday to make sure I don’t), and go upstairs, feeling pleased that I have already ordered an Archie McPhee potato gun for my sister for Christmas.
Sit down and reread the six sentences I have onscreen, sinking back into scene. How long will I/she wait before setting out to look for the missing man? It’s dark outside, it’s getting colder. She’s stoked up the fire, but her hands are still cold. Dinner is cooking, but she doesn’t feel hungry, and the scent of food doesn’t comfort her. If he’s had an accident… Phone rings and I hear it, for a wonder. Editorial assistant, informing me that they don’t know yet whether I should go to ABA, but they’ve changed the date and it isn’t till mid-June, so I can go to Utah if I want.
Meanwhile, husband arrives downstairs, complaining of acute pain in foot, asking a) did I remember to buy him wart remover, and b) do I want to go and eat a hot dog with him? Answer yes to both, and go to eat Polish sausages with sauerkraut and mustard, while discussing whether I should go to Utah in May. Upon finding out that they’re offering me $1,000 to come and talk to them, husband agrees that I should, and remarks casually that he has always wanted to build a kit plane.
Return (in car, I find myself crouched behind a screen of rocks and twigs. There are Indians I don’t recognize, passing in single file through the wood a few feet away. Their faces are painted, and they’re moving in the direction of the house I just left) to find that another Federal Express hombre has come by, but missed the housekeeper, and instead left a delivery notice on the door. Go upstairs, quickly download and skim messages, then sit, list in hand, and try to organize rest of day. Phone rings; in-laws inviting us to come over for dessert after supper. Phone rings; woman in Alabama wanting to get hold of autographed copy of Drums for Christmas present for sister. Explain politely that it isn’t finished yet, suppressing various uncharitable remarks that come to mind when she exclaims, “but why NOT?”
Little one comes home from school.
Have five minutes to make her a snack, listen to her report of her day, and sympathize with her teeth (she needs orthodontia, and we’ve just had the first spacers put in yesterday), then go to collect the older kids from their school.
Discover that son hasn’t given teachers their notes. Grasp him metaphorically by ear and drag him off to beard teachers in their dens. Extract lists of missing assignments from two, but find third one has already left for day.
Decant everyone at home, distribute food and drink all round, load up little one, who wants to come with me, and set off for afternoon errands—feed store to buy nose bag and two hundredweight of oats for elderly horse who isn’t getting his share of the pellets, Alphagraphics for new shipment of bookplates, and grocery store because we are out of necessities like milk and tuna fish, and because little one is holding a Christmas party next day, at which she and six friends intend to decorate cookies, among other things.
Return home, having discovered in the car that the Indians are indeed sinister, being Mohawk far from their home range, raiding for purposes unknown (has this got anything to do with Father Alexandre, the Jesuit missionary, whose flesh is weak, and whom we’ll meet a good deal further on?). Cook dinner, slug down more homeopathic flu remedy and vitamin C, go off to dessert at in-laws.
Return (she’s found him, denned up in a