thought it was a bleeping dead mouse or something." Annie picked it up with a fork and spoon and dropped it back into the serving dish.
Everyone was silent. Finally Steve said, "What's for dessert?"
Dessert?
Anastasia hadn't even thought about dessert. How on earth did people make dessert, too, when it took two days just to make
dinner?
Sam looked up. "I'll serve dessert," he announced. "I'm in charge of dessert." He climbed carefully down from his chair and headed for the kitchen. In a moment he was back. He walked around the table and politely handed each person a Popsicle.
"They're grape," Sam said. "Because the color scheme is purple."
I forgot to turn on the music, Anastasia thought after Steve had left. I forgot to turn on the romantic record. With slumped shoulders she went to the kitchen and surveyed the mess. Every pot they owned was in the sink. Dirty dishes were piled on the table. Popsicle wrappings were stuck to the plates. There were spilled peanuts on the floor. The pantyhose bag of veal marrow and knucklebones lay in a sagging, soggy pile beside a cup half-filled with coffee.
It was a horrible evening, she thought. Sam thought it was horrible—he had said so when she put him to bed. And Steve thought it was horrible—he had said so when she said good night to him at the door. He had also said, "Good night, Analgesia." The instant he was gone, Anastasia had run to the dictionary and looked it up before she forgot the word.
The dictionary had said, "Analgesia. Insensibility to pain."
What a lie. Anastasia was so sensitive to pain that she had been suffering the entire evening, and not just from the horrible earrings. And she was
still
suffering.
She wondered if her father thought it was a horrible evening. She couldn't tell because he had been so silent, just smiling that tense smile all through dinner.
Well, her father had
better
think it was horrible, because it was his horrible friend Annie who had made it so. She was
finally
leaving. Anastasia looked at her watch; it was almost midnight. Annie had stayed and stayed, bleating and bellowing and bleeping. Finally Dr. Krupnik had simply gone to the phone and called for a taxi. Now he was out there saying good night to Annie.
And he sure was taking his time about it, Anastasia thought angrily. At least an hour's worth of cleaning up lay ahead, and her father had promised to help with it.
She went out into the hall, and finally, after a moment, she heard the taxi door slam, and the taxi drove away. Her father came back into the house, looking exhausted.
"What took you so long?" Anastasia asked suspiciously.
"You saw what she was like," her father said irritably. "You don't think she could say good night
briefly,
do you?"
"Well, it's cold out there. You shouldn't have been out there all that time without a coat. You should have shoved her into the taxi and come back in."
Her father groaned.
"Your face is red, from the cold," Anastasia pointed out.
Then she looked more carefully. "It isn't from the cold," she said. "Your face is red because you're
blushing,
I think."
"It is not."
"It is
too.
Why are you blushing, Dad?" Anastasia wailed. "You didn't KISS her, did you?"
"No," he sighed. "She swooped at me, but I ducked. Maybe she kissed my shoulder. Maybe my shoulder is bright red, from her lipstick. But my face isn't red."
"Yes, it is. It's
bright red.
Come over here in the light."
Anastasia tilted a living room lamp shade and examined her father's face. "Do you feel okay?" she asked.
"No," he said, "I feel lousy. I felt lousy the minute she walked in the door, and I've been feeling lousy ever since. You'd feel lousy, too, if an old friend you remembered fondly had changed that much, and turned into something so grotesque."
Anastasia touched his forehead. "You're hot," she said. "Does your head hurt? Does your nose ache? Does your belly button feel too tight?"
"I hurt all over."
It can't be, Anastasia thought. Please, no. But she knew.
Everyone was silent. Finally Steve said, "What's for dessert?"
Dessert?
Anastasia hadn't even thought about dessert. How on earth did people make dessert, too, when it took two days just to make
dinner?
Sam looked up. "I'll serve dessert," he announced. "I'm in charge of dessert." He climbed carefully down from his chair and headed for the kitchen. In a moment he was back. He walked around the table and politely handed each person a Popsicle.
"They're grape," Sam said. "Because the color scheme is purple."
I forgot to turn on the music, Anastasia thought after Steve had left. I forgot to turn on the romantic record. With slumped shoulders she went to the kitchen and surveyed the mess. Every pot they owned was in the sink. Dirty dishes were piled on the table. Popsicle wrappings were stuck to the plates. There were spilled peanuts on the floor. The pantyhose bag of veal marrow and knucklebones lay in a sagging, soggy pile beside a cup half-filled with coffee.
It was a horrible evening, she thought. Sam thought it was horrible—he had said so when she put him to bed. And Steve thought it was horrible—he had said so when she said good night to him at the door. He had also said, "Good night, Analgesia." The instant he was gone, Anastasia had run to the dictionary and looked it up before she forgot the word.
The dictionary had said, "Analgesia. Insensibility to pain."
What a lie. Anastasia was so sensitive to pain that she had been suffering the entire evening, and not just from the horrible earrings. And she was
still
suffering.
She wondered if her father thought it was a horrible evening. She couldn't tell because he had been so silent, just smiling that tense smile all through dinner.
Well, her father had
better
think it was horrible, because it was his horrible friend Annie who had made it so. She was
finally
leaving. Anastasia looked at her watch; it was almost midnight. Annie had stayed and stayed, bleating and bellowing and bleeping. Finally Dr. Krupnik had simply gone to the phone and called for a taxi. Now he was out there saying good night to Annie.
And he sure was taking his time about it, Anastasia thought angrily. At least an hour's worth of cleaning up lay ahead, and her father had promised to help with it.
She went out into the hall, and finally, after a moment, she heard the taxi door slam, and the taxi drove away. Her father came back into the house, looking exhausted.
"What took you so long?" Anastasia asked suspiciously.
"You saw what she was like," her father said irritably. "You don't think she could say good night
briefly,
do you?"
"Well, it's cold out there. You shouldn't have been out there all that time without a coat. You should have shoved her into the taxi and come back in."
Her father groaned.
"Your face is red, from the cold," Anastasia pointed out.
Then she looked more carefully. "It isn't from the cold," she said. "Your face is red because you're
blushing,
I think."
"It is not."
"It is
too.
Why are you blushing, Dad?" Anastasia wailed. "You didn't KISS her, did you?"
"No," he sighed. "She swooped at me, but I ducked. Maybe she kissed my shoulder. Maybe my shoulder is bright red, from her lipstick. But my face isn't red."
"Yes, it is. It's
bright red.
Come over here in the light."
Anastasia tilted a living room lamp shade and examined her father's face. "Do you feel okay?" she asked.
"No," he said, "I feel lousy. I felt lousy the minute she walked in the door, and I've been feeling lousy ever since. You'd feel lousy, too, if an old friend you remembered fondly had changed that much, and turned into something so grotesque."
Anastasia touched his forehead. "You're hot," she said. "Does your head hurt? Does your nose ache? Does your belly button feel too tight?"
"I hurt all over."
It can't be, Anastasia thought. Please, no. But she knew.
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