do?
Meaning are you a doctor or lawyer or Indian chief? Now they ask
Are you done yet?”
His own not-so-secret wish was to run a slow-paced neighbourhood coffee shop. Harriet would make the pastries. She had actually offered. She would bake, she said, every night from six until ten, so long as she didn’t have to speak to anyone. Of course, what appealed to Lew, a sociable man caught in the coils of an unsociable wife, was the chance to visit with people all day long. There were times when Dinah thought the two of them oddly suited to each other: one fulfilled by little, the other unfulfilled by a lot.
“She can’t stand visitors,” he said, “except for you.” Giving her an appreciative look.
“We have fun with our movies.”
“Movies,”
groaned Lew. “That’s all she cares about.”
“Don’t be a jealous fool,” she teased, but to her surprise he didn’t smile.
Ah, she thought sadly, so that’s the trouble. He’s suffering from Rhett Butler syndrome: he wants his wife to fall in love with him.
13
The Crucifier
T hey were downstairs when the phone rang. It was the last Saturday in November. Lew answered, and said, “Leah!” To be exact, he said, “Leah!
Where are you?”
That was the clue. They knew more than one Leah, but only one Leah could have drawn from him such a resounding note of cheery panic.
Harriet, reaching for the coffee, froze in her tracks. Then, without a coat, she headed out the back door into the snow. She was wearing slippers. In her slippers she went around the side of the house, squeezed through the narrow passageway between verandah and wooden fence, got herself past the car parked in the driveway and around to the front. She came in the front door, removed her slippers, tiptoed upstairs, and pulled the blankets over her head.
Lew sat on the edge of the bed. “I saved you,” he said.
“Where is she?”
“With Jack’s sister in Chicago. It’s all right.”
“She’s not coming?”
“She’s coming, but not till January, like she said. She just wanted to complain about not hearing from us.”
“What did she say she’s doing? What is her life like?” Harriet could ask now that the immediate danger had passed. She was very curious to know.
“She said she spends all her time writing angry letters she doesn’t send. She said it’s a good thing she doesn’t send them. Then she read me one.”
“Right.”
Even a calm letter from Leah was like a missive from Liza Minnelli. Hectic, overemphatic, crammed with capitalized words and exclamation marks. It made you long to be a Quaker.
“I said we’d be happy to have her stay, but we always put a limit on guests of three days. Otherwise you can’t work.”
Harriet looked at him gratefully. “Except Jeff Bridges. If Jeff calls, he can stay for a week.” She reached for Lew’s hand, and he said to her, “You know, she’s a fund of information. Get her to talk about Hollywood.”
“I don’t believe a word she says. She trashes everybody. She hates them all. You remember what she said about Cary Grant?” Fixing him with livid eyes. “You don’t remember. Well, I’m not going to repeat it.”
“She’s lonely,” he said.
“She’s a bully and a lush. She leaves Attila the Hun in the dust.”
“You’re afraid of her.”
“Afraid?”
squawked Harriet. “Try terrified. Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, sitting up. “This is ridiculous.
I’m
ridiculous. When in January?”
“The first week.”
“Why would anybody come to Ottawa in January?”
Lew shook his head, equally confounded.
“She’s demented, that’s why.”
“I know,” he said.
14
Sunday
Y ou give in so easily, Ratty said to Mole. Harriet had been reading to Kenny and the words come back to her at three in the morning. Timid Mole and Imperious Ratty. She thinks of Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando in
Guys and Dolls
. She thinks of commanding figures and weak ones. She thinks of getting up, but she doesn’t. Her
Meaning are you a doctor or lawyer or Indian chief? Now they ask
Are you done yet?”
His own not-so-secret wish was to run a slow-paced neighbourhood coffee shop. Harriet would make the pastries. She had actually offered. She would bake, she said, every night from six until ten, so long as she didn’t have to speak to anyone. Of course, what appealed to Lew, a sociable man caught in the coils of an unsociable wife, was the chance to visit with people all day long. There were times when Dinah thought the two of them oddly suited to each other: one fulfilled by little, the other unfulfilled by a lot.
“She can’t stand visitors,” he said, “except for you.” Giving her an appreciative look.
“We have fun with our movies.”
“Movies,”
groaned Lew. “That’s all she cares about.”
“Don’t be a jealous fool,” she teased, but to her surprise he didn’t smile.
Ah, she thought sadly, so that’s the trouble. He’s suffering from Rhett Butler syndrome: he wants his wife to fall in love with him.
13
The Crucifier
T hey were downstairs when the phone rang. It was the last Saturday in November. Lew answered, and said, “Leah!” To be exact, he said, “Leah!
Where are you?”
That was the clue. They knew more than one Leah, but only one Leah could have drawn from him such a resounding note of cheery panic.
Harriet, reaching for the coffee, froze in her tracks. Then, without a coat, she headed out the back door into the snow. She was wearing slippers. In her slippers she went around the side of the house, squeezed through the narrow passageway between verandah and wooden fence, got herself past the car parked in the driveway and around to the front. She came in the front door, removed her slippers, tiptoed upstairs, and pulled the blankets over her head.
Lew sat on the edge of the bed. “I saved you,” he said.
“Where is she?”
“With Jack’s sister in Chicago. It’s all right.”
“She’s not coming?”
“She’s coming, but not till January, like she said. She just wanted to complain about not hearing from us.”
“What did she say she’s doing? What is her life like?” Harriet could ask now that the immediate danger had passed. She was very curious to know.
“She said she spends all her time writing angry letters she doesn’t send. She said it’s a good thing she doesn’t send them. Then she read me one.”
“Right.”
Even a calm letter from Leah was like a missive from Liza Minnelli. Hectic, overemphatic, crammed with capitalized words and exclamation marks. It made you long to be a Quaker.
“I said we’d be happy to have her stay, but we always put a limit on guests of three days. Otherwise you can’t work.”
Harriet looked at him gratefully. “Except Jeff Bridges. If Jeff calls, he can stay for a week.” She reached for Lew’s hand, and he said to her, “You know, she’s a fund of information. Get her to talk about Hollywood.”
“I don’t believe a word she says. She trashes everybody. She hates them all. You remember what she said about Cary Grant?” Fixing him with livid eyes. “You don’t remember. Well, I’m not going to repeat it.”
“She’s lonely,” he said.
“She’s a bully and a lush. She leaves Attila the Hun in the dust.”
“You’re afraid of her.”
“Afraid?”
squawked Harriet. “Try terrified. Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, sitting up. “This is ridiculous.
I’m
ridiculous. When in January?”
“The first week.”
“Why would anybody come to Ottawa in January?”
Lew shook his head, equally confounded.
“She’s demented, that’s why.”
“I know,” he said.
14
Sunday
Y ou give in so easily, Ratty said to Mole. Harriet had been reading to Kenny and the words come back to her at three in the morning. Timid Mole and Imperious Ratty. She thinks of Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando in
Guys and Dolls
. She thinks of commanding figures and weak ones. She thinks of getting up, but she doesn’t. Her
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