Nothing That Meets the Eye by Patricia Highsmith Page B

if I wanted to. But Mr. Sweeney depends a great deal on me. At least he says he does.” She swallowed, and tried to collect all that clamored inside her for utterance. “It’s not a very big job, I suppose, but it’s a good one. And we’ve all been working together for seven years, you know,” she asserted, but she knew this by itself couldn’t express to Edith how the four of them—she had written Edith many a time about Louise who handled the books and the files, and Carl their salesman, and Mr. Sweeney, of course—were much more of a family than many families were. “Oh, New York’s my home now, Edie.”
    â€œYou’ve always got a home with us, Millie.”
    Mildred was about to say that was very sweet of her, but a truck’s brakes were mounting to a piercing crescendo outside. She dropped her eyes from Edith’s disappointed face.
    â€œI’ve got some things I ought to put on hangers overnight,” Edith said finally. “And do you mind if I wash my white gloves? They’ll just about dry by morning. I’ll have to leave early.”
    â€œWhat time?” Mildred asked, in order to be cooperative, but, aware that her worried expression might make her seem eager for Edith’s departure, she smiled, which was almost worse.
    â€œThe train’s at eight forty-eight,” Edith replied, going to her ­suitcase.
    â€œThat’s too bad. I’m sorry you’re not staying longer, Edith.” She really did feel sorry. They’d hardly have time to talk at all. And Edith probably wouldn’t notice half the things she had done around the house, the neat closets, the half of the top drawer she had cleared for her in the bureau, the container of soft drinks Edith liked that she had thought of the first thing last evening.
    Mildred wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and went into the kitchen. She got the stew pan of boiled potatoes from the icebox and dumped them into the salad bowl. She separated the celery under running water, bunched it, and sliced it onto the potatoes. The old habit of rushing, of saving split seconds, caught her up in its machinery as if she no longer possessed a volition of her own, and she surrendered to it with a kind of tortured enjoyment. She hardly breathed except to gasp at intervals, and she moved faster and faster. The jar of olives flew into the bowl at one burst, followed by a shower of onion chips and a cloud of paprika that made her cough. Finally, she seized knife and fork and began to slice everything in the bowl every which way. Her muscles grew so taut, it hurt her even to move to the icebox to get the eggs. The eggs had descended three inches or more into the ice, and she could not extract them with her longest fingers. She peered at their murkily enlarged forms through the ice cake, then burst out laughing.
    â€œEdie!” she cried. “Edie, come here and look!”
    But her only reply was the flushing of the toilet. Mildred bent over in silent, paroxysmic hilarity. If her sister only knew about the toilet! The toothbrush the plumber had dragged out that hadn’t even looked like a toothbrush!
    Mildred straightened and grimly wrestled the ice cake from the box. She shook the eggs into the sink, holding the ice with hands and forearms. The eggs had bright, gooey orange centers, but they were fairly cold. She hacked them into the salad, listening the while for Edith’s coming out of the bathroom. She was racing to have the supper ready when Edith came out, but what did it matter really whether she was ready or not? Why was she in such a hurry? She giggled at herself, then, with her mouth still smiling, set her teeth and stirred the dressing so fast it rose high up the sides of the mixing bowl.
    â€œCan I help you, Millie?”
    â€œNot a thing to do, thank you, Edie.” Mildred dragged the coleslaw out of the icebox so hastily, she dropped it face down on the floor,