me started… Julie says acquiring stock is one of the major problems."
"Darling, I think it's a marvelous idea. Of course you can do it."
"Just don't set up shop in the parlor," Pat said. "It isn't zoned commercial."
"You know I wouldn't do that."
"You have no sense of humor, damn it. Go ahead, become a seller of rags and bones; judging from what I see in shop windows, some people will buy anything. Go see my mother. Maybe you can talk her into cleaning out
her
attic."
"I intend to call her, of course-but not for that."
"Why not for that? I've been trying to get her to move out of that mausoleum on R Street for years. She says she can't because none of the retirement homes will let her take that damned dog--Hey," Pat said brightly.
"Oh, no," Karen exclaimed. "Oh no, you don't, Pat."
"Why not? It's a great idea. A dog would be protection for you."
"Not that dog. It bites everybody who walks in the house."
"That's what a guard dog is supposed to do."
"It bit
me
last time I visited your mother."
"You can train it not to do that."
"How?"
"Club, cattle prod? God, that is really a terrific idea. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it before. I'll call the old girl right now. Come on, Ruth, you've been on the phone long enough, everything is fine, right? Good night, Karen."
The phone went dead, cutting off Ruth's halfhearted protest.
If she had had the telephone number of the friends with whom Pat and Ruth were staying, Karen would have called back. Ordinarily her uncle's antics filled her with a blend of amusement and outrage. Tonight she was not amused. If she knew Pat-and she did-he would be carrying out his threat this very moment, explaining his brilliant scheme to his mother in an enthusiastic bellow. Karen could have killed him. She didn't want a dog. She particularly didn't want Mrs. MacDougal's dog.
She got into bed and turned out the light, still fuming, but after a time she realized she was probably getting upset about nothing. Mrs. MacDougal would yell right back at Pat. She wouldn't give up her home, filled with a seventy-year accumulation of memories and bric-a-brac, for the sterile safety of a nursing home. Not Mrs. Mac. At ninety-three she had more zest for living in her little finger than some people of twenty-seven going on twenty-nine had in their whole bodies.
A board creaked in the hall. The wind was rising; a leafy branch brushed the windowpane with an eerie rustle. A white lingerie dress flung over the back of a chair shimmered dimly in the darkness, limp as a swooning Victorian maiden.
A hundred and fifty. There were at least six petticoats in the box, the same number of nightgowns. Say a hundred dollars average on the petticoats… A hundred times six, plus six times fifty-perhaps seventy-five…
Karen had fully intended to indulge in the long-awaited fit of weeping, but she was so busy adding and multiplying she fell asleep before she had shed a single tear.
CHAPTER TWO
THE
ringing of the telephone was a vulgar intrusion into the blissful vacuum of sleep. Karen opened her eyes. Rain whispered at the window, and the room was gray with shadows. The illuminated dial of the clock read six-thirty.
The phone went on ringing. Karen squinted unbelievingly at the clock and pulled the sheet over her head. The thin fabric did nothing to mute the sound; putting her fingers in her ears didn't help much either. Who on earth would have the nerve to call at this hour? Pat? He was on his way to Borneo by now. Julie? She never got up at six-thirty. In fact, there was only one person she knew who rose at that unearthly hour.
"Damn," Karen said. She took her fingers out of her ears and reached for the phone. She knew it would go on ringing until she answered.
"Hello?" she croaked.
Julie and Mrs. MacDougal had only one thing in common: their reluctance to waste time on meaningless amenities. "I hear you're going into business," Mrs. Mac said brightly.
"Not right this minute," Karen muttered.
"What?
"Darling, I think it's a marvelous idea. Of course you can do it."
"Just don't set up shop in the parlor," Pat said. "It isn't zoned commercial."
"You know I wouldn't do that."
"You have no sense of humor, damn it. Go ahead, become a seller of rags and bones; judging from what I see in shop windows, some people will buy anything. Go see my mother. Maybe you can talk her into cleaning out
her
attic."
"I intend to call her, of course-but not for that."
"Why not for that? I've been trying to get her to move out of that mausoleum on R Street for years. She says she can't because none of the retirement homes will let her take that damned dog--Hey," Pat said brightly.
"Oh, no," Karen exclaimed. "Oh no, you don't, Pat."
"Why not? It's a great idea. A dog would be protection for you."
"Not that dog. It bites everybody who walks in the house."
"That's what a guard dog is supposed to do."
"It bit
me
last time I visited your mother."
"You can train it not to do that."
"How?"
"Club, cattle prod? God, that is really a terrific idea. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it before. I'll call the old girl right now. Come on, Ruth, you've been on the phone long enough, everything is fine, right? Good night, Karen."
The phone went dead, cutting off Ruth's halfhearted protest.
If she had had the telephone number of the friends with whom Pat and Ruth were staying, Karen would have called back. Ordinarily her uncle's antics filled her with a blend of amusement and outrage. Tonight she was not amused. If she knew Pat-and she did-he would be carrying out his threat this very moment, explaining his brilliant scheme to his mother in an enthusiastic bellow. Karen could have killed him. She didn't want a dog. She particularly didn't want Mrs. MacDougal's dog.
She got into bed and turned out the light, still fuming, but after a time she realized she was probably getting upset about nothing. Mrs. MacDougal would yell right back at Pat. She wouldn't give up her home, filled with a seventy-year accumulation of memories and bric-a-brac, for the sterile safety of a nursing home. Not Mrs. Mac. At ninety-three she had more zest for living in her little finger than some people of twenty-seven going on twenty-nine had in their whole bodies.
A board creaked in the hall. The wind was rising; a leafy branch brushed the windowpane with an eerie rustle. A white lingerie dress flung over the back of a chair shimmered dimly in the darkness, limp as a swooning Victorian maiden.
A hundred and fifty. There were at least six petticoats in the box, the same number of nightgowns. Say a hundred dollars average on the petticoats… A hundred times six, plus six times fifty-perhaps seventy-five…
Karen had fully intended to indulge in the long-awaited fit of weeping, but she was so busy adding and multiplying she fell asleep before she had shed a single tear.
CHAPTER TWO
THE
ringing of the telephone was a vulgar intrusion into the blissful vacuum of sleep. Karen opened her eyes. Rain whispered at the window, and the room was gray with shadows. The illuminated dial of the clock read six-thirty.
The phone went on ringing. Karen squinted unbelievingly at the clock and pulled the sheet over her head. The thin fabric did nothing to mute the sound; putting her fingers in her ears didn't help much either. Who on earth would have the nerve to call at this hour? Pat? He was on his way to Borneo by now. Julie? She never got up at six-thirty. In fact, there was only one person she knew who rose at that unearthly hour.
"Damn," Karen said. She took her fingers out of her ears and reached for the phone. She knew it would go on ringing until she answered.
"Hello?" she croaked.
Julie and Mrs. MacDougal had only one thing in common: their reluctance to waste time on meaningless amenities. "I hear you're going into business," Mrs. Mac said brightly.
"Not right this minute," Karen muttered.
"What?
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