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on hacking away at your toes with a razor and you’ll beg for a straitjacket.”
    “Well, you won’t know about it because your Thom McAn bunions are going to put you in a rocker for the rest of your life.”
    “Suit me fine.”
    “And me. Maybe then I could hire somebody who wouldn’t keep things from me. Sneak Postum into a good pot of coffee, saccharin in the lime pie. And don’t think I don’t know about the phony salt.”
    “Health is the most important thing at our age, Mr. Street.”
    “Not at all. It’s the least important. I have no intention of staying alive just so I can wake up and skip down the stairs to a cup of Postum in the morning. Look in the cabinet and get me a drop of medicine for this stuff.”
    “Cognac’s not medicine.” Sydney moved toward the sideboard and bent to open one of its doors.
    “At seventy everything’s medicine. Tell Ondine to quit it. It’s not doing a thing for me.”
    “Sure don’t help your disposition none.”
    “Exactly. Now. Very quietly and very quickly, tell me who this company is.”
    “No company, Mr. Street.”
    “Don’t antagonize an old man reduced to Postum.”
    “It’s your son. Michael’s not company.”
    Valerian put his cup carefully onto the saucer. “She told you that? That Michael was coming?”
    “No. Not exactly. But so Yardman would know what to look for she told me where the trunk was coming from and what color it was.”
    “Then it’s coming from California.”
    “It’s coming from California.”
    “And it’s red.”
    “And it’s red. Fire red.”
    “With ‘Dick Gregory for President’ stickers pasted on the sides.”
    “And a bull’s-eye painted on the lid.”
    “And a lock that only closes if you kick it, but opens with a hairpin and the key is…” Valerian stopped and looked up at Sydney. Sydney looked at Valerian. They said it together. “…at the top of Kilimanjaro.”
    “Some joke,” said Valerian.
    “Pretty good for a seven-year-old.”
    They were quiet for a while, Valerian chewing pineapple, Sydney leaning against the sideboard. Then Valerian said, “Why do you suppose he hangs on to it? A boy’s camp footlocker.”
    “Keep his clothes in.”
    “Foolish. All of it. The trunk, him and this visit. Besides, he won’t show.”
    “She thinks so this time.”
    “She’s not thinking. She’s dreaming, poor baby. Are you sure there was nothing between those towels?”
    “Here comes the lady. Ask her yourself.”
    A light clicking of heels on Mexican tile was getting louder.
    “When the boy goes to the airport,” whispered Valerian, “tell him to pick up some Maalox on the way back.” “Well,” he said to his wife, “what have we here? Wonder Woman?”
    “Please,” she said, “it’s too hot. Good morning, Sydney.”
    “Morning, Mrs. Street.”
    “Then what is that between your eyebrows?”
    “Frownies.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “Frownies.”
    Sydney walked around the table, tilted the pot and poured coffee soundlessly into her cup.
    “You have trouble frowning?” asked her husband.
    “Yes.”
    “And that helps?”
    “Supposed to.” She held the cup in front of her lips and closed her eyes. The steam floated into her face while she inhaled.
    “I am confused. Not senile, mind you. Just confused. Why would you want to frown?”
    Margaret took another breath of coffee steam and opened her eyes very slowly. She looked at her husband with the complete dislike of a natural late-sleeper for a cheerful early-riser.
    “I don’t want to frown. Frownies don’t make you frown. They erase the consequences of frowning.”
    Valerian opened his mouth but said nothing for a moment. Then: “But why don’t you just stop frowning? Then you won’t need to paste your face with little pieces of tape.”
    Margaret sipped more coffee and returned the cup to its saucer. Lifting the neckline of her dress away from her she blew gently into her bosom and looked at the pale wedges Sydney placed before her.