the teen-agers’, and then stood with his back to the fireplace, raising his own aloft. A hush fell over the company and white-haired, plump little Geraldine rooted about in the large pocket of her black taffeta dress for a handkerchief.
“To Dad and Mother,” Thornton said, “to Gran’pa and Gran’ma! To many, many more of these wonderful anniversaries, with many, many more of our little ones big enough to come and in due time—who knows?—with the little ones of their little ones as well!”
Cindy sighed.
Hulda stacked dessert plates with that vicious clash which only angry china can produce.
Hat whispered, “Maybe sometime, Aunt Gwen can make it from Wyoming, with Uncle Howie, and their five kids.”
Old Gerald, normally a fairly hard-headed citizen, swallowed hard over Thorn’s words and touched his wife’s shoulder uncertainly. As the applause following the toast died away, he began to pick his way aimlessly through the children seated on the carpet, his legs rising and descending stiffly in a roosterish strut.
Cindy’s and Thorn’s sons, Thorn Junior and Fred, being twenty and twenty-one and therefore envied by all the small fry for being old, now beckoned to Hat and put a long-playing dance record on the phonograph. Their younger cousins promptly hurled themselves at the television set at the other end of the room, their elders settled down to typical adult lamentations about prices and politics, and the success of the party was assured. For a full hour no untoward incident occurred, no unscheduled event took place.
Then the telephone bell rang.
Even above the voices and laughter and music, the sound from the entrance hall just off the living room was clear and commanding. Everybody looked toward it and as the omnipresent Hulda reached the instrument, Hat turned the volume knob on the phonograph a little to the left.
“For you, Mr. Gregory,” Hulda announced, shouting needlessly since, like the phonograph, the entire room had diminished its output of sound.
“Me?” Gregory looked up. “Are you sure? Nobody knows I’m here.”
Hulda consulted the phone once more.
“Says Mr. or Mrs. Gregory Johns,” she yelled. She shrugged and departed massively for the kitchen, leaving the phone open and imperious.
“It’s for you, Gregory,” Thorn said.
Gregory rose. An almost full silence, broken only by younger and more innocent voices, now fell upon the room. Hat turned the volume knob, further until it clicked. Three adults put down their drinks, two others raised theirs, somebody lighted a cigarette, and somebody else rubbed one out. Old Mr. Johns consulted his gold pocket watch and, as if the lateness of the hour made the telephone call more threatening, moved hack across the room to stand close to his wife.
“Hello,” said Gregory to the telephone. “Yes, who is—oh, hello. ” A moment later he said, “Telegram?” and then did nothing but listen. In this he was not alone.
Visible to everybody, Gregory Johns kept a tight clutch on the instrument but everything else about him seemed to sag. His mouth was open, his head hung forward, and behind his glasses, his eyes looked stunned,
“He looks sick,” young Thorn said.
Abby thought so too and went out to him. “Gregory,” she said. He gave no sign that he had heard; she touched his arm.
He started, turned, and the sight of her brought a look of immeasurable relief to his face. “Wait a minute,” he told the phone, and to Abby he said, “It’s Jake Zatke. There was a telegram and I told him to open it.”
Abby took the telephone from him. “Hello, Jake,” she said.
“Here’s a pencil,” said Thorn, who had followed her out.
“And some paper,” added Cindy just behind him. She reached around Abby’s hips, sliding a pad marked Telephone Messages into her line of vision, and then straightened up, breathing on Abby’s neck. By now several other members of the family were breathing on Cindy’s.
Abby made no move to
“To Dad and Mother,” Thornton said, “to Gran’pa and Gran’ma! To many, many more of these wonderful anniversaries, with many, many more of our little ones big enough to come and in due time—who knows?—with the little ones of their little ones as well!”
Cindy sighed.
Hulda stacked dessert plates with that vicious clash which only angry china can produce.
Hat whispered, “Maybe sometime, Aunt Gwen can make it from Wyoming, with Uncle Howie, and their five kids.”
Old Gerald, normally a fairly hard-headed citizen, swallowed hard over Thorn’s words and touched his wife’s shoulder uncertainly. As the applause following the toast died away, he began to pick his way aimlessly through the children seated on the carpet, his legs rising and descending stiffly in a roosterish strut.
Cindy’s and Thorn’s sons, Thorn Junior and Fred, being twenty and twenty-one and therefore envied by all the small fry for being old, now beckoned to Hat and put a long-playing dance record on the phonograph. Their younger cousins promptly hurled themselves at the television set at the other end of the room, their elders settled down to typical adult lamentations about prices and politics, and the success of the party was assured. For a full hour no untoward incident occurred, no unscheduled event took place.
Then the telephone bell rang.
Even above the voices and laughter and music, the sound from the entrance hall just off the living room was clear and commanding. Everybody looked toward it and as the omnipresent Hulda reached the instrument, Hat turned the volume knob on the phonograph a little to the left.
“For you, Mr. Gregory,” Hulda announced, shouting needlessly since, like the phonograph, the entire room had diminished its output of sound.
“Me?” Gregory looked up. “Are you sure? Nobody knows I’m here.”
Hulda consulted the phone once more.
“Says Mr. or Mrs. Gregory Johns,” she yelled. She shrugged and departed massively for the kitchen, leaving the phone open and imperious.
“It’s for you, Gregory,” Thorn said.
Gregory rose. An almost full silence, broken only by younger and more innocent voices, now fell upon the room. Hat turned the volume knob, further until it clicked. Three adults put down their drinks, two others raised theirs, somebody lighted a cigarette, and somebody else rubbed one out. Old Mr. Johns consulted his gold pocket watch and, as if the lateness of the hour made the telephone call more threatening, moved hack across the room to stand close to his wife.
“Hello,” said Gregory to the telephone. “Yes, who is—oh, hello. ” A moment later he said, “Telegram?” and then did nothing but listen. In this he was not alone.
Visible to everybody, Gregory Johns kept a tight clutch on the instrument but everything else about him seemed to sag. His mouth was open, his head hung forward, and behind his glasses, his eyes looked stunned,
“He looks sick,” young Thorn said.
Abby thought so too and went out to him. “Gregory,” she said. He gave no sign that he had heard; she touched his arm.
He started, turned, and the sight of her brought a look of immeasurable relief to his face. “Wait a minute,” he told the phone, and to Abby he said, “It’s Jake Zatke. There was a telegram and I told him to open it.”
Abby took the telephone from him. “Hello, Jake,” she said.
“Here’s a pencil,” said Thorn, who had followed her out.
“And some paper,” added Cindy just behind him. She reached around Abby’s hips, sliding a pad marked Telephone Messages into her line of vision, and then straightened up, breathing on Abby’s neck. By now several other members of the family were breathing on Cindy’s.
Abby made no move to
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