“Just leave me alone!”
Mrs. Sturgis’ eager step was approaching, and in a moment she presented at the doorway a face reddened from the heat of the stove, and moist with perspiration.
“Dinner’s ready, dearie,” she announced. “Won’t you come this way, Mr. Beardsley? We use our bedrooms for a passage-way, although the hall outside, I suppose, is really better, but, you see, it’s much more convenient....”
Jeannette motioned him to precede her, and followed, holding on by the furniture as she made her way. Her mother was in the kitchen and Alice’s back was turned as in anguish she got into her chair.
Dinner was endless. The soup had curdled; the potatoes were scant; the salt-cellar in front of Roy had a greenish mold about its top; Roy, himself, kept fiddling with his silverware,—rattling knife and fork, and fork and spoon; her mother and sister had never, in Jeannette’s opinion, jumped up from the table so incessantly for errands to kitchen or sideboard. The pain in her back every now and then became excruciating. She sat through the dragging meal with a set smile upon her lips, turning her head with assumed brightness from face to face as each one spoke. Her mother did most of the talking, keeping up a continual flow of chatter to fill the silences. Alice rarely volunteered an observation when there was company, and Jeannette’s misery made her dumb. Mrs. Sturgis rose to the occasion and supplied conversation for all three. Jeannette, watching Roy’s face, resented his polite show of interest. Her mother had what her daughters described as a “company” manner. When it was upon her she interrupted herself every little while with nervous giggles and to-day, Jeannette decided, she had never indulged in them so often. She was eloquent during the meal with reminiscences of her childhood’s escapades and early cuteness, and Jeannette watched the animated face with its jogging, pendent cheeks in an agony of spirit that matched her physical misery.
“... Nettie,—we always called Janny, ‘Nettie,’ when she was little,—was only six then, and she was awfully pretty and cute. We were having dinner at a restaurant downtown,—her papa had a friend to entertain. Allie....? I don’t remember where Allie was....”; Mrs. Sturgis gazed in sudden perplexity at her younger daughter. “I guess you were at home with Nora, lovie.... At any rate, we were at this restaurant and a waiter was serving us nicely, and nobody was paying any attention, when all of a sudden Nettie says loud and pertly to the waiter: ‘Now that you’re up, will you please get me a glass of milk?’” Mrs. Sturgis shut her eyes and laughed until her little round cheeks shook. “Imagine,” she finished, “‘Now that you’re up!’ ... To the waiter!” She went off into gales of mirth.
Roy laughed too, a thin, polite laugh, without a trace of spontaneity. Jeannette hated him. She hated her sister, too, for her smug complacency. Alice sat there encouraging her mother with responsive twitterings every time Mrs. Sturgis threw her head back to chuckle. Jeannette felt she was suffocating; the pain dug itself steadily and cruelly into the small of her back; she could not draw one adequate breath.
The platter and remains of the hacked and dismembered chicken, and the soiled dishes eventually were removed; Alice brushed the table-cloth with a folded napkin, sweeping crumbs and litter, ineffectually, as Jeannette noted in utter desolation, into the palm of her hand, carrying the refuse handful by handful to the kitchen, until the operation was complete. The ice cream was borne in, in mushy disintegration, and her mother commented on its melted condition and the various responsible reasons, until the girl thought she would scream in protest.
She could not eat; she could not drink; lifting her hand to her lips was misery. Roy’s solicitous glance was more and more intently fixed upon her; Alice, also, was beginning to send concerned looks in her direction. She felt her strength rapidly ebbing from her. She could endure but little more—but little, little more. Her will power was deserting her, resolution forsaking her, she felt it going—going; it was slipping away ... she was going to fall! ... Ah, she WAS falling....!
“Janny, dearie!” Her mother’s alarmed cry faintly reached her dimming consciousness.