“I’ve already been to town,” I said, and settled back against the cushioned bench in the booth, too weary to talk.
“Go on,” Bertha said. “Use that brain of yours, Donald. Think things out for Bertha.”
I shook my head and said, “I’m tired. I don’t want to think, and I don’t want to talk.”
“Food will make you feel better,” Bertha said.
The waiter came, and Bertha ordered a double cream of tomato soup, a kidney potpie, a salad, and coffee with a pitcher of whipping cream on the side, hot rolls and butter, and then said, with a jerk of her head towards me, “Bring him the same. The food’ll do him good.”
I gathered up enough energy to protest to the waiter. “A pot of black coffee,” I said, “and a baked ham sandwich, and that’s all.”
“Oh, no, lover,” Bertha said solicitously. “You need some food. You need something to make energy.”
I shook my head.
“Something with sugar in it,” Bertha said. “Sugar makes for energy. Some old-fashioned strawberry shortcake, Donald, with lots of whipped cream, some French pastry, some—”
I shook my head again, and Bertha gave up with a sigh. “No wonder you’re such a skinny runt,” she said, and then to the waiter: “All right. Let him have his own way.”