Eloise lunged suddenly to her feet. “Gimme your glass,” she said.
“No, really, El. I’m supposed to be in Larchmont. I mean Mr. Weyinburg’s so sweet, I hate to—”
“Call up and say you were killed. Let go of that damn glass.”
“No, honestly, El. I mean it’s getting so terribly icy. I have hardly any anti-freeze in the car. I mean if I don’t—”
“Let it freeze. Go phone. Say you’re dead,” said Eloise. “Gimme that.”
“Well … Where’s the phone?”
“It went,” said Eloise, carrying the empty glasses and walking toward the dining room, “—this-a-way.” She stopped short on the floor board between the living room and the dining room and executed a grind and a bump. Mary Jane giggled.
“I mean you didn’t really know Walt,” said Eloise at a quarter of five, lying on her back on the floor, a drink balanced upright on her small-breasted chest. “He was the only boy I ever knew that could make me laugh. I mean really laugh.” She looked over at Mary Jane. “You remember that night—our last year—when that crazy Louise Hermanson busted in the room wearing that black brassiere she bought in Chicago?”
Mary Jane giggled. She was lying on her stomach on the couch, her chin on the armrest, facing Eloise. Her drink was on the floor, within reach.
“Well, he could make me laugh that way,” Eloise said. “He could do it when he talked to me. He could do it over the phone. He could even do it in a letter. And the best thing about it was that he didn’t even try to be funny—he just was funny.” She turned her head slightly toward Mary Jane. “Hey, how ‘bout throwing me a cigarette?”