Mary Jane carried a cigarette over to Eloise. “Isn’t that something? About Jimmy? What an imagination!”
“Mm. You go get the drinks, huh? And bring the bottle … I don’t wanna go out there. The whole damn place smells like orange juice.”
At five minutes past seven, the phone rang. Eloise got up from the window seat and felt in the dark for her shoes. She couldn’t find them. In her stocking feet, she walked steadily, almost languidly, toward the phone. The ringing didn’t disturb Mary Jane, who was asleep on the couch, face down.
“Hello,” Eloise said into the phone, without having turned the overhead light on. “Look, I can’t meet you. Mary Jane’s here. She’s got her car parked right in front of me and she can’t find the key. I can’t get out. We spent about twenty minutes looking for it in the wuddayacallit—the snow and stuff. Maybe you can get a lift with Dick and Mildred.” She listened. “Oh. Well, that’s tough, kid. Why don’t you boys form a platoon and march home? You can say that but-hopehoop-hoop business. You can be the big shot.” She listened again. “I’m not funny,” she said. “Really, I’m not. It’s just my face.” She hung up.
She walked, less steadily, back into the living room. At the window seat, she poured what was left in the bottle of Scotch into her glass. It made about a finger. She drank it off, shivered, and sat down.
When Grace turned on the light in the dining room, Eloise jumped. Without getting up, she called in to Grace, “You better not serve until eight, Grace. Mr. Wengler’ll be a little late.”
Grace appeared in the dining-room light but didn’t come forward. “The lady go?” she said.
“She’s resting.”
“Oh,” said Grace. “Miz Wengler, I wondered if it’d be all right if my husband passed the evenin’ here. I got plentya room in my room, and he don’t have to be back in New York till tomorrow mornin’, and it’s so bad out.”
“Your husband? Where is he?”