“Go gargle,” she said, and she added, “Mercy! The beans!”
Nora stood, regarded her parents balefully, and left the room. From upstairs, shortly, came a sound suggesting bad drains, excepting for the fact that, to an acute listener, it would have become evident that the burbling monody was trying to be a song. This was the case: Nora was gargling, “Aloha Ohe.”
The front door opened again and Chuck came to the kitchen, his arms heavy with packages. “Unload me, somebody,” he cried. “Boy! What a day! Downtown, it’s like a Cecil B. de Mille mob scene. So many people, you’d think they were giving everything away, not selling it.”
“Be worse, tomorrow,” Henry said, helping his son. “Shop early, they tell you. Serves me right.”
Unloaded, still coated, Chuck heard the sound from above. “What’s that?” He identified the theme and went to the foot of the stairs to add a falsetto alto.
The bathroom door slammed—all but shattered.
2
It was a beautiful morning—and that was the hell of it.
So Nora thought when she opened her eyes.
She dressed lugubriously. Lugubriously, she went downstairs for breakfast. Ted was there. Charles was still asleep. Her father was downtown doing a few “last-minute” things, Beth said.