If Death Ever Slept

It was uneven, five women and six men, and I was put between Lois and Roger Foote. There were several features deserving comment. The stenographer not only ate with the family, she sat next to Jarrell. The housekeeper, Mrs. Latham, helped serve. I had always thought a housekeeper was above it. Roger Foote, who had had enough to drink, ate like a truck driver-no, cut that-like a panhandler. The talk was spotty, mostly neighbor-to-neighbor, except when Corey Brigham sounded off about the Eisenhower budget. The leg of lamb was first-rate, not up to Fritz’s, but good. I noticed Trella noticing me the second time around. The salad was soggy. I’m not an expert on wine, but I doubted if it deserved the remarks it got from Herman Dietz.

As we were passing through the Moorish arch-half-Moorish, anyway-to return to the lounge for coffee, Trella asked me if I played bridge, and Jarrell heard her.

“Not tonight,” he said. “I need him. I won’t be here tomorrow. You’ve got enough.”

“Not without Nora. You know Susan doesn’t play.”

“I don’t need Nora. You can have her.”

If Susan had played, and if I could have swung it to be at her table, I would have been sorry to miss it. Perhaps you don’t know all there is to know about a woman after watching her at an evening of bridge, but you should know more than when you sat down. By the time we were through with coffee they had chosen partners and Steck had the tables ready. I had wondered if Susan would go off to her pit, but apparently not. When Jarrell and I left she was out on the terrace.

He led the way through the reception hall, across a Kirman twice as big as my room at home-I have a Kirman there, paid for by me, 8’4” x 3’2”-down the corridor, and around a couple of corners, to the door of the library. Taking a key fold from a pocket, he selected one, used it, and pushed the door open; and light came at us, so sudden and so strong that it made me blink. I may also have jumped.