had held many pleasant moments; they did a lot of sitting on public beaches, counting their nickels and dimes for a boardwalk lunch somewhere, listening to Elvis Presley, the Everly Brothers and the Coasters, all very new and exciting at the time. Women found John immensely attractive and threw lures, but he ignored every overture. Whatever chewed at his core was shattering, subtle, sorrowful. That it had all to do with John’s dead mother they had gathered, but he never told them his whole story, and—at least while Millie was present—they never asked. Jim, she suspected, knew more.
The glowingly bright corner John Hall occupied in Millie’s mind went back to his astonishing and totally unsought generosity. When Jim’s facial sinuses literally threatened his life, John Hall went out and commissioned the finest sinus surgeon in L.A., and, without telling them, threw in a plastic surgeon for good measure. Ten thousand dollars of surgery later, Jim Hunter emerged a changed man. Not only could he breathe easily, not only was all threat of brain infection removed, but he had also lost all resemblance to a gorilla. He was pleasantly negroid, no longer even remotely apelike. And Jim had actually stomached the gift! Jim, who would accept charity from no one! Millie knew exactly why: easy breathing and safety from cerebral abscess were wonderful, but not even in the same league as losing the gorilla look.
When they went to the University of Chicago, John returned to Oregon. But he kept in touch, and when Jim sent him the postcard saying they were now faculty in the Chubb Department of Biochemistry, he sent a huge card he’d made himself, delighted that good fortune had smiled on them at last.
Then, out of the blue, he’d called them from the airport to say he was on his way to Holloman, and would they be up for a cup of coffee if he came around? Only last night! With all this torment on his mind, he’d talked of the old times, nothing but the old times, and feeling his eyes rest on her, Millie had given a shudder of fear. Not that too!
Millie jumped, so deep in her reverie that Davina’s voice came as a shock.
“To the table, everyone!”
With so few women, no surprise to find she occupied the middle slot on one side of the table with the pregnant doctor’s wife opposite her. Ivan was on Max’s side of her, Dr. Al Markoff on Davina’s side; Jim sat opposite her down one next to Davina, and Val sat on Muse Markoff’s other side. Not a remote table of several conversations; everyone was within good hearing distance. Millie winked at Jim, whom Davina was already monopolizing.
They had to go through that awful speech about the fatted calf, the pointed references to the absentee Tunbull wives—she was a monster! Some of the tendrils of her hair, thought a fascinated Millie, were stirring to form snakes—wasn’t that a head and a forked tongue in there? This woman speaks with a forked tongue!
The first course was Iranian caviar.
“Of course Russian would have been better,” said Davina, demonstrating how to eat it, “but this is still Caspian sturgeon of malossol variety. What silly rules a cold war causes! No Russian caviar. No Cuban cigars. Silly!”
Iranian caviar is good enough for me, thought Millie as she piled a toast finger high and tamped everything down with sour cream; minced egg and minced onion had an annoying habit of tumbling off, and she wasn’t about to waste one of those tiny, heavenly black blobs.
“I’ve died of sheer bliss,” she said to Muse Markoff.
“Isn’t she amazing?” Muse asked as the plates were whisked away. “Even to having Uda, the perfect housekeeper. Things sure have changed in the Tunbull zoo since Max married Davina.”
“Muse! How did you get that name?” Millie asked.
“A father steeped in the Classics. He was an associate professor at Chubb, poor baby. Sideways promotion. Once an associate, never a full.”
“And how have things changed for the Tunbulls, Muse?”
“This passion for Max’s Russian roots. I always thought they were Polish roots, but Davina says they’re Russian.”
“Just as well the McCarthy era is over.”
Muse winced, patted her huge tummy. “That was rich for a first course. I hope I last—my liver doesn’t like rich food. D’you think the roast veal will be terribly fatty? The way Davina spoke, I see it kind of swimming in fat.”
“No, no fat,” said Millie, smiling. “‘Fatted calf’ is a stock phrase, like—um—‘lean pickings.’ Roast veal isn’t at all fatty, I promise.”
Nor was it. The veal was plain but perfectly cooked, very thin slices of pinkish meat with a gravy rather than a sauce, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, thin and stringless green beans. Muse, Millie noted, ate with enjoyment, and made no complaints about her sensitive liver.
When Millie overheard Max and John talking about Martita, more of the puzzle fell into place. From her own little speech, Davina must have worked feverishly to disprove John’s story—what was the ring reference all about? So even through their phone conversations, Max must have kept to legal matters, Davina probably literally breathing down his neck. Those two poor men are not going to have an easy time of it …
A glance at Davina revealed a head of living snakes. If she caught their eyes, she’d turn them to stone.
What was with this Emily, the persecutor of John’s mother? Absent because she’d grown off in her own direction rather than because she had offended. Though so many years would soften anything, and she was Val’s wife, Ivan’s mother. Ivan … How did he feel, seeing his share of the family business steadily depleting? Though John had said last night that he had no wish or intention to be a part of the Tunbull business. Maybe the Tunbulls had no idea as yet how rich John was, how little he need depend on anyone after Wendover Hall dowered him. It seemed one of Davina’s ways of amusing herself was to snipe at Ivan—look at her crack about his wife.
Oh, John, John, I feel so sorry for you! Millie cried to herself as the cake came in.
“Uda made this with her own hands!” Davina fluted, the snakes writhing. “Each layer of cake is no more than five millimetres thick, and the butter cream is also five millimetres thick, flavored by Grand Marnier. The top is sugar-and-water boiled to crisp, transparent amber glass. And the entire cake is for the many years John has been away, while the glassy top, which must be broken before the past can be eaten, is tonight. Eat up, my friends, eat up!”
“A minute, Vina, give me a minute first!” Max shouted, surging to his feet. “First of all, I want you to lift your glasses to Dr. Jim Hunter, whose book on nucleic acids and their possible philosophical meaning is shortly to be published by the Chubb University Press, whose printers we have been for over twenty years. Head Scholar Carter assures me that it’s going to be a popular best seller. To Dr. Jim Hunter and his amazing, thought-provoking book, A Helical God!”
Good old Max, thought Millie, letting the most divine cake she had ever tasted dissolve gradually on her tongue. He could not resist showing Jim off for John’s benefit, always assuming that he had no idea we knew each other in the old days. And why would he know that? John’s advent is a shock.
Then the worst fate of all struck Millie; she was herded to the drawing room with Muse Markoff and expected to have coffee apart from the men, all gone to Max’s den. Not fair! What can I talk about, for God’s sake? They wouldn’t know a benzene ring from a curtain ring or an hydroxyl ion from a steam iron!
Luckily Davina and Muse, living across the street from each other, had plenty to talk about; Millie sat back and sipped much better coffee than she was used to, stomach pleasantly full and most of her spare blood supply more concerned with digestion than deep thoughts. Her eyelids drooped; no one noticed.
The door flew open upon a white-faced Max.
“Muse, Al needs his medical bag urgently,” he said.
Good wife, she was gone in under a second for the front door, the tiny maid Uda running at her elbow to steady her.
“What is it?” Davina faltered, all resemblance to Medusa vanished.