Joan Eunice trotted back toward the car, stopped dead when she saw that Shorty was laying the car’s folding table—with one place setting. “What’s that?”
“Your lunch, Miss.”
“A picnic? On a table? Do you want to starve the ants? It should be on the ground.”
Shorty looked unhappy. “If you say, Miss.” (Joan! You’re not wearing panties. If you loll on the ground, you’ll shock Shorty—and interest the others.) (Spoilsport. Oh, all right.)
“Since it’s set up, Shorty, leave it that way. But set three more places.”
“Oh, we eat in the car, Miss—we often do.”
She stomped her foot. “Shorty, if you make me eat alone, I’ll make you walk home. Whose idea was this? Finchley’s? Finchley! Come here!”
A few moments later all four sat down at the table. It was crowded as Joan had insisted that everything be placed on it at once—”Just reach,” she explained. “Or starve. Is there a strong man here who can open that wine bottle?”
The dexterity with which Shorty opened it caused her to suspect that he had not always been a teetotaler. She filled her glass and Fred’s, then reached for Finchley’s. He said, “Please, Miss Smith—I’m driving,” and put his hand over it.
“Give it to me,” she answered, “for four drops. For a toast. And four drops for you, Shorty, for the same purpose.” She put about a quarter of an inch in each of their glasses. “But first—Shorty, will you say grace?”
The big man looked startled, at once regained his composure. “Miss Smith, I’d be pleased.” He bowed his head; (Boss! What’s eating you?) (Pipe down! Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Oh! Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum.) (Om Mani Padme Hum )
“Amen.”
“Amen!”
(Om Mani Padme Hum. Amen.)
“Amen. Thank you, Shorty. Now for a toast—which is a sort of a prayer, too. We’ll all drink it, so it must be to someone who isn’t here . . . but should be.” (Boss! You must stop this—it’s morbid.) (Mind your own business!)
“Will one of you propose it?”
Finchley and Shorty looked at each other—looked away. Joan caught Fred’s eye. “Fred?”
“Uh—Miss, I don’t know how!” He seemed upset.
“You stand up”—Joan stood, the others followed—“and say whatever you like about someone who isn’t here but would be welcome. Anyone we all like. You name the person to be honored.” She raised her glass, realized her tears were starting. (Eunice! Are you crying? Or am I? I never used to cry!) (Then don’t get me started, Boss—I told you I was a sentimental slob.)
Fred said uncertainly, “A toast to . . . someone we all like . . . and who should be here. And still is!” He suddenly looked frightened.
“Amen,” Shorty said in sonorous baritone. “ ‘And still is.’ Because Heaven is as close as you’ll let it be. That’s what I tell my people, Fred. . . and in your heart you know I’m right.” He poured down, solemnly and carefully, the symbolic teaspoonful of wine in his glass; they all drank.
Joan said quietly, “Thank you, Fred. She heard you. She heard you too, Shorty. She hears me now.” (Boss! You’ve got them upset—and yourself, too. Tell them to sit down. And eat. Tell ‘em I said to! You’ve ruined a perfectly good picnic.) (No, I haven’t.) “Finchley. You knew her well. Probably better than I did. . . for I was a cranky old man and she catered to my illness. What would she want us to do now?”
“What would. . . Mrs. Branca?…want us to do?”
“Yes. Did you call her ‘Mrs. Branca’? Or ‘Eunice’?”
(They called me ‘Eunice,’ Boss—and after the first week I kissed them hello and good-bye and thanked them for taking care of me. Even if Jake could see. He just pretended not to notice.) (Busybody. You’re a sweet girl, beloved. Anything more than kiss them?) (Heavens, Boss! Even getting them to accept a kiss in place of the tips they wouldn’t take took doing.) (I’ll bet!—on you, that is—sister tart.) (Knocked-up broad.)
“Uh, I called her ‘Mrs. Branca’ at first. Then she called me ‘Tom’ and I called her ‘Eunice.’