The Ghost at the Table by Suzanne Berne

Author:Suzanne Berne
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2006-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Three

Frances was fretting over the striped gourds I’d bought for too much money at the supermarket. They did not make a festive enough centerpiece, arranged in a wide milky green glass bowl, even when she added miniature ears of Indian corn and walnuts, chestnuts and filberts, heaping the nuts plentifully. Something was missing. The gourds looked measly. She should have asked for bunches of russet and gold chrysanthemums or some pepperberry branches. Or clementines and pears for a fruit pyramid. But when I offered to go out again, Frances said not to bother, even though she’d also forgotten to ask me to buy Wondra for making gravy and would have to use flour tomorrow instead, which meant lumps. And she couldn’t find the bag of fresh cranberries she was sure she’d bought, so now we’d have only the canned cranberry sauce. But it was after four, and the roads would be getting icy.

“And, anyway, I’ll just forget something else,” she added, smiling regretfully.

Jane and Wen-Yi Cheng were in the dining room for their tutoring session, murmuring over equations. Rather, Wen-Yi could be heard murmuring. Jane was silent.

“Did you two have a nice chat last night?” Frances asked, coming away from listening at the door. “Before you went to bed?”

“I had a headache.”

Frances looked relieved. “You’ve always been her favorite aunt, you know.”

“Well, she doesn’t have any others,” I said disagreeably.

“If she does want to talk to you. You don’t have to tell me about it. Whatever she says.”

“You’d just like me to give you a hint.”

“No.” Frances looked at me. “I’d just like to know that she’s talking to someone.”

I pretended to stare out the window at the snow. Our father was once again napping. Walter had said he would pick up Sarah and her friend from the Route 128 train station at five, which meant they would get stuck in rush-hour traffic. There was so much to do, Frances kept saying, turning a gourd over and over in her hands.

“And those Egyptians,” she said finally with a little laugh. “How could Walter have invited a bunch of Egyptians to dinner? What was he thinking?”

As I watched Frances arrange and rearrange the striped gourds in the glass bowl, I wondered if she had any idea what Walter did or thought about all day. She seemed resigned to having no clue about what Jane had on her mind, or certainly what was going on with Sarah.

“Damn,” said Frances dropping several gourds onto the floor.

As she bent to pick them up, I noticed again that her hands were shaking.

“Have you gone to see anybody,” I asked, “about your hands?”

She glanced at me. “I told you, I’m just cold.”

“Turn up the heat then.”

“This is an old house.” One by one, Frances put the gourds back into the bowl. “It’s drafty. And it would cost a mint to keep the heat above sixty all day. Walter thinks I’m being stingy, but I really don’t mind the cold. It’s sort of like eating what’s in season.

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