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.'
"All right, Tom, what does Eunice want us to do? Stand here crying? I see tears in your eyes; I'm not the only one crying. Would Eunice have us spoil a picnic?"
"Uh—She'd say, ‘Sit down and eat.'
"That she would!" Shorty agreed. "Eunice would say, ‘Don't let hot things get cold and cold things get hot—eat!"
"Yes," agreed Joan Eunice, sitting down, "as Eunice was never a spoilsport in all her short and beautiful life and wouldn't let anyone else be. Especially me, when I was cranky. Reach me a drumstick, Fred—no, don't pass it."
Joan took a bite of chicken. (Twin, what Shorty said sounded like a quotation.) (It was, Boss.) (Then you've eaten with him before.) (With all of them. When a team drove me late at night, I always invited them in for a bite. Joe never minded, he liked them all. Shorty he was especially glad to see; he wanted Shorty to model for him. At first Shorty thought Joe was making fun of him—didn't know that Joe rarely joked and never about painting. They never got to it, though, as Shorty is shy—wasn't sure it was all right to pose naked and scared that I might show up while he was posing. Not that I would have.) (Not even once, little imp? Shorty is a beautiful tower of ebony.) (Boss, I keep telling you—) (—that nudity doesn't mean anything to your generation. Depends on the skin, doesn't it? I would enjoy seeing our black giant—and that goes for Johann as well as for Joan.) (Well—) (Take your time thinking up a fib; I've got to make conversation.) "Tom, do you have those mustard pickles staked out, or may I have some? Shorty, you sounded as if you had sampled Eunice's cooking. Could she cook?"
Finchley answered, "You bet she could!"
"Real cooking? Anybody can flash a prepack—and that's what kids nowadays seem to think is cooking." (Boss, I'll spit in your soup!) "But what could she have done faced with flour and lard and baking powder and such?"
"Eunice would have done just fine," Shorty said quietly. "True, she mostly never had time for real cooking—but when she did—or whatever she done, anyways—she done just perfect."
(My fan! Boss—give him a raise.) (No.) (Stingy.) (No, Eunice. Shorty killed the vermin who killed you. I want to do something for him. But it can't be money; he would not accept it.)
"She was an artist," agreed Fred.
"You mean ‘artist' in the general sense. Her husband was, I recall, an artist in the usual sense. A painter. Is he a good one? I've never seen any of his work. Do any of you know?"
Finchley said, "I guess that's, a matter of opinion, Miss Smith. I like Joe Branca's paintings—but I don't know anything about art; I just know what I like. But—" He grinned. "Can I tell on you, Shorty?"
"Aw, Tom!"
"You were flattered, you know you were. Miss Smith, Joe Branca wanted to paint that big ape on your right."
(Bingo.') (Trouble, Eunice?) "And did he, Shorty?"
"Well, no. But he did ask me. He did." (Don't you see, Boss? This is that clincher. A fact you first learned from me and nowhere else... and then had confirmed to the hilt. Now you know I'm me.) (Oh, piffle, darling.) (But Boss—) (I've known you were you all along, beloved. But this isn't proof. Once I knew that Joe and Shorty had met, it was a logical necessity that Joe would want him to model—any artist would want to paint him.)