The Dinner Party Read Online Free

cheese, and a cup of coffee.”

FOUR
    R ichard Cromwell, already at the breakfast table on the terrace, hunkered over a plate of six small sausages and three eggs, the eggs fried sunny-side up, crisp edges, just the way he liked them, and with this he had toast and imported ginger marmalade. Dolly was constantly amazed at the amount of food he consumed, three large meals, dessert, rich pies and puddings—all in open contempt of the recent nutritional discoveries, which in private he would refer to as “cult junk.” He supported the beef industry, which, he felt, had been cruelly damaged by “unproven” propaganda against red meat, “the guts and strength of America,” as he had once put it. With all of this, he was not fat but well built, tall enough to carry thirty extra pounds without showing it, and as yet undamaged by his diet. For a while, years before, Dolly had tried to change his eating habits, but that only served to annoy him and make their relationship a little worse than it had been; whereupon she simply gave it up and provided him with the foods he cherished. This was no great imposition on the household, since even during summer days when Congress was not in session, the senator ate few meals at home. Occasionally, Dolly felt that she was watching a slow but determined suicide.
    Today, as she joined her husband, carrying her plate of dry toast, she made no comment about his breakfast, and by a hard hammered-out agreement, he did not mention her toast. The senator felt good, open armed, so to speak, filled with the beauty of this part of the world, the low, swelling hills, the green meadows, the song of birds and the hum of insects—and the curious sense of virtue and righteousness that comes to runners, the feeling that God and the world has lifted the mantle of guilt that hangs like a sweaty blanket on most decent people. He put it into words:
    â€œMorning, Dolly. Isn’t this just one remarkable son of a bitch of a morning?”
    â€œYou might say that.” She gave him twenty seconds or so to think of pouring her a cup of coffee, and then did it herself. Understandable; Richard was filled with himself. His manners were not his weak point. His father had been an underpaid bank teller, and early on Richard had been taught to rise when a woman entered the room, and to cut his meat with his right hand and then switch to his fork. His mother had been Irish, born there and come to America from Belfast as a small child, and where his constituents were Irish, Richard could put on a mellow brogue and beg that if his sainted mother had been forgiving enough to marry a man called Cromwell, surely his voters could see their way to voting for him. For his mother, manners were strong evidence that she had not succumbed to the bitterness of poverty, and if she had seen her son ignore his wife’s need in this manner, she would have been furious.
    Dolly was less than furious—indeed, she was not bothered at all. If her relationship with her husband puzzled her friends, it puzzled her equally; but today there would be no time for introspection, too much to do. Having poured her coffee and sipped it, Dolly said, “Richard, what possessed you to cancel my meat order and substitute fresh ham?” She was not hostile, but utterly intrigued. “I never suspected that you knew we had a kitchen, much less a butcher. How on earth did you find out who our butcher was?”
    â€œI asked Ellen.”
    Mock humility. “I am silly. Of course you asked Ellen. And I suppose the mystery of the meat is just as simple?”
    â€œOh, absolutely. You’re not angry, are you?”
    â€œSuppose you explain.”
    â€œSimple,” the senator assured her. “Just think of the fact that Webster Heller, the secretary of state, is dining with us tonight. First time. Well, that’s not important—what is important is his desire to see your father, and that must