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Show to his wife. "Everything's under control," he said. He felt different. "Everything's going to be just fine now, why don't you go in and get the potato salad and the plates." "I think we'd better eat in the house," she said, "it looks like rain. Besides, it's almost dark." He thought about it. "No," he said, "we're going to eat out here, the way we planned." They could use the yard light. He wouldn't allow it to rain. It was time for something to turn out the way he had planned. The others settled slowly, tentatively back into their lawn chairs. Philip began removing the chicken from the grill with the tongs. He felt better. The chicken was just the way he liked it, barbecued chicken was supposed to be a little burnt. The thing to do now was to revive the party, get some lively conversation going. The Arabs, it seemed, never stopped laughing. Philip wished he could understand their language, could interpret what was so incessantly funny; he watched as the charred lamb was pulled from the fire. Even this they found hysterical. "Well, how was the cemetery?" he asked. "Dead," said Paul. No one bothered to laugh. "Interesting," said Tia. "All those old tombstones. I even found one with my last name on it, Pedersen, Died 1876. My age, too. Some coincidence, huh?" She managed to glare at Philip through her smile. "Wonder what she died of." "Premature senility," suggested Paul. Her husband. |
