“Hello-wo-wo!” It was Andrea Cogliano. She was tapping at the front door. Lorna went to let her and Frank in, and Herb folded the paper and put it aside. Andrea came out to the patio in the middle of an explanation for their being late. “ — and would you believe we left the house twenty minutes ago?” she was saying. She bent over to give Herb a kiss on the cheek and squeeze his knee.
“Guten Abend, Herb,” said Frank. “Das ist ein schön Sonnenuntergang, n’est-ce pas?”
“Sun-in — ?” asked Herb.
Frank pointed at the sanguine pellet dropping gulfward.
“Ah!” said Herb. “La puesta de sol.”
“Yeah. ‘Sol’s pot,’ ” said Frank.
“Heh-heh,” said Herb.
Andrea told a complex and not uninteresting story of glasses forgotten, mislaid, discovered, dropped, stepped on, and broken beyond repair. Herb served drinks, and Lorna put out an oval platter of celery and carrots and green olives stuffed with pimiento. When Frank, at the end of Andrea’s story, pulled the twisted glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on, Herb and Lorna laughed heartily, but you and I would have been able to hear their nervousness, I think, if we’d been there. Slowly, cautiously, tentatively, made apprehensive by the fact — which they both understood so clearly — that they were about to put at risk their continued residence in Punta Cachazuda, they turned the chat from glasses to classes. Lorna expressed a desire for something new. Herb concurred. The Coglianos concurred too, and Herb got up to make another round of drinks. Lorna hopped up to get some more carrot sticks.
In the kitchen, she asked Herb, “Are they just being polite?”
“Hard to tell,” he said. “Go easy for a while. See if they’ve got anything to say.”
Herb passed the drinks around. The sun dropped below the horizon; a plum glow remained. No one said anything for a while. Then Frank, as if from the depths of thought, offered the observation that, “It would be nice to have something new.”
“Maybe Japanese,” said Andrea.
“That’s a good idea,” said Lorna.
“How about investing,” said Frank. “Understanding the stock market and that sort of thing? There are some smart cookies here, you know.”
“Well, I — that’s a good idea,” said Herb.
“Or — say!” said Frank. “How about handicapping?”
“What?” asked Lorna.
“Betting on racehorses,” said Herb. “Not a bad idea, Frank — ”
“You know, I’ve had an idea,” said Lorna. She could feel her nervousness in her neck and across her shoulders, where the muscles tensed in an unfamiliar way. “I — uh — ” They were all looking at her. Under the table, she clenched her fists. “Make us another old-fashioned, will you, Herb?” she said.
“I just did.”
“Oh. So you did. Well, drink up, everybody, and Herb will make another round.” She drained her glass.
“My goodness, Lorna,” said Andrea, “you don’t usually — ”
“Oh, I just feel frisky tonight. Drink up.” They did. “Make another round, Herb. Before the last of the light is gone. I’ll tell everybody my idea when you get back.”
Herb dashed into the house, whipped up more old-fashioneds haphazardly, slopping whiskey, spilling sugar, hacking chunks from an orange and tossing them in, and, as soon as the drinks were ready, dashed out to the garage. From under the folding workbench, he dragged the footlocker in which he kept his tools. He tossed the tools onto the floor, whistling while he worked. From the very bottom he took a metal box with a skull and crossbones on it, one of the few things he had brought from the old stucco house in Babbington. From the very bottom of this box he took a leather pouch, and from that he took one of the two Watchcase Wonders that he and Lorna had. He dashed to the living room, where he pried Lorna’s papier-mâché duck apart and took from it the other Watchcase Wonder, the one that they had made for Mark and Margot and Martha. It was still wrapped. He thought better of unwrapping it, put it back in the duck, and reassembled the halves. Then he ran back into the kitchen, grabbed the flour canister, and, with both thumbs, popped the lid from it. He poured the flour onto the counter and began poking through it to find a couple of the tiny sculptures he and Lorna had hidden there. Shortly, he came back onto the patio, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary, whistling happily, with flour all over his hands and forearms, carrying a tray with the drinks.
Lorna held her drink in both hands and said, “Well. Here’s my idea. I — ” She looked at Herb. He was beaming. He was impatient. She winked at him. She said, “You know Herb is a Studebaker salesman — retired, of course.” The Coglianos nodded. “I wondered if you knew that he also used to design, and sell, jewelry and — art objects?” The Coglianos shook their heads. “Well, he did,” said Lorna. “He designed it, and I made it, and he sold it.”
“C’est bien vrai?” asked Frank.
Herb thrust his floured hands forward and spread them open. In them he held a silver watchcase, which the Coglianos regarded with patient interest. Herb pressed the stem, the lid opened, and the Coglianos leaned toward the center of the table for a closer look. Herb began twisting the knob. Lorna allowed herself to breathe when she saw the fascination on the Coglianos’ faces.
“You made this?” asked Andrea, looking first at Lorna, who smiled discreetly, lips together, and then at Herb, who nodded vigorously and fairly shouted, “Mira esa hechura, will you!”
In Topical Guide 397, Mark Dorset considers Sunset; Rhetorical Devices: Direct Address or Personal Address from this episode.
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🎧 397: “Hello-wo-wo!”