Free The Genie of Sutton Place by George Selden Page A

You’ve got to put all that behind you, Sam. When you’re in doubt—look at me. And I’ll—I’ll—” As a matter of fact, I didn’t know what I’d do, but I had to put up a good front, for Sam—“I’ll give you little lessons in elemental humanity.”
    Sam threw back his head, about to howl, but Aunt Lucy came in and he managed to stifle it.
    â€œWe’ll only be a few minutes more. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Bassinger?”
    Now Aunt Lucy took over. That’s one thing about living in Sutton Place: you learn how to make an awful lot of idiotic but very useful small talk. And Aunt Lucy really did her duty that day. She could see that Sam was very nervous—as well he might be: except for the car this was the first time he’d ever sat up in a chair—and to set him at ease she let go a Mississippi of chatter. About the plays she liked. And the operas. And all the committees she was on. And me—what fun having me living there! It was all dull stuff, but she did it for Sam, just out of politeness. That was the first time I realized how important boring conversation can be. People’s lives just slide along on it.
    Sam was edgy! Just as if he had fleas. (I think we got rid of the last of them in the Turkish bath.) At one point he began to scratch his ear. Of course he couldn’t use his leg, the way a dog would use his right hind leg, but the same quick jerky motions were there. I gave another warning cough. But I’m not going to put down all my coughs, it would sound too much like tuberculosis.
    Rose came in and announced, “Lunch, Miss Lucy.” She had a way of not sounding like a servant—only someone who had an announcement to make …
    And the fearful luncheon began …
    When poor Sam saw the fork, the knife, and the spoons, you’d have thought they were going to be used to carve him up, instead of the lamb chops. In very slow motion I opened my napkin and spread it in my lap. Sam did the same. I had hopes for his table manners, because he was usually a very neat dog. Although his tail was clumsy sometimes, he never slobbered around his bowl or left a mess. So little by little, secretively, and with many a glance in my direction, Sam learned how to use the utensils. Fork like this—knife like this—carve slowly! —et cetera …
    Rose served us the courses, one by one—tomato juice first—and behind the swinging door to the kitchen I could see Dooley spying. He had his widest smile on, because he knew the crazy truth of everything that was happening.
    Meanwhile, Aunt Lucy was pouring out her torrent of necessary nonsense. When I wasn’t concentrating on Sam, I was thanking her silently.
    Dessert arrived—almost a disaster! Because you know how much dogs like ice cream. Sam’s face lit up, and I thought he was going to lean right over and lap. But I managed, accidentally, to bang my spoon on my water glass, and he smartened up and used his spoon.
    We moved into the living room. That’s a custom they have up in Sutton Place: you take your coffee somewhere else. It’s a nice custom, too, because it’s fun to change places for the last part of a meal.
    I was feeling very self-satisfied. Here was my dog—I mean, my ex-dog—sipping demitasse in the company of my aunt, and I thought to myself, This can’t have happened to too many other kids.
    Then Rose came in with the bad news. “Miss Lucy, Mr. Watkins is here.”
    â€œOh, lovely! I wasn’t expecting him yet. He can join us for coffee.”
    Sam bristled.
    It’s different when a man bristles. His hair doesn’t stand up quite so high, but it stands up high enough to make somebody worry.
    â€œHenry,” said Aunt Lucy in that phony high but workable tone she’d been using through lunch, “this is Mr. Bassinger. A friend of Lorenzo’s. And of Timmy, too!” She glittered