It was dark by the time I hit the highway to Maggody, which was just fine with me since I intended to sneak into town like the cowardly wimp I was. Everything looked dead (normal), but as I braked for a possum in front of the Emporium, the dark-haired distaff hippie came dashing out the door to the side of the road. She gestured for me to pull over, and I obliged, albeit reluctantly.
"Oh, thank God," she gasped, clinging to the jeep. "Poppy's gone into labor, and we have no way to fetch the midwife."
"How far along is she?" I asked, albeit reluctantly.
"According to the manual we ordered from the feminists' commune near Bugscuffle, she could have the baby anytime now. Unless you know how to deliver babies, we've got to get the midwife!"
"We certainly do," I said briskly (and without a trace of reluctance). "Tell me where to find her, and I'll run out there while you-ah-read the manual and time the contractions and boil the water."
"Don't you think you'd better come inside for a minute? Poppy's in the back room on the sofa. She's white and in a lot of pain."
I wasn't going to fall for that one. "I'll go for the midwife. Your friend might be better off at home in bed, you know, or on the way to the hospital."
"Poppy doesn't want to have our baby in a sterile environment with a bunch of strangers poking and prodding her," Rainbow said in a shocked voice.
"Hospital delivery rooms are politically and morally incorrect, and symptomatic of the exploitation of women by male doctors concerned with their own convenience and their ill-disguised need to subjugate women. Natural childbirth is a step in the cyclical cosmic framework that carries us from birth to death and beyond to our next life. Birth should be a joyous family experience in the woman's own bed, where the child was first conceived." When I raised my eyebrows, she added, "Nate left in the truck, and it's too late to move her."
"Where does the midwife live?"
She gave me convoluted directions that began at the edge of town, continued along the county road, and ended on some narrow, unpaved lane that would take me to the top of the hill and the midwife's house. I was informed that I couldn't possibly miss the turnoff, even though it was your basic dark and stormy night. It wasn't the time to suggest a small wager, so I said I'd be back as soon as humanly possible and drove down the county road.
Estelle's house was dark. I'd hoped that I might spot Estelle and Ruby Bee inside, doing something perfectly innocent in the front room. It was not written in the stars (and no doubt they were at the Bar and Grill, since it was Saturday night). The psychic's house was dark, too, but there was a dim glow in what I presumed was the solarium. I idly considered stopping for a bit of astrophysical advice about the turnoff, but drove on like an unenlightened innocent abroad.
For the next two hours I drove up and down every narrow, unpaved lane north of Boone Creek. I knocked on doors and talked to people with more interest in television sitcoms than in the imminent delivery of babies on the sofa of the Emporium office. Nobody had any idea where any midwife lived. It made for some interesting exchanges on rainy porches, but it didn't get me any closer to the midwife.
I finally gave up and drove back toward the Emporium. Once I was on pavement, I realized it was time for a bulletin, so I took one hand off the steering wheel to fiddle with the radio.
"It's a good thing you called when you did," LaBelle chirped. "I was on my way home, and the second shift's not supposed to know what all you're up to. Harvey says not to check in until tomorrow morning."
I noticed that she didn't bother to ask if I'd nabbed the perps as of yet. I agreed not to harass the second-shift dispatcher and was about to ask if she'd heard from Ruby Bee when I almost ran into a pickup truck just before Estelle's house. For a moment it seemed as if we'd end up in our respective ditches, but the other driver squeaked past me. I braked to gulp down a breath and mutter a few caustic comments about fools who drove in the rain without headlights. If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get back to the Emporium, I'd have chased the fool all the way to the far side of hell in order to escort him to the county jail in Farberville (Maggody lacks overnight accommodations).
"Why'd you gasp?" LaBelle demanded. She let her voice drop to a throaty whisper, and I could almost see her licking her lips in anticipation of some wonderfully dramatic spate of gunfire to which she would be an earwitness. "Oh, my Lord, Arly-did you see something suspicious? Are they sneaking up on you? How many are there of them? Are they armed? Are you in some kind of danger?"
In that I was supposed to be on the ridge in a parked jeep, I couldn't explain the traffic situation. "A rabid squirrel," I said, then went on to say I'd report the next morning, and cut her off. Estelle still wasn't home, I noticed as I drove past her house on my way back to the Emporium to report failure.
The front door was unlocked, and light shone through the curtain that covered the doorway to the office. It blocked the view, but did nothing to muffle the shriek of pain that greeted me. I reverted to reluctant mode as I squared my shoulders and pushed aside the curtain.
Poppy was on the couch, her eyes closed and sweat dotting her face like early morning frost. Every few seconds she moaned and twitched. Rainbow stood over her with a washcloth in her hand. Sitting cross-legged on the desk was a man with a wispy beard, a ponytail, and a broad smile. "Like wow," he murmured, watching Poppy as if waiting for her to levitate or glow. She opted for a more prosaic shriek.
I took a step back. "I couldn't find the midwife. Don't you think we'd better find someone who knows how to do this sort of thing? Anyone who knows how to-"
"No strangers!" Poppy cried. "Please, no strangers."
Rainbow gave her an approving smile. "No strangers; I promise. Arly, Zachery, and I will help you. You just go with the flow, as though you were adrift in a current of love and sharing."
"Where's the manual?" I said grimly.
"I don't think we ought to abandon the station wagon out here," Estelle said. She stood in front of the raised hood, glaring at the steam that curled out of the radiator.
"Nobody's going to steal it," Ruby Bee pointed out as levelly as possible, considering. "We're smackdab in the middle of nowhere and there's not another living soul within miles of here. Even if someone wanted to steal it, it won't run. Thieves don't drive tow trucks."
"I just don't like to leave it."
"Then get yourself around to the back and start pushing. I am about to freeze to death standing here in the rain while you pretend you know something about station wagon engines. I already told you I am not going to sit in this thing all night long, while bears and wildcats claw at the windows and we turn bluer than a pair of bird-foot violets." Estelle started to argue, but nothing much came to mind, so she settled for an unenthusiastic nod. "I guess it'll be all right until morning. But are you sure we ought to go up the road? We don't know how far Robin's cabin is, and I'd hate to find out it's ten more miles."
"We know how far it is back to the highway," Ruby Bee said through clenched teeth, having clenched them so they wouldn't chatter-or so she told herself "We know that a couple of those creek beds behind us are full of water. We know that the longer we stand here arguing, the colder and wetter we're going to get." She came around to the front of the station wagon and shook her finger at Estelle. "If you want to stand here all night and study the spark plugs, you go right ahead. I am seeking shelter, myself. Robin's cabin isn't all that far. It may not be the Flamingo Motel, but it has a roof and some protection from wild animals. She's dead and the children are down in town somewhere, so no one's going to bother us. Now, are you coming or not?"
Estelle had already decided she was, but she felt it wasn't good politics to give in too easily. "There's no cause to get all snippety, Ruby Bee Hanks. I was merely pointing out the possibility of going down instead of up. I always like to explore my options."
"You may explore options all night if you wish. Explore them to your heart's content. I am chilled to the bone, and I am also sick and tired of standing here!" Ruby Bee marched up the road, the sole flashlight held smugly in her hand.
Muttering under her breath, Estelle hurried after her and took the opportunity to bring up (and not for the first time) just whose fool scheme this was and who would have to take responsibility if they were eaten by a bear. Ruby Bee had a few opinions herself. They were still exploring the complex issue of causality and responsibility when they reached the clearing in front of the cabin.
"So there," Ruby Bee said triumphantly. "Didn't I say it wasn't all that far to the cabin? You wanted to walk all the way down to the highway, a good ten miles of creek beds and ruts and wild animals. I told you the cabin wasn't all that far, didn't I?"
Estelle screeched, then caught her companion's arm and jerked her to a halt. "I thought I saw something move."
"Are you going to start worrying about ghosts? Lordy, Estelle, I'd of thought you were a sight too old for that kind of childish squeamishness. We're not over at Madam Celeste's for a seance."
"I thought I saw something move," she repeated in a low voice.
"Really?" Ruby Bee sniffed. "Well, where'd you see this haint? I'll shine the light so we both can see it's a pig or a goat or a dish towel flapping on the clothesline. Will that satisfy you?"
The hand that held the flashlight might have trembled a tad, but it failed to illuminate pig, goat, dish towel, or even the shade of Robin Buchanon flitting about in the weeds. The door to the cabin was slightly ajar. Ruby Bee knocked, just out of habit, then tiptoed in and shone the light all around in case a bear might have chosen the shack for purposes of hibernation. Or at least she told herself as much, in that she wasn't a skittery child who fretted about ghosts and goblins and things that went bump in the night. Not even in a dead woman's cabin on a dark, rainy night.
"You can come inside and close the door," she said to Estelle, who was hovering prudently in the doorway and chewing a fingernail like it was made of milk chocolate. "You know darn well that you were seeing things a minute ago. This is going to be all right. We can light a lantern, and there's a little pile of wood by the stove. We're going to be just as snug as little ole bugs in a rug."
Estelle wasn't all that convinced, but she closed the door anyway since there wasn't any point in getting any wetter than she already was. She figured there were likely to be plenty of bugs in the rug, along with spiders in the corners and snakes under the rickety furniture. However, she and Ruby Bee managed to light the lantern, which helped dispel some of the shadows. Once they had a little fire going in the stove, the room got warm enough for her to stop shivering like a wet dog in a blizzard. But she was real sure she'd seen something flitting around the corner of the shack. Something or someone. She didn't like it one bit. She was trying not to dwell on it too much when Ruby Bee announced she'd found Robin Buchanon's family Bible. In fact, Estelle decided as she went to take a gander at the Good Book, she must have been crazy.
"You are squishing me something dreadful," Dahlia hissed. "You got your heel dug in my leg and your knee's knocking my nose ever' time you move. I don't aim to end up with a bloody nose and blood all over my dress. It makes the worst stain of anything, even grape jelly."
"I'm sorry, my darling." Kevin tried to peer through a knothole, but he still couldn't tell exactly what was going on inside the cabin. Grumbling, he got down and wiggled around until he was facing Dahlia in the darkness of the cramped space. He squatted down so he could whisper right at her face. "We got to stay here until they're gone. I couldn't see who it was, but they might be dangerous or murderers. They might have guns, which would mean I couldn't protect you if they decided to tie us up and then have their way with you-the filthy perverts!"
"Why'd you let them sneak up on you like that?" she persisted, not especially distraught over Kevin's bleak scenario. She couldn't imagine the filthy perverts being able to overpower Kevin, not when he was so brave and cool that he ought to be on Friday-night television.
"What else could I do? I was out on the porch wondering if you were all right-you'd been down here a long time, my precious-when I heard this eerie screech and saw a light bobbling in the night like it was being carried by a ghost. I didn't waste a single second. I rushed down here lickety-split so's I could protect you."
"Did you think to bring toilet paper? There isn't so much as a scrap of newspaper or an old catalogue or anything."
Kevin apologized for the oversight. After a while, his back began to ache something awful from the position, and Dahlia allowed that he could sit on her warm, broad, uncovered thighs. What light there was came through the crescent cutout in a soft path. If it hadn't been for the pervasive redolence, it would have been kind of sweet, like two lovebirds in a cozy wooden cage.
"I'll cast Daffodil Sunshine's natal chart immediately," Rainbow said. She bent down to kiss Poppy's forehead, then trotted into the front room with a lot of chatter about sidereal time and Capricorn ascending.
Zachery lit a joint and offered it to me. "That blew my mind. Wow. I mean, really wow."
I was slumped behind the desk. I waved away the joint (being a police officer requires a degree of self-sacrifice) and looked at my watch. Despite Rainbow's earlier assertion that the baby would be born at any moment, it had taken Daffodil Sunshine five hours to make his entrance. A very long five hours for all concerned. The manual from the feminists' commune, aided by my vague memories of paramedic training at the academy, had seen us through the ordeal. Mother was dozing, exhausted but triumphant. Zachery was more stoned than a quarry. Rainbow was intent on casting the natal chart, which I presumed had to do with astrology. Daffodil Sunshine seemed to have all the pertinent parts. Like one of the good fairies in Sleeping Beauty, I wished him Herculean strength; he would need it to deal with future school-yard discussions of his name.
"I'm going home," I said to Zachery. "Pot's illegal, by the way."
He frowned at the joint in his hand. "Still? You'd of thought someone would have legalized it by now."
"Not yet."
"Oh, shit." He took a deep drag on the joint, then squinted at me as the smoke drifted through his wispy mustache. "What about if you grow it yourself? Is that cool?"
I tried to envision him with the energy to garden in the middle of the National Forest. Clearing the patch, planting seeds, lugging water from the spring, bringing in fertilizer-and rigging booby traps. He wasn't my idea of a hirsute Johnny Appleseed, but I had to ask. "It might be, if you're real quiet about it and it's strictly for your own use. All sorts of folks do it in the National Forest, and most of them get away with it. Have you ever tried?" Subtlety was not a requirement; the man was having difficulty understanding the one-syllable words.
"Once," he said, looking sadly at me. "I had this little plant in a flowerpot on my kitchen windowsill back when I was in college. The cat ate it. It must not have been very good shit, because Fritz died that same night."
"You're probably right, then. You do realize that you shouldn't smoke dope in front of me, don't you? I am the chief of police."
"You're the fuzz? I thought you were the midwife, since you delivered the baby. Are you really the fuzz, too?" When I nodded, he slapped his hand on his forehead. "This is a real mind fuck, you know? Some kind of bummer. Wow."
"Wow." I went to the front room, where Rainbow was elbow deep in books, papers, and legal pads. "I'm going home," I said. "Do you want me to transport the four of you to your house?"
"We'll stay here and wait for Nate; he ought to be back soon. Poppy can use the rest, and we need the chart as soon as possible. There are some peculiar connotations of financial activities, since Jupiter's in the eighth house."
I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was in the madhouse. "Well, I'm off. You ought to have a doctor check the baby, just to make sure he's healthy."
"Oh, that's not necessary; Scorpios are ruled by Pluto, which is very regenerative. Won't you stay for a cup of chamomile tea? I'd like to have a chance to tell you how utterly incredible you were, but I've got to cast the chart. Not only do we need to analyze the Jupiter implication, but we may also have to confront the polarity with Taurus and the fixed quadruplicity. You know what that can mean."
"Doesn't everybody?" I murmured. I caught myself in a yawn and headed for the front door, the jeep, and my bed-if only for a few hours. My grandiose scheme to have a decent night's sleep was not to be, but Maggody had its 756th citizen.
"Thanks again. You must have been a midwife in one of your previous lives. Can I do your chart for you sometime? What's your sign?"
I looked over my shoulder at her. "No trespassing." Once I got to the jeep, I realized there wasn't much point in going to my apartment for such a short time. The departure from it would only depress me. I was reasonably warm and dry after the marathon session in the Emporium office, and the rain had stopped. I could go crawl into my sleeping bag and save myself an hour's drive at the godawful crack of dawn. I could wake up at six and have time for a leisurely cup of coffee before I called in to the sheriff's office with my report that nothing had happened.
"Aw, hell," I said to the empty highway. I then backed up, turned around, and headed for the far side of Cotter's Ridge. Like wow.
"I'm gonna die," Carol Alice said, flat on her back in bed and staring at the ceiling. "I just know it. Something dreadful's fixing to happen. I'm gonna die."
"No, you're not," Heather said firmly.
"I'm gonna die. There's not a doubt in my mind."
Heather put her hands on her hips and tried for a more authoritarian air, like the home ec teacher the day the class had started throwing oatmeal-raisin cookie dough all over the room. "Carol Alice Plummer, you listen and you listen up good. We're all going to die someday, but it ain't going to happen for a real long time. So stop the crazy talk right this minute. Okay?"
"I reckon I should get it over with and save everyone the trouble of waiting around," Carol Alice continued in a hollow voice. "Tell Bo Swiggins I'm sorry that we didn't get married in June, but I don't see how we can if I'm dead. Madam Celeste says that death is hovering nearby, maybe right over my shoulder. I can feel his icy breath on my neck, Heather."
"I thought you promised Bo that you wouldn't go there anymore. He'll be furious if he finds out, you know."
"He can be as furious as he's a mind to be. I intend to be dead, so what do I care?" Sighing, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. "Go away, Heather. I got to think about my last will and testimony."
Heather looked down at Carol Alice, wishing with all her heart that Mr. Wainright could whisper some advice in her ear right that minute. She didn't think her best friend in the whole world would actually do something crazy, but she wasn't sure. When Madam Celeste had telephoned Carol Alice out of the blue and told her to come to the house, Carol Alice had been thoroughly spooked; Heather couldn't blame her one teeny-tiny bit for that. Then the madam doing cards and Mesopotamian sand for free-well, that'd been enough to put Carol Alice in a downright hysterical mood. Heather couldn't blame her for that, either.
But you'd have thought Madam Celeste would have said some comforting things instead of throwing the cards on the floor and ordering Carol Alice to get out then and there. And there wasn't any call to go saying that nice Mr. Dickerson couldn't read Mesopotamian sand any more than he could fly round-trip to the moon and back.
Heather patted her friend's shoulder, gathered up her schoolbooks, said good night to Mrs. Plummer, who was in front of the television set in the family room, and then slowly walked home, while she tried to think what to do. She finally decided that she ought to call Mr. Wainright, even if it meant disturbing him right in the middle of the evening when he was-well, sort of off-duty. Then she could call Carol Alice and say all the right words to make her quit talking about suicide and killing herself and wills and testimonies. Her best friend would feel happier, and Mr. Wainright would know that she, Heather Riley, was a mature, concerned, selfless person.
To her regret, Mr. Wainright didn't have the opportunity to discover all her virtues because he wasn't home. To her further regret, she found herself blabbing everything to Mr. Plummer when he called and demanded to know what in tarnation was wrong with Carol Alice, who was moaning and rolling her eyes and refusing to touch her mother's homemade split pea soup.
When David Allen Wainright did get home, he found a bizarre little group huddled on his front porch. Once he got everybody inside and mopped off, he gave Hammet a searching look. "Why were you all waiting on my porch?"
"The door were locked. Bubba said it weren't no trouble to break a window, but I wouldn't let him."
"Thank you." David Allen sat down and took out his handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead. It was the first time he'd seen all of Robin Buchanon's children in one clump, and it was unsettling. To say the least. "I went by Mrs. Jim Bob's this morning to talk to you, but she said you'd left. That right?"
Hammet shrugged. "Iffen we weren't there, we done left. That's right." Several heads nodded in agreement, but it was obvious to David Allen that Hammet was the official spokesman for the group. "Where'd you go?"
"We jest got wearied of that woman and all the mean things she said about our mam. We decided we wanted to go for a walk without gettin' on the road, so we cut through some folks' yards and a pasture by the creek. We camed out on another road, where we had the good fortune to find Baby in some damn-fool car."
David Allen struggled to understand the intricacies of the narrative. "I thought Baby was with Ruby Bee. In fact, I went by the Bar and Grill and had a word with her, and she didn't mention any of this. When you had this stroke of good fortune, did you see Ruby Bee?"
"The only thing we saw was Baby. He looked mighty lonesome, so we fetched him with us." Hammet glanced at his siblings. "We all got something we wants you to explain. It's about this foster stuff, and gittin' new siblings and a bicycle. Arly's gone, and I figgered you was the next smartest person I knew."
David Allen recounted what he knew of the process, being as truthful and candid as he dared. He admitted a lot of things that didn't sit real well with the Buchanon children, who were squirming and peeking at each other like wallflowers at a cotillion class (although they weren't that, by any stretch of the metaphor).
When he finally stopped, Hammet looked at Bubba and shrugged. "So maybe you don't get a bicycle after all. I still don't think we should tell anybody, though."
"Tell anybody what?" David Allen inserted, rather slyly he thought. "About our pappies," Sukie said through a finger.
Bubba whacked her on the side of the head hard enough to put her on the floor. "You shut up, you stupid little pig. Me and Hammet is talking together. And shush your howlin' unless you wants another slap."
Sukie didn't shush, which set Baby off to howling, too, and Sissie to scolding both of them. Despite the noise, Hammet and Bubba managed a low conversation while David Allen sat helplessly on the edge of his seat. At last Hammet gestured for David Allen to join him in the kitchen.
"We're gonna tell you about our pappies," he said. "Bubba says that's a darn sight better than going off with some tight-ass social worker lady, and I guess he knows 'cause he's the oldest."
"Great. Let me get a piece of paper and a pencil, and we'll-"
"Oh, we ain't gonna tell you now. We're gonna tell you tomorrow after we goes to church," Hammet said, shaking his head.
"After you go to church? Why would you want to do that?"
Hammet looked at the floor. "Because that holyfied lady said we was going to hell iffen we didn't, and that we'd burn like sticks of kindling. We decided we need to see this church of the almighty place."
"You realize they may not welcome you with open arms?"
"We don' care what all they do. We ain't gonna talk until after we go to this church place."
"But why do you have to wait to tell me about your fathers?" David Allen asked, totally bewildered. "I don't see what that has to do with anything." He went to the refrigerator and took out a much-needed beer, keeping a leery eye on Hammet. "If you want to go to church, I suppose I can take you in the morning, but there's no reason not to-"
"Good," Hammet said. "By the way, we was wondering if we could sleep on your floor the rest of tonight. Baby's got snuffles, and Sukie don't look all that good, neither. If either of them commences to crying, we can stick 'em outside to shush 'em real fast. We won't bother you hardly at all."
David Allen realized his jaw was going up and down but he wasn't making any noise-that he could hear, anyway. Hammet gave him a grin, then went back to the living room and turned on the radio receiver. By the time David Allen numbly followed, Hammet was explaining how Mr. Macaroni had also rigged up this here box where you could find rockets what prematurely crashed in the woods. Course it weren't as good as the ones you used to talk to foreigners in their houses, even if you didn't know what they was saying. For David Allen, the scariest thing was that it almost made sense.
The moon came out about the time I reached my reserved parking space on the back side of the ridge. I took the little package of carob chip cookies that Rainbow had pressed on me, threw a few branches over the jeep, grabbed my flashlight, and trudged up to my campsite, yawning so hard my eyes watered and my jaw felt like it might pop out of its sockets. There was no indication I'd been visited by raccoons, bears, skunks, or anything else that might merit concern. Filled with gratitude for that small blessing, I crawled into the tent and secured the flap. My sleeping bag was damp, and my beeper cut into my side as I wiggled around to find a tolerable position, but I was too tired to do more than unclip the damn thing and lob it across the canvas floor.
As I drifted asleep, I did wonder why Ruby Bee and Mrs. Jim Bob had ceased their relentless campaign to speak to me via LaBelle. I must have wasted a good ten seconds on that one.
Madam Celeste stared into the blackness of her bedroom, unable to dismiss the face. The death mask. The wide, unblinking eyes. The flies on the clotted blood. The open mouth. The terror. For the first time in twenty years she longed to be Sarah Lou Dickerson, a gawky, knock-kneed, grimy girl in a faded dress donated by the righteous church dogooders. Living in a miserable trailer on a rocky patch of mountainside. Being whipped on a regular basis by her pa, when he wasn't doing other nasty things to her. Watching her ma get older and grayer, until she looked worse than the wash on the line.
Grinolli had saved fifteen-year-old Sarah Lou from that, but he'd turned out to be worse than her pa and she'd had enough sense to exit with the first truck driver who'd stopped at the crossroads. Vizzard had been the savior. Although he'd been forty-five years older, he'd been rich and kind-as long as she serviced him (and at his age, it wasn't exactly a daily chore like milking cows; it was more like churning butter once a week). He'd taught her to read and write, and introduced her to a woman who'd understood how Sarah Lou kept seeing things that weren't there and having scary dreams that came true.
She'd been right sad when she'd had the dream about Vizzard choking on the chicken wing, but she knew she couldn't alter the future, so she cooked what she had to cook and served what she had to serve. Despite having the ambulance number handy, she'd found herself a widow with a reasonable inheritance. She'd used it for what she called her junior year abroad, although the studies took place in dim parlors rather than in snooty art museums. Vizzard had been worth the trouble.
But now, haunted by the face that would not go away, she wondered how she would have made out with Grinolli in the dreary apartment above the body shop, or with Vizzard if she'd risked cosmic displeasure and insisted on tuna casserole for dinner. Or if she'd allowed Mason to talk her into trying Atlantic City. Mason did seem to enjoy the bright lights, but they both knew he would go wherever she told him to go. Purse strings were longer than apron strings.
They'd ended up in Maggody, which bore a strong resemblance to Hickory Ridge and all its narrow-minded shabbiness. And as she stared at the ceiling, she figured she knew why. Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard had no theories, but Madam Celeste ("World-Renowned Psychic as Seen on the Stages of Europe") had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. The shadow on the ceiling bore a passing resemblance to a chicken wing. There wasn't anyone to consider serving tuna casserole this time.