CHAPTER 27

around the neighborhood, Mrs. Foster gathered her dog and other purchases and went haughtily inside.

"I'm going to have the McKees come up," she announced as we ascended in the elevator. "And of course, I need to call my sister, too."

The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room, a small dining room, a small bedroom, and a bath.

The living room was crammed to the doors with a set of upholstered furniture far too large for it, so moving about was a constant tripping over scenes of

 ladies in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an oversized photograph,

seemingly of a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Viewed from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a bonnet, and the face of a stout old lady beamed down into the room.

Several old copies of 'Town Tattle' lay on the table, along with a copy of 'Simon Called Peter' and some small scandal magazines from Broadway. Mrs. Foster's initial

focus was on the dog. A reluctant elevator boy fetched a box full of straw and some milk, to which he added, on his own initiative, a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of

which languished apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon. Meanwhile, Max retrieved a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.

I had been drunk only twice in my life, and the second time was that afternoon, so everything that happened had a dim, hazy quality to it, even though the apartment was

filled with cheerful sunlight until after eight o'clock. While sitting on Max's lap, Mrs. Foster called several people on the telephone.

Then, as there were no cigarettes, I went out to buy some at the corner drugstore. When I returned, they had