Michael Malone - Weebly

with her purple bruised eye, the young Vietnamese
looked, thought Mrs. Canopy, dreadfully unhappy. Still,
she assumed, it must be better than Saigon. "Chinkie,"
war-orphaned only child of a minor bureaucrat who had
made a killing on the black market before being killed
by a bomb, had been brought to Connecticut without
being asked whether she would prefer it to Saigon or
not.
"Ah, yes, some more coffee, please."
Hieroglyphically, Priss held up her cup. "And I think a
pastry." She pointed to the tray of desserts on a side
table, then elaborately stuffed an imaginary cake in and
out of her mouth. "Pastry? Yes. You, Tracy? No?" She
touched her breast with a single index finger. "Just one
then. One pastry. Thank you."
The ladies waited until their novice waitress quite
cleverly returned with the tray and the coffeepot and the
pastry. Tracy smiled in encouragement as Chin poured,
and thanked her exuberantly when she left.
"Wherever does poor Prudence find them?" Priss
wondered.
"Remember years ago the loud woman with that