Carrianne smoothed down the front of her apron while she waited for the last few seconds to count down. The tomato timer sprang to life, the chime vibrating it across the Formica countertop; she pulled the tray of fresh melba toasts out of the oven, resting them on the cooling rack, and finally silenced the tomato. This was the last thing before the guests arrived, to top the hors d’oeuvres.
Well that and make the cocktails, of course. But Armin handled those; he enjoyed the process of sizing a guest up with a practised eye and then producing from the bar in the corner of the living room the best darn cocktail said guest could ever remember having. Of course, that delight would pale in comparison to the nightmares that would follow, but that wasn't Carrianne's concern.
She spooned the creamed chicken onto the last toast, placing the decorative radish slice just as the first doorbell of the night rang out. Untying her apron to hang it on its hook in the kitchen, she rushed to the front door. "Carrianne, baby," rumbled Edward Meissner, Jr. on the stoop before she had a chance to open her mouth. He grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a wet one on her cheek. His breath smelled like the cheap cigars he insisted on smoking.
"Edward," Carrianne replied, as gaily as she could manage. Once he released her she cutely raised her shoulder to her cheek, covertly wiping it. "I'm so glad you could make it. Margaret couldn't make it tonight?"
"Naw, she's spending the weekend with her ma out in the sticks."
"Oh, that's right, I completely forgot," said Carrianne, who hadn't. "Let me take your coat and hat, and let Armin fix you a drink."
"That'd be swell," said Edward. "Armin, you old rascal, how ya doing?"
He and Armin clasped hands briefly and Edward took a seat on the chesterfield as Armin moved to the bar. "Just fine, thanks," said Armin. "How's business?"
"Oh, just swell, thanks. These new-fangled gizmos practically sell themselves. You know I had two ladies in this week to buy electric hand mixers?"
"You don't say!"
"I mean, what's wrong with just a spoon? It can't be that much work." Edward shifted in his seat, then rooted behind him to pull out one of Carriane's decorative pillows, lightly tossing it to the far side of the sofa with two fingers. "Still, pays the bills and keeps Margaret in pearls, which is the main thing, of course."
Armin gave a polite chuckle, focused on his own mixing. Carrianne watched her husband from the corner of her eyes as she offered Edward a hors d'oveure. He plucked at one, then hemmed and hawed, putting it back on the silver tray to select another. "What about you, Carrianne? You one of those women that always needs the latest gadget?"
She smiled. "Oh goodness. You know me, ever the traditionalist."
"I had to practically beg her to upgrade the hi-fi," Armin agreed, with another chuckle, handing Edward a tumbler full of ice and a two-toned brown liquid. Edward accepted it with a nod--his mouth still full--as the door-bell rang again. Carrianne gave her best 'excuse-moi' smile and went to the door, hoping the rest of the husbands were gathered on the stoop in a clump. She preferred to get this over with; she detested small talk.
There was Grigore Vacarescu, the small one who sorted mail at the post office; Hank Harold Holliday, who'd done some sort of military service that left him with one leg and half a moustache; and Pip Stryker, who was an acquaintance of Armin's that Carrianne knew only by the undeserved reputation of Mrs. Stryker. "Gentlemen, how good of you to come!"
"Mrs. Schmidt," said Grigore, and, "Ma'am," from Hank Harold, and, "So this is the treasure you've been hiding, Armin," boisterously from Pip.
"Mrs. Schmidt is a private person," said Grigore quietly, giving Carrianne an all-too-knowing look. She suspected him of reading all the correspondence that came through Owatta; while his tone was always formal, he maintained the faintest suggestion of a smirk.
"Wouldn't you hide her, if you had her?" Armin beamed. "Come on in, fellas. That's right, just leave your coats and hats with the missus, and come on in. Let's get this party going! What'll you all have?"
#
Carriane dumped the coats unceremoniously on one of the twin beds. She dusted her hands off, and counted to ten, focusing on breathing through her nose. Her smile reattached, she returned to the party, glad to see all the men with drinks in their hands. Each cocktail was a marvel: the liquids swirling and coalescing but never blending. And the colours! All the colours ever imagined, and some beyond.
"A toast." Armin raised a glass to his wife. "To our gracious hostess, a rare woman of many visions, talents, and abilities." If any of the men were confused by the specifics of his toast, they were trained and mannered enough not to disagree. They raised their glasses, and drank.
The liquids continued to swirl, and then began to glow, illuminating tongues, esophaguses, stomach linings.
Hank Howard was the first to stagger to his feet--foot--in alarm, years of military training making him go to his hip for the revolver he no longer wore.
"What's all this, Armin?" Grigore asked, less frightened than confused. He gestured to his glowing esophagus and looked to his host.
But it was Carrianne who replied: "Do you know what a 'clarifying agent' does, gentlemen?" They stared at each other, at her. None moved, not even Hank Harold to sit back down. The room was silent, except for the whirr of the fan in the kitchen. "It separates out impurities," Carriane finished, in a satisfied whisper. "Like the opposite of an emulsion, if you will. A reverse mayonnaise." She laughed to herself.
Finally Edward spoke, his voice grinding, stone on stone: "What are you separating out?"
Armin took the glass from his guest's frozen hand, then the next. None resisted him. None could move. "The paralysis is temporary, fellas, don't you worry. Here, Hank, let me help you sit down. It's better if you're all comfortable."
"Comfortable... for... what?" gasped Pip.
"For the extraction process, of course," Carrianne replied, gaily, her smile no longer an act. She trotted across the living room to the bar. Armin placed the glasses on the counter and reached behind it to pull out the syringes, handing them to his now-gloved wife. "All of you were selected by your wives or your girlfriends--or in your case, Grigoire, both, you naughty boy--because you have an excess of something very, very valuable to us: a certain acerbity of emotion."
None of the men could reply; they could barely blink. Their throats scraped out low groans, pulled in confused and angry hisses.
"Don't worry, boys, I'm telling you," Armin continued cheerfully, as Carrianne prepped the first syringe. "You won't remember a thing, and you'll be better for it. Trust me."
#
"Gosh, it's too bad that Patsy couldn't join us," Pip said, as Carrianne handed him his coat. "That dinner was a real treat, Mrs. Schmidt."
"Please, call me Carrianne," she replied with a smile, helping him into the long woolen coat. "I want us all to be good friends. Do bring Patsy next time, won't you?"
"Of course!"
He was the last to go. One by one the men all woke up, convinced they'd nodded off for a few seconds after such a heavy meal, after too many strong cocktails. Too sheepish to say anything, to admit their frailty. Perhaps they'd noticed something else, too. Perhaps only Hank Harold did, a lessening of the tension around his neck and shoulder, a release from the terrors he carried with him. But he said nothing.
Armin gave his wife a kiss as she closed the front door. "What a haul, doll."
She beamed. "This will give us enough to brew into next year." She locked the door, and turned out the porch light. "I can't wait to get started on the bottling."
#
Edward nudged Margaret with his elbow while she leaned over the frozen peas. "Would you get a look at that?"
His wife straightened, adjusting her shopping basket over her arm. "What? Where?"
"That devil Armin! I knew he was up to something!"
Blinking, she peered to where her husband pointed: a small display on the end of the aisle of Owatta's new grocery store. SCHMIDT BITTERS said the label on the tiny bottles. JUST A FEW DROPS TO ENLIVEN ANY COCKTAIL. AIDS DIGESTION, SOOTHES THE MIND. Marguerite paused, holding her breath, to see how Edward would react next. He hated competition to his idea of himself as an Entrepreneur; he wanted to be the big man about town that everyone talked about. He peered at the display, then shook his head as if in disbelief, scooping up a bottle to place in her basket, beaming. She let her breath go.
"What a dark horse that fellow is! Didn't say anything about it at the dinner party, but he must have been planning something like this for months. I'll have to ask him who did the design work for his display--we could use a new sign down at the store. Come on, love, let's finish up. Can't wait to try it... those cocktails of his are legendary, and this is probably why..." He walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling.
Margaret stared for a long moment, and then fished the tiny bottle out of the shopping basket. Nothing about Carrianne on the label; the ingredients only listed the regular sorts of herbs one found in digestive liquors. Nothing about... but then... she'd barely believed the woman herself. Even knowing how frighteningly brilliant Carrianne was, it had all seemed out of the realm of possibility. And yet... Edward had come home from that dinner party a different man. Calmer. More patient, more cheerful. Less likely to raise his voice after frustration, never mind his hand. She dropped the bottle back in the basket. It was too absurd to think about. Coincidence, that's all.
Still. Maybe she'd send Carrianne a basket of baked goods. As congratulations to Armin on the new venture. Yes, that's it, a congratulations. If Carrianne suspected it was also a thank you... well. Muffins could mean anything. "Coming, dear."