Friends till the End Read Free Page A

mixing bowl. How about maple syrup, or honey? Sam wouldn’t mind. Or how about that stuff herfriend Heather Crandall had given her weeks ago … where was it now … on the bottom shelf under the sink …?

    She emerged from her search triumphantly this time, her face flushed and gray hair tousled, holding a jar of brown rice syrup. She looked at it doubtfully. “Far better for you than sugar,” Heather had said, pressing it into her hands. “Trust me. It’s made up of maltose and other complex sugars. It’s not nearly as—as
aggressive
as table sugar. Try it.”
    Ruth had never thought of ordinary sugar as particularly hostile, but she supposed it could be. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, turning the jar over and over in her hands. She was a short plump woman in her early sixties with a mop of graying curls and a humble, anxious expression. Well, of course Heather always knew best about cookery. Heather would bake a cake using this strange syrupy stuff, and it would turn out delicious—her cakes always did. Ruth was miserably aware that the samewas not true for her. She tried to copy Heather and turn out gourmet meals (how Heather did it, from carrot scrapings and turtle beans, Ruth could never quite figure out), but somehow the result was never the same. She gazed earnestly at the syrup, which had a pleasing golden color like honey, and sighed. Well, Heather knew best.
    The phone rang and she picked it up, absentmindedly unscrewing the top of the jar and tilting it over the mixing bowl.
    “Hello?”
    It was Heather. Her voice sounded strange; rusty, almost.
    “What?” said Ruth vaguely. She could never take in things quickly at the best of times. It was something everyone knew about her. “Poor Ruth,” they said, “not too quick, is she?”
    “Ruth,” Heather said with a choking sound, “Ruthie, I’m telling you, Laura Sloane is dead. She’s
dead
!”
    “She can’t be,” Ruth said slowly, in her hesitant way. “She was—she was fine last night.”
    “She was
not.
She didn’t feel well when we left. And then it came on her in the middle of the night—some sort of stroke or heart attack, we don’t know which—”
    “Laura?
Laura?
”
    Heather sighed impatiently. “Ruth. Please. Pull yourself together. Go tell Sam. We’ll have to go over to the house—bring flowers or something—”
    “Yes,” said Ruth. “Yes. Yes, we will. Flowers would be nice.”
    She hung up and stood there uncertainly. Her mind was going round and round; how could this … how could this happen … how could this happen …!
    All at once her attention was diverted by more mundane matters.
    “Oh,
hell
,” she said firmly.
    The syrup jar she was holding was empty; and now the cake mix would be very sweet indeed.
    Snooky and his sister Maya were having a busy Sunday morning. They sat amidst the wreckage of their brunch.Maya and her husband Bernard were doing the crossword puzzle.
    “Six letters,” Maya was saying. “A hollow cylinder.”
    “A hollow cylinder,” mused Bernard. He was a large man with intelligent brown eyes, dark curly hair and a beard; he looked like an amicable bear. “I don’t know. How about this one? ‘The stalk of an ovule.’ Any guesses?”
    There was silence around the table.
    “Gabion,” said Snooky, not looking up from the morning paper. He was reading the cartoon page as intently as if it were the News of the Week in Review.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Gabion.”
    “Which one?” asked Maya.
    “Hollow cylinder.”
    “Thanks.”
    “No problem.”
    There was another silence.
    “Funiculus,” said Snooky.
    “The stalk of an ovule?” said Maya.
    “Yes.”
    “It fits,” she said excitedly. “Hey, Snookers. How about ‘an extensive plain, in Spain?’ Five letters.”
    Her brother turned a page. “Llano,” he said. “L-L-A-N-O.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “This is no fun at all,” said Bernard dispiritedly. “Where’s the