"Bessie looked back at the countryside, so isolated and lonely." page sixteen The Show-off A Short Story by June Farnsworth "Finished at last," whispered Bessie Graham, as she stepped back to admire a salad she had just made. It was a chicken salad a delicacy indeed for the wife of a poor farmer to be making. Nobody could deny, however, that it was a tasty looking, yes, even beautiful salad, lightly dusted with paprika and bordered with crisp celery curls and colorful radish roses. Bessie's eyes darted over the table to a bottle of stuffed green olives. There also on the table were the biscuits, mixed and ready to pop into the oven at a minute's notice. Her eyes finally rested on a package of potato chips. That small package reminded her of the trouble she had had with her husband George the day before when he had taken her to town to shop. He had criticized everything she bought. "Stuffed olives," he had snorted. "How about all those cucumber pickles you put up last fall?" Bessie had tried to explain that this dinner was an event. "They always serve olives with chicken salad," she had pointed out, "and potato chips." "So the Grahams have to buy potatoes in little cellophane bags," he retored irritably, "and with a cellar full of potatoes at home." On the way home George had resentfully said, "Who is the visiting queen that can't eat common food like the rest of us?" Patiently Bessie went over it all again: "I told you, George; it is the woman the Red Cross is sending out from Chicago to organize the war time nutrition classes. I am president of the club here, and it is only right that she should have dinner at our house. It's only one meal." "I'm not begrudging her the meal," George said stiffly, "but you're working yourself into a dither over it, and buying fancy food that isn't necessary." "Gee, olives, stuffed olives!" marveled eight-year-old Gene who had just noticed the things on the table. "Where did you get these, mama?" "Don't be a dope," replied Carol with a superior air indicative of her eleven years; "mother bought them when she went to town yesterday; you knew she was going shopping." An hour later Bessie and George were at the station nervously awaiting the arrival of their guest. Soon a tall, grey-haired woman wearing a well-tailored green suit and a smart hat stepped off the train and glanced inquiringly around the small platform. Bessie waited hopefully and when no one else appeared, she stepped forward. "Mrs. Benton?" she inquired. She suddenly felt plain and dowdy in her winter-before-last brown coat and old felt hat. Mrs. Benton was pleasant enough during the drive home, but quiet and reserved. "How am I ever going to entertain her?" thought Bessie desperately. George contributed little to the conversation, and Bessie, sitting half turned in the seat to chat with the woman in the back, thought the drive would never end. At last they turned down the lane to the house. Bessie looked back at the countryside, so isolated and lonely. George stopped the car in front of the house. "How drab it looks," thought Bessie, seeing the house for the first time through the eyes of a stranger. "If it had only been a little later, when the trees were out." The rambling grey house needed paint badly, Bessie realized, and suddenly she was bitterly ashamed and resentful. George might have managed better, she thought hotly. Her meditation was suddenly interrupted by Gene who came dashing down to the car shouting something unintelligible. Carol was close at his heels; she seemed partly worried and partly defiant. Gene was yelling at the top of his lungs. "She gave it away," he shouted. "Carol gave the dinner away!" "What?" Bessie sat petrified in the car, her hand still on the door she had just swung open. "Whom did you give our dinner to, Carol?" Inwardly Bessie was proud that she had remembered that whom even in this hour of distress. "Some poor people in a trailer house, mama." "But, children," she tried to speak calmly, "where did you see these people?" "Oh, they stopped to get water for their leaky radiator," replied Gene who now took up the tale. "Carol thought it would be a good idea to give them our dinner. She said some people did it once in a book she had read." For a minute everyone was quiet, and then a muffled laugh broke the stillness. It came from the back seat of the car where Mrs. Benton was sitting. At this sudden turn of events Carol began to sniffle. "I was only trying to be kind and charitable," she said. Bessie put one arm protectingly around her. "And you were, Carol," she said consolingly. It was Mrs. Benton's turn to speak. "Please forgive me, Carol; kindness is nothing to laugh at. We need more of it in the world today. And now, why don't we all go into the house? Carol, do you think you could find me an apron so that I could help your mother fix another dinner?" In the cellar Mrs. Benton stared at the well-stocked shelves. She took a jar from the shelf and was examining it. "What is this?" she asked curiously. "Oh, that's venison. I put it up every year," replied Bessie. "George always goes hunting." "Venison!" the older woman exclaimed. "Mrs. Graham, do you know that I haven't tasted venison for five years. Could I ask you, as a special favor to me, to open a jar?" "Why, of course," Bessie agreed, "if you like it." She breathed a sigh of relief. This would help solve the problem of the emergency dinner. Surprised, indeed, was she when Mrs. Benton came back hugging a gallon crock of buttermilk. It seemed strange that such a distinguished guest would be fond of buttermilk. Bessie got down a jar of pickled beets, and a jar of corn. The meal was now taking shape. She chuckled as she pushed the pan of biscuits into the oven. Only the fact that they weren't baked had prevented Carol from giving them away, too." "Looks like a mighty tasty meal," George commented as they took their places at the table a half hour later. Bessie was happy that things had turned out for the best and honestly she admitted, "Well, George, Mrs. Benton planned most of it." Mrs. Benton looked up to smile. "It's fun and easy to get a meal together here," she exclaimed. "You have so much." Bessie looked around the table. Tears stung in her eyes for a moment. A feeling of love and tenderness replaced the resentment and scorn she had experienced earlier in the day. "Yes," she repeated softly. "We've a lot to be thankful for." page seventeen