As she fussed around the all-electric kitchen, Mrs. Redstone worried about Chief S itting Bull, sort of expecting a telephone call from the local constabulary or the nearby mental hospital.
Mrs. Redstone had hoped that moving away from northern Massachusetts down into Connecticut, separating her husband from old pals enabling him in his anger and resentment, would make a difference.
There was that one sleazy flaccid greasy rich kid, a "writer," with whom Chief S itting Bull had been pals, but Mrs. Redstone never liked him. Not only was the trust-fund middle-ager pompous and vain, but he also had the unfortunate habit of involuntarily releasing intestinal gas; "boryborygmia," Mrs. Redstone thought.
Not a good person to stand around with, especially if one has a working nose.
But then Mrs. Redstone recalled, unhappily, that not even a continent of separation could keep Chief S itting Bull away from old pals, thinking of that Tom guy out in California, the one who worked in a gift shoppe, the one a compulsive liar.
Chief S itting Bull and the lying Tom were the same age, touching 60 years, and had spent the late 1960s, early 1970s, wandering around the American southwest, hitch-hiking all over, and crashing in hippie communes, including with the Charles Manson "family" in the desert north of Lost Angeles.
It was during that time, Mrs. Redstone reflected, that Chief S itting Bull had created this fantasy about being of partial Native American derivation, even though his background, and his appearance, were undeniably 100% Irish, or New Hampshirean.
Chief S itting Bull had even taken to donning "cowboy gear," including the hat, which Mrs. Redstone thought made him look ridiculous, even more ridiculous than his rich flatulent pal from Boston in a cowboy hat.
Chief S itting Bull had returned to his homeland, New England, while the lying Tom remained out in California. But despite the great gulf of years and distance, the two old pals still stuck with each other.
That is, until Chief S itting Bull decided to purchase a house in New Hampshire, indicating he had some money stored up, which aroused the nostrils of the lying Tom, chronically short of money. In truth, it had not been that much money, not enough to make a down payment on the house in New Hampshire, but it was money.
The lying Tom had proposed a visit to Chief S itting Bull at the other end of the country, news at which her husband had delighted. They, these two old pals, were going to have a good time, sitting on the front porch, strumming on guitars and reliving the past.
But Chief S itting Bull had been immediately disabused of that notion once the lying Tom showed up. The lying Tom wanted to borrow money, not socialize.
And so then a rupture--although Mrs. Redstone was not confident the rupture was complete--in which Chief S itting Bull had to regretfully turn down the request for a loan. Angry at being thought a sucker, Chief S itting Bull would not even lend the lying Tom airfare to return back home, or even subway fare back to Boston.
The lying Tom had to return to California hitch-hiking, as in days of old.
Just then, the telephone rang.
It was Mrs. Redstone and Chief S itting Bull's teenaged son, calling from a gasoline station. The son had put gasoline into the family car, and only just then noticed he had left his wallet at home.
Mrs. Redstone wearily shut off the electric stove, grabbed her coat and purse, and prepared to go out the door to walk down to the gasoline station, when Chief S itting Bull himself tramped inside, still muttering and cursing about people who don't apply postage stamps on envelopes correctly.
