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before knocking, then she tapped twice and waited, but when there was no response, she gently turned the knob and let herself in. What she found was Mrs. Van Muir in a horizontal position, stretched out on the blue velvet sofa, snoring and the bottle of cognac, half empty, sitting on the coffee table while the brandy snifter dangled from her hand. Why not, thought Catherine. What was there to do in this fat farm for excitement? In fact, Catherine could identify and empathize with poor Mrs. Van Muir and why not? After all, neither one of them had husbands. The only difference was Mrs. Van Muir’s husband was dead, but mine, Catherine said to herself, was running off into the jungle of politics like Tarzan in search of Jane, but the results were the same; they were both alone, unhappy and terribly lonely. God, what a curse loneliness was. Catherine would certainly never inform the establishment that poor Mrs. Van Muir was undoubtedly a silent night drinker (which up to now she never suspected), but if anyone found out, she’d have her little size eight fanny in a sling. Well, enjoy … enjoy, Mrs. Van Muir. After all, there are so few pleasures and rewards in this life … enjoy.
    So as not to awaken the sleeping directress of the Farm, she tiptoed to the closet, opened the door carefully and took a bottle of cognac. Holding it close to her, she tiptoed out, just as quietly, closing the door behind her and hurried back to her room. Once there, she poured herself a stiff slug of cognac, settled herself in the large chair and sipped herself into oblivion.
    The next morning, she awoke with a dreadful hangover. She called Mrs. Van Muir on the phone (who was just as cheerful as a squirrel gathering nuts). “Mrs. Van Muir,” Catherine said, barely able to speak above a whisper, “this is Mrs. Rossi.”
    “Yes, my dear, what may I help you with?” she answered almost lyrically.
    How could she sound like Little Mary Sunshine after being bombed last night? Catherine felt irritated when she had such a headache. “I’m not feeling well this morning and I don’t want any breakfast … in fact, I’m not sure about lunch and don’t bother to have the room straightened … I want to be left strictly alone.”
    “Oh, my dear, you really don’t sound well. Isn’t there anything I can do?”
    “Yes, on second thought, bring me some aspirin … oh … and a pitcher of tomato juice … and … and a large pot of black coffee.”
    “Oh, my poor dear, Mrs. Rossi, you’re really not feeling at all well…” She was about to say more, but Catherine couldn’t even stand the sweet chirping of birds this morning, much less the sound of a human voice saying, my poor darling. She was sick to death of everything, including the solicitude of dear Mrs. Van Muir.
    Abruptly, she interrupted, “Look, just bring up what I asked for … I have to go to the bathroom,” and hung up, doing just that, where she upchucked last night’s cognac as well as her dinner, she was sure. Then feebly, found her way to bed where she lay weak from the ordeal, perspiring. God, she felt simply awful. But it wasn’t just the liquor, it was her nerves and the accumulation of a lot of things she had harbored for a very long time.
    When Catherine heard Mrs. Van Muir turn the knob on the door, she shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Quietly, Mrs. Van Muir placed the tray down, turned around, then paused for a moment in total disbelief when she saw her bottle of cognac sitting half-empty on the table. Wouldn’t a mother recognize her own child? You bet she would and she knew that was her bottle. Well, I’ll be damned. How and when did she get that. Quickly, she realized that dear Mrs. Rossi must have come to her office while she was sleeping in a state of inebriation last night and merely heisted it. Quite disgruntled, she decided from now on, she would be sure and lock her door when day was done. After all, she needed a little privacy too and this was the