Not far away, in the mansion, Mrs. Poore had introduced her husband to Richie and his family.
“I apologize for my informal outfit,” Ben Poore said to Commander Melanoff, who was wearing a tuxedo. “I’ve been on the road for a long time.”
“I understand completely,” Commander Melanoff replied. “I myself made several sorrowful trips to Switzerland, and each time, coming home I felt unkempt. I do like your plaid shirt, by the way. You look very, ah, rustic.”
“Were you hungry, returning from sorrowful trips? I myself have not had a meal since South Dakota.” They were standing in the hall, but Ben Poore glanced into the dining room. The kitchen staff, despite the fact that they had been laid off and had no salary forthcoming, had decided out of loyalty to return to the mansion to prepare one final, sumptuous meal. Mr. Poore could see that the long table was lavishly set with a large ham decorated with pineapple slices, and there appeared to be a platter of fried chicken as well, plus several casseroles of macaroni and cheese—and was that perhaps a spinach soufflé? It certainly looked like a spinach soufflé. “I find that I’m a bit hungry. Just a tad.” He tried to keep his voice from sounding groany. “Famished, actually,” he added, under his breath.
“Indeed, I was often hungry in those days because I was lonely . . . that is, until I met Nanny, who was such a wonderful cook. Do you see her there, on the wall? A handsome woman. And oh my, her seafood casserole, I recall . . .”
Ben Poore choked back a sob. “Seafood casserole?” he moaned. He gazed into the dining room.
“A poem is coming on,” Commander Melanoff announced.
“Not the naughty one, Grandfather!” Richie exclaimed. But he was ignored.
There once was a woman named Nanny
Whose skill at the stove was uncanny . . .
There was a loud groan from Ben Poore.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Poore?” Richie’s mother asked. “Are you in pain?”
Ben Poore took a deep breath. “No. I’m not in pain. I’d call it pangs, I think. I was just reacting to the word stove in that lovely poem, and also noticing a wonderful aroma coming from— I suppose that must be the dining room?”
“Yes, the dining room. But first we’ll go into the drawing room, down the hall here, for a brief talk about the history of the Consolidated Confectionaries. Sadly its doors have closed for the last time, but we cherish its memory and want to use this gathering as an opportunity to memorialize its existence. Would you lead the way, children? And perhaps our other guests will arrive soon.”
Richie, Winifred, and Winston ran ahead down the long hall, stopping briefly to nod reverently at Nanny’s portrait. Then they opened the wide doors to the drawing room. The adults followed them. One of them, Ben Poore, was whimpering.