XXI

The Tenth Worm

WHAT’S for dinner?” said Billy’s father, coming into the kitchen.

“Well,” said Billy’s mother. “You and I and Emily are having hamburgers and string beans and mashed potatoes. Billy is having a fried worm.”

“More worms? The bet’s still on?”

“Look.” She took a small plate covered with Saran Wrap out of the refrigerator.

“And you’ve eaten nine of these already, Billy?” He poked the worms curiously. “What do you do, use a lot of ketchup and mustard?”

Billy nodded. “And horseradish and other things. And we fry them.”

Billy’s father lifted a corner of the Saran Wrap and smelled the worms. “Helen, you ought to be able to do better than fried. Use your cookbooks.”

“I’m not the cook. I’m just the referee.”

“Oh, come on. Think of the challenge.”

He took a cookbook from the shelf under the spice rack. “Let’s see. Mastering the Art of French Cooking.” He leafed through the cookbook. “Here. How about Poached Eels on Toast?”

“No,” said Billy’s mother. “It calls for chopping up the eel in little pieces, and that would be against the rules.”

“How about Spaghetti with Wormballs then? Or a Savory Worm Pie? Creamed Worms on Toast? Spanish Worm? Wormloaf with Mushroom Sauce?”

“Wait,” said Billy’s mother, putting down her cooking spoon. “It might just—” She took the cookbook and turned to the index. “Here.” She read: “Alsatian Smothered Worm: dredge the worm with seasoned flour. Saute in three tablespoons drippings until browned. Cover with sliced onions, pour over one cup thick sour cream, cover pot closely, and bake in a slow oven until tender.”

“Bravo,” said Billy’s father. “Put the hamburgers back in the refrigerator. We’ll all have worm tonight.”

“I won’t,” said Emily.

“Ha,” said Billy, grinning in the midst of chewing. “Boy, Alan and Joe thought they were doing me in when they came to you, Mom, but this is better than steak. It really tastes good.”

“Yug,” muttered Emily, making a face.

“Let me have a taste,” said Billy’s father.

“No, no,” said his mother. “Billy has to eat every bit himself. Alan and Joe were very firm about that, and I’m the referee.”

“Boy,” said Billy. “I don’t mind if it tastes like this.”