The Mulberry Bush by Helen Topping Miller

blanket.
    â€œYou know Sam, Virginia,” Teresa said. “Those other fiends out there don’t count. Chase them out, will you, before the maid quits? She’s new, and she looks as though she’d be light-fingered, but I can’t be bothered hunting another one now. Sam, go on home. I’ve got a business to run between six o’clock and two a.m., though it never seems to occur to anyone that I need a minute to myself.”
    Sam Hinchey pocketed his dice. He was in his thirties and had a lazy and insolent eye. He grinned at Virginia coolly.
    â€œRed hair. I remember you.”
    â€œI’m quite easily identified. Now and then I’m mistaken for a fire hydrant—but one grows accustomed to weird experiences in our business.”
    â€œRemember now where I saw you. Having lunch in the Press Building with Mike Paull. Trust that lad to snag all the good-looking women.”
    â€œPlease get out of here, Sam,” prodded Teresa. “Get on out and take those other two abominations with you. And don’t come back—not for years. Virginia, send that nurse in here. I want a sign put on my door—a quarantine sign—bubonic plague, or leprosy, or something.”
    The nurse, who was a washed-out virgin with thick ankles and spectacles, herded the guests out with nervous apologies.
    â€œHang up your clothes somewhere—though I don’t know where,” Teresa said to Virginia. “And tell that creature in the kitchen not to put pepper in my soup. I want sherry in it—plenty of sherry.”
    â€œThe doctor said no intoxicants till your blood pressure comes down,” the nurse suggested timidly. “Would you like me to rub your back now?”
    â€œNo, I wouldn’t. And I’m used to my blood pressure. I’ve had it forever. Why the top of my head hasn’t blown off before this, is a mystery. Virginia—about that foul outfit at Carlsbad—”
    â€œThis,” sighed Virginia, seeking seclusion in the bathroom where she sat on the edge of the tub and rested her aching head in her palms, “is going to be just lovely! This is going to be a wild nightmare. But what can I do?”
    There was no place in Teresa’s jammed wardrobes for another frock. So Virginia’s suitcase, still packed was shoved under the nurse’s bed. In spite of Teresa’s tirades and the nurse’s remonstrances people kept on coming, crashing in with wild whoops, mixing drinks in the kitchen, smoking Teresa’s cigarettes. Virginia could not go to bed till the last one had been maneuvered out, and the chain put on the door. The maid washed glasses interminably, banging them down resentfully on the drainboard. Teresa demanded hot tea in the middle of the night, and lights went on everywhere; there was no rest, no peace.
    On the third night, Virginia heard gulping sobs in the kitchen after midnight, and investigating, found the nurse there, looking wan and young and small in cotton pajamas, her back hair rolled on tin curlers, crying into a dish towel.
    â€œI can’t stand it,” wailed the pale girl, when Virginia came in. “She does everything against orders, and then the doctor blames me. Now she wants a Scotch and soda. At one in the morning. And I’ll have to put it on the chart—and I don’t even know how to make a Scotch and soda!”
    â€œYou go back to bed,” Virginia said. “I’ll attend to Teresa. You won’t know what she’s had, so you couldn’t possibly put anything on the chart. You can’t manage Teresa Harrison. No one can. She does what she likes.”
    â€œI think she’s a mental case,” said the nurse passionately. “I’d leave right now—but you get in wrong with the registry if you walk out on a case.”
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, don’t leave,” begged Virginia. “We’ll muddle through somehow. I’m not having fun,