Let me pour it into pitchers.
— The juice is in the cellar, — said mom. — Apple juice, homemade. Three jars.
— Wonderful, I’ll get it.
Tamara Nikolaevna slipped out of the kitchen with a satisfied look. Marina watched her go.
— She’s strange today, — mom remarked. — Fidgeting like she’s on pins and needles.
Indeed. Marina didn’t voice her suspicions. But she decided: she would personally supervise the juice.
The mother-in-law returned five minutes later with two jars of apple juice.
— I couldn’t find the third one, — she announced. — It must have rolled away somewhere.
— That’s alright, two will be enough, — said mom.
Tamara Nikolaevna placed the jars on the table and began to open them. Her hands were trembling slightly. From excitement? From anticipation? Marina watched her every move.
— Do you have nice pitchers? — the mother-in-law asked. — We can’t just serve from the jars, can we?
— Yes, in the sideboard. Crystal ones, from my grandmother.
— Oh, crystal. Excellent.
She took out two tall pitchers with a carved pattern and began to pour the juice. Her movements were careful, even overly so. Marina didn’t take her eyes off her. But she didn’t notice anything suspicious. Tamara Nikolaevna simply poured the juice into the pitchers, closed them with lids, and put them in the refrigerator.
— Done, — she announced with a smile. — What’s next?
— Thank you, nothing else. Please, rest.
The mother-in-law shrugged and left. Marina let out a breath. Maybe she was overthinking things? Maybe that conversation was about something else? But her intuition insisted: no, something wasn’t right here.
By noon, the house was noisy. The guests had arrived: the Ivanovs from next door with a bottle of homemade wine, Aunt Klava with a cake, Uncle Misha with his wife Raya, her father’s colleagues from the factory. A small company, about fifteen people. Her father didn’t like large crowds.
Oleg helped set up chairs and move tables. He was unusually quiet and avoided looking Marina in the eye.
— Is everything alright? — she asked, catching him in the hallway.
— Yes, of course. Just tired from the road.
— Oleg, can we talk?
— Later, okay? I’m busy right now.
He walked away, leaving her alone in the hallway. Marina watched him go and felt: something between them had broken. Maybe it had been broken for a long time. Maybe she was only just noticing it now.
By two o’clock, the table was set. A snow-white tablecloth, festive dishes, a bouquet of dahlias in the center. Mom had outdone herself: salads, appetizers, main courses, pies—everything her father loved.
The guests sat down, and the toasts began.
— To the birthday boy! — Uncle Misha proclaimed. — To Stepan Vasilyevich! May he live another hundred years!
— Thanks, Misha. A hundred is a bit much, but I’ll live another twenty years.
Laughter, clinking glasses, a festive atmosphere. Marina sat next to Oleg, across from Tamara Nikolaevna. The mother-in-law was in her element: joking, laughing, seconding toasts. The perfect guest. Too perfect.
After the main course, mom suggested a break.
— Let’s take a little break. We’ll be cutting the cake soon.
The guests rose from the table. Some went out for a smoke, others for a walk in the garden. Aunt Klava went to help mom in the kitchen. Marina remained at the table. She needed to think. Several hours had passed, and nothing had happened. Maybe she was wrong? Maybe that late-night conversation was about something completely different?
— Marinochka, — her mother-in-law’s voice broke in, — could you help me?
Tamara Nikolaevna was standing by the sideboard with a tray in her hands.
— With what?
— We need to serve the juice to the guests. Your mother only has two pitchers. It’s inconvenient. Let’s pour it into glasses and set them out.
— Okay.
Marina got up and walked to the sideboard. Her mother-in-law was already getting out the glasses. Simple, glass, all identical. Six of them.
— Get the pitcher from the fridge, — Tamara Nikolaevna commanded. — I’ll wipe the glasses in the meantime.
Marina went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge, took out the pitcher of juice. When she returned, her mother-in-law had already arranged the glasses in a row on the tray.
— Go ahead and pour, — she said. — And I’ll carry it.
Marina began to pour the juice. Her mother-in-law stood beside her, watching the process intently.
— This glass is for me, — Tamara Nikolaevna said suddenly, pointing to the one on the far left. — Pour a little less, I’m on a diet.
— Okay.
— And this one, — she jabbed her finger at the glass on the right, — is for you. Fill it to the top, you love your mom’s juice.
How did she know that? Marina had never told her.
— What makes you say that?
— Oleg told me. He said you adored this juice as a child.
Marina said nothing and poured the juice into the indicated glass. To the brim.
— Lovely, — Tamara Nikolaevna smiled. — Now the rest.
When all the glasses were filled, the mother-in-law took the tray.
— I’ll carry this, and in the meantime, you… — She looked around. — Oh, we forgot the napkins. Bring the napkins from the kitchen.
— The napkins are on the table.
— No, those are paper ones. We need the cloth ones, the nice ones. Your mother said they’re in the dresser.
Marina hesitated. She didn’t want to leave right now.
— Well, what are you standing there for? — her mother-in-law hurried her. — Go, go, I’ll set these out.
There was nothing for it. Marina went to the room to get the napkins. The dresser was in her parents’ bedroom. Marina opened the top drawer. Empty. The middle one—bed linens. The bottom one—there they were, the napkins. White, linen, with embroidery. She took a stack and returned to the living room.
Tamara Nikolaevna had already placed the glasses on the table. A glass for each guest. Neatly, evenly. Marina’s glass was at her spot. Full, just as she had poured it.
— Good girl, — her mother-in-law praised. — Put the napkins down and sit. The guests will be back soon.
Marina put down the napkins and sat in her seat. She picked up her glass of juice, brought it to her lips, and froze. Something was wrong. She looked at the glass. A normal glass, normal juice. Nothing suspicious. But Marina remembered: when she had poured the juice, there was a small scratch on the bottom of her glass. She had noticed it fleetingly when she placed the glass on the tray. Now the scratch was gone. This was a different glass.
Her heart skipped a beat. Marina slowly placed the glass back on the table. Tamara Nikolaevna had switched the glasses. While she was getting the napkins, she had switched them. Why? The answer was obvious. There was something in this glass. Something that wasn’t in the others.
Marina glanced at her mother-in-law. She was sitting opposite her, watching her with poorly concealed anticipation. A faint smile played on her lips. Waiting. Waiting for me to drink.
The guests began to return. They sat down in their places, took their glasses of juice, thanked the hosts for the treat.
— Delicious juice, — Aunt Klava praised. — Valya, did you make it yourself?
— I did, Klavochka. Apples from our garden. I should write down the recipe.
Marina didn’t drink. She sat, holding the glass, thinking feverishly. What was in the juice? Poison? No, too drastic. A sleeping pill? Why? A laxative? A laxative, of course. It fit perfectly into Tamara Nikolaevna’s plan. To disgrace her daughter-in-law in front of her own parents. On her father’s anniversary. In front of guests. A little embarrassment, after which she wouldn’t want to come here again. That’s what her mother-in-law meant in that late-night conversation.
Marina looked at Tamara Nikolaevna. She was still smiling, but impatience had appeared in her eyes. Drink. Go on, drink. Marina smiled back. Calmly, confidently. And made a decision.
— Oh, it’s gotten so stuffy! — she exclaimed, fanning herself with her hand. — Can we open a window?
— Of course, dear.
Her mom got up and went to the window. Others followed. Uncle Misha wanted to see her mom’s rose garden from the window. Aunt Klava remembered she wanted to take a picture of the dahlias. The Ivanovs went outside for a smoke.
A minute later, only three people remained in the room: Marina, Oleg, and Tamara Nikolaevna. The mother-in-law hadn’t moved. She sat and watched her daughter-in-law.
— Is something wrong with the juice? — she asked in a sweet voice. — You’re not drinking?
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