throes of self-delusion. I repeated what I’d heard, including the two scenarios, and waited for her to offer insights and point out discrepancies. She yawned several times, assured me that I would sort it out, and wafted away to her room. I bit back the urge to call Peter, put my teacup in the sink, and went to bed.
* * *
I was making coffee the next morning when I heard a knock at the front door. As mentioned previously, my immeasurably rich imagination kicked in despite the lack of caffeine. Angela, with a souvenir from Vegas. Peter, home from the conference with nary a dueling scar. Terry, bearing a ninety-nine-year lease. Nattie, with fragrant cinnamon rolls and freshly churned butter.
It proved to be Joel, who looked at me with a leery expression. “Good morning, Ms. Malloy. Caron wants to go to the lake for the day. Am I too early? Do you want me to wait downstairs? I don’t mind, really.” He stuck out the newspaper he’d picked up on my porch before he could be accused of petty theft.
What he wanted to know was if Peter was looming behind the door, ready to interrogate him about his skill as a lifeguard, the amount of gas in his car, the precise time of arrival back home, etc. The fact that Joel made straight A’s, was president of the honor society, and had been accepted to an Ivy League school had no bearing on his character, nor did his neat appearance and manners. Peter does not take his role of stepfather lightly.
“It’s safe, Joel,” I said as I gestured for him to come inside. “I’ll tell Caron that you’re here.”
Said child was dressed and in the bathroom. I was impressed, since I’d heard her snoring when I got up. During my postpubescent years, I’d avoided the juvenile palpitations resulting from hormonal inundation, but I sympathized with her. I reported back to Joel, who had not moved since stepping inside, and offered him orange juice. He politely declined. At least Caron hadn’t fallen for a football hulk who aspired to become a reality show celebrity. My sympathy extends only so far.
Caron emerged in white shorts (mine) and a yellow shirt (also mine), carrying a canvas gym bag (Peter’s). They assured me that they had ample sunscreen, towels, hats, and bottled water and would be home before dark. I sent them along, then sat down with coffee and called Peter. His phone went to voice mail, which implied that he was already in a meeting and wasn’t disposed to talk to me. I opened the newspaper to find out what twaddle had been spewed in Congress the previous day, as well as whatever dire news was crammed on the front page. I was grousing over the editorials when I heard another knock on the door. My imagination quickly added state troopers to the list of possible visitors.
I was relieved when it proved to be Inez. She was as mousy as ever, but now she looked like the sole survivor of a shipwreck. “Is Caron up? I thought we might go to the mall. There’s a big sale on swimsuits.”
I broke the news, which was harsher than anything in the newspaper. Inez’s mouth drooped, and her hair seemed to lose what minimal curl it had. “That’s okay,” she said stoically. “I’ll just go to the library and read. My little brother is messing around with his chemistry set, so the house reeks of rotten meat. I’m halfway through next year’s AP World Lit reading list. I didn’t have any trouble with The Brothers Karamazov, but Kafka’s hard. Have you read The Metamorphosis, Ms. Malloy? It’s way creepy. I mean, imagine if you woke up and you were an enormous, gruesome bug. Do you think there’s something symbolic about him having six legs? With fewer legs, he had more freedom, but he couldn’t adhere to the ceiling. Is that analogous to the glass ceiling experienced by women executives?”
Half a cup of coffee had not armed me adequately for a discussion of anything involving symbols or analogies. “Hey, Inez, if you want to skip the library, you can go out
* * *
I was making coffee the next morning when I heard a knock at the front door. As mentioned previously, my immeasurably rich imagination kicked in despite the lack of caffeine. Angela, with a souvenir from Vegas. Peter, home from the conference with nary a dueling scar. Terry, bearing a ninety-nine-year lease. Nattie, with fragrant cinnamon rolls and freshly churned butter.
It proved to be Joel, who looked at me with a leery expression. “Good morning, Ms. Malloy. Caron wants to go to the lake for the day. Am I too early? Do you want me to wait downstairs? I don’t mind, really.” He stuck out the newspaper he’d picked up on my porch before he could be accused of petty theft.
What he wanted to know was if Peter was looming behind the door, ready to interrogate him about his skill as a lifeguard, the amount of gas in his car, the precise time of arrival back home, etc. The fact that Joel made straight A’s, was president of the honor society, and had been accepted to an Ivy League school had no bearing on his character, nor did his neat appearance and manners. Peter does not take his role of stepfather lightly.
“It’s safe, Joel,” I said as I gestured for him to come inside. “I’ll tell Caron that you’re here.”
Said child was dressed and in the bathroom. I was impressed, since I’d heard her snoring when I got up. During my postpubescent years, I’d avoided the juvenile palpitations resulting from hormonal inundation, but I sympathized with her. I reported back to Joel, who had not moved since stepping inside, and offered him orange juice. He politely declined. At least Caron hadn’t fallen for a football hulk who aspired to become a reality show celebrity. My sympathy extends only so far.
Caron emerged in white shorts (mine) and a yellow shirt (also mine), carrying a canvas gym bag (Peter’s). They assured me that they had ample sunscreen, towels, hats, and bottled water and would be home before dark. I sent them along, then sat down with coffee and called Peter. His phone went to voice mail, which implied that he was already in a meeting and wasn’t disposed to talk to me. I opened the newspaper to find out what twaddle had been spewed in Congress the previous day, as well as whatever dire news was crammed on the front page. I was grousing over the editorials when I heard another knock on the door. My imagination quickly added state troopers to the list of possible visitors.
I was relieved when it proved to be Inez. She was as mousy as ever, but now she looked like the sole survivor of a shipwreck. “Is Caron up? I thought we might go to the mall. There’s a big sale on swimsuits.”
I broke the news, which was harsher than anything in the newspaper. Inez’s mouth drooped, and her hair seemed to lose what minimal curl it had. “That’s okay,” she said stoically. “I’ll just go to the library and read. My little brother is messing around with his chemistry set, so the house reeks of rotten meat. I’m halfway through next year’s AP World Lit reading list. I didn’t have any trouble with The Brothers Karamazov, but Kafka’s hard. Have you read The Metamorphosis, Ms. Malloy? It’s way creepy. I mean, imagine if you woke up and you were an enormous, gruesome bug. Do you think there’s something symbolic about him having six legs? With fewer legs, he had more freedom, but he couldn’t adhere to the ceiling. Is that analogous to the glass ceiling experienced by women executives?”
Half a cup of coffee had not armed me adequately for a discussion of anything involving symbols or analogies. “Hey, Inez, if you want to skip the library, you can go out
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