All-Season Edie by Annabel Lyon Page B

Hawaii, Harvey?” Grandma asks Grandpa.
    We all stop chewing and look at Grandpa.
    â€œNineteen sixty-four,” Grandpa says. “We climbed a volcano and went surfing. Your grandma had a white bathing suit and sunglasses with big white frames, and everyone thought she must be a movie star.”
    We all start chewing again.
    â€œAnd this one?” Grandma says, taking another slice. She’s only had a couple of bites of her Hawaiian, but who’s going to tell her to finish it?
    â€œItalian Meat-Lovers’ Special,” Dad says. This is his favorite.
    Grandma slices off a tiny bite with her knife and puts it in her mouth with her fork. After she swallows, she says, “Isn’t that interesting. I don’t remember eating anything like that when we were in Italy, do you, Harvey?”
    â€œNineteen eighty-one,” Grandpa says. “All those stray cats in the Foro Romano. I tried to pet one and it bit me and we had to go to a clinic for a tetanus shot, and the nurses all looked like movie stars. At the restaurant that night we ordered white truffle risotto because my hand was so bandaged up I couldn’t hold my knife to cut my food.”
    â€œTry this one, Grandma,” I say, pointing at the third box, my favorite. “It’s butter chicken.”
    â€œCurried pizza?” Grandma says. I think she’s gone a little pale, but by candlelight it’s hard to tell. “I’ll put a slice aside for my lunch tomorrow, Edie love,” she says. “I don’t think I could eat another bite right now.”
    â€œIndia,” Grandpa says. “Nineteen seventy-six. We got parasites. We couldn’t for the life of us figure out why the bathroom had two toilets side by side, but we sure were grateful in the end.”
    When I get it, I laugh and clap my hands. Dexter pushes her plate away. “Where were you, Dad?” I ask. “Did you get to go to India?”
    â€œNot that trip,” Dad says. “But I remember lots of other great trips we took together. Mexico, New York, Australia.”
    â€œAw!” Dexter says, jealous.
    â€œYou were never in Australia,” Grandpa says, helping himself to another slice. He seems happy now, remembering. “That was just me and your Grandma. She had a white bathing suit and sunglasses with big white frames, and everyone thought she must be a movie star. We tried to go surfing, but the beach was closed because of a shark sighting.”
    â€œI know!” Dad says. “I spent the whole morning on the beach with binoculars, trying to see the shark.”
    â€œI’ll tell you who was with us that trip,” Grandpa says. “James. James was there. He would have been, what, about twelve? We had a good time, the three of us.”
    James is my Dad’s name.
    â€œButter chicken,” Grandpa says with relish, taking another bite. “Did you say that was your favorite, Albert? Have to write that down. I think it’s my favorite too.”
    Grandma excuses herself from the table. Mom goes after her.
    After supper, Dexter and I clean up without being asked. The only downside to dinner in Grandma’s house is that you have to do all the dishes by hand because they’re too old and fragile and special for the dishwasher.
    â€œGrandma was crying,” Dexter says. She’s washing.
    â€œMaybe she’s sick,” I say. I’m drying. “She barely ate any supper.”
    â€œDon’t be dumb,” Dexter says. “She’s exhausted. I heard Dad telling Mom. Grandpa keeps forgetting more and more things, and Grandma’s afraid to leave him alone in case he lets the bathtub overflow or forgets to turn the stove off and burns the house down.”
    â€œThat must be why—” I say, but then I remember to stop myself. Fortunately, Dad comes into the kitchen right at that moment.
    â€œIce cream!” he says. He’s doing that hearty thing again