course they do," her mother replied. "You really gave them a workout."
They were sitting together in the study, after Sam had gone to bed. From the kitchen they could hear the sound of dishes rattling and the laughter of Dr. Krupnik and his brother. It was Anastasia's father's night to do the dishes, and Uncle George was helping, even though Uncle George said that in thirty years of marriage, Aunt Rose had never once asked him to wash a single dish.
"Not even
one?
Not even maybe an ashtray or something?" Anastasia had asked in disbelief.
"Nope, not one." Uncle George shook his head.
"Good grief. Dad has to do them two nights a week. It's part of our family rules. Of course," Anastasia added, "every family is different." But she had added that only to be polite. Secretly, she thought that any family in which the husband never washed a single dish in thirty years was
extremely
weird, even if he
did
look like Clark Gable.
Anastasia wondered if the real Clark Gable had ever washed the dishes—before he died, of course. Did he come home from the movie studio, take off his Rhett Butler costume and make-up, eat supper with his wife, and then wash the dishes? Probably not. Probably his wife didn't either. They would have had a maid, Anastasia decided. Or else they ate takeout food: Kentucky Fried Chicken, or pizza, or Chinese food, every night. Anastasia sometimes wished that her family were rich enough to eat takeout food every single night.
Maybe up in heaven, the real Clark Gable would run into Aunt Rose. She would notice how much he looked like Uncle George, of course, and she would introduce herself, and they could have dinner together or something.
No, they'd go to a movie, Anastasia decided. Not dinner. Aunt Rose probably wasn't into going out to dinner, not after her recent experience with Sal Monella.
"You look so much like my husband," Aunt Rose would say to Clark Gable.
No, that wasn't right. My
late
husband? But "late" meant that the person had died. And Uncle George hadn't died—Aunt Rose had.
"You look so much like my early husband," she might say. Maybe that was the way it worked.
"
Anastasia?
"
It was her mother's voice. Anastasia shook herself awake and was surprised to find that she was still sitting on the couch in the study.
"Sweetie, you fell asleep. Maybe you ought to go on up to bed. You really wore yourself out this afternoon in the garage."
Anastasia stood up groggily. "Yeah, I think I'll go to bed.
"Mom?" she asked, as she turned to go upstairs. "I'm really doing a lot better, aren't I? On the rope, I mean. I got about hallway up that last time. Maybe even three-quarters of the way up. Didn't I?"
Her mother nodded. "I'm sure you got halfway, Anastasia. And tomorrow, when you practice again, you'll go even farther."
9
"'O world,'" recited Anastasia dramatically, "'I cannot hold thee close enough!'"
"Hold it," Mr. Rafferty said. "I wonder if a gesture would be appropriate there. If you sort of
flung
your arms out..."
Anastasia cringed. "I don't think I'm the flinging sort, Mr. Rafferty," she said.
"Well," he replied with a disappointed sigh, "all right. Go on."
"'Thy winds! Thy wide gray skies!'" Anastasia went on.
"Maybe if you flung your arms out there, on 'skies'..."
Anastasia groaned inwardly. Mr. Rafferty really was into emoting. She didn't mind
saying
the poem in front of the visiting educators—she didn't even have stage fright anymore, practicing in front of the class. But she sure wasn't going to emote, and fling her arms around.
It was, Anastasia thought, really a neat poem. Imagine actually writing that: "O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!" Anastasia had
felt
like that a lot: happy, and in love with the whole world; but she never in a million years would have thought of the right words, the way the poet had.
On the other hand, Anastasia's father—himself a pretty famous poet—had not reacted very well to her recitation when she had practiced at home. He had made
They were sitting together in the study, after Sam had gone to bed. From the kitchen they could hear the sound of dishes rattling and the laughter of Dr. Krupnik and his brother. It was Anastasia's father's night to do the dishes, and Uncle George was helping, even though Uncle George said that in thirty years of marriage, Aunt Rose had never once asked him to wash a single dish.
"Not even
one?
Not even maybe an ashtray or something?" Anastasia had asked in disbelief.
"Nope, not one." Uncle George shook his head.
"Good grief. Dad has to do them two nights a week. It's part of our family rules. Of course," Anastasia added, "every family is different." But she had added that only to be polite. Secretly, she thought that any family in which the husband never washed a single dish in thirty years was
extremely
weird, even if he
did
look like Clark Gable.
Anastasia wondered if the real Clark Gable had ever washed the dishes—before he died, of course. Did he come home from the movie studio, take off his Rhett Butler costume and make-up, eat supper with his wife, and then wash the dishes? Probably not. Probably his wife didn't either. They would have had a maid, Anastasia decided. Or else they ate takeout food: Kentucky Fried Chicken, or pizza, or Chinese food, every night. Anastasia sometimes wished that her family were rich enough to eat takeout food every single night.
Maybe up in heaven, the real Clark Gable would run into Aunt Rose. She would notice how much he looked like Uncle George, of course, and she would introduce herself, and they could have dinner together or something.
No, they'd go to a movie, Anastasia decided. Not dinner. Aunt Rose probably wasn't into going out to dinner, not after her recent experience with Sal Monella.
"You look so much like my husband," Aunt Rose would say to Clark Gable.
No, that wasn't right. My
late
husband? But "late" meant that the person had died. And Uncle George hadn't died—Aunt Rose had.
"You look so much like my early husband," she might say. Maybe that was the way it worked.
"
Anastasia?
"
It was her mother's voice. Anastasia shook herself awake and was surprised to find that she was still sitting on the couch in the study.
"Sweetie, you fell asleep. Maybe you ought to go on up to bed. You really wore yourself out this afternoon in the garage."
Anastasia stood up groggily. "Yeah, I think I'll go to bed.
"Mom?" she asked, as she turned to go upstairs. "I'm really doing a lot better, aren't I? On the rope, I mean. I got about hallway up that last time. Maybe even three-quarters of the way up. Didn't I?"
Her mother nodded. "I'm sure you got halfway, Anastasia. And tomorrow, when you practice again, you'll go even farther."
9
"'O world,'" recited Anastasia dramatically, "'I cannot hold thee close enough!'"
"Hold it," Mr. Rafferty said. "I wonder if a gesture would be appropriate there. If you sort of
flung
your arms out..."
Anastasia cringed. "I don't think I'm the flinging sort, Mr. Rafferty," she said.
"Well," he replied with a disappointed sigh, "all right. Go on."
"'Thy winds! Thy wide gray skies!'" Anastasia went on.
"Maybe if you flung your arms out there, on 'skies'..."
Anastasia groaned inwardly. Mr. Rafferty really was into emoting. She didn't mind
saying
the poem in front of the visiting educators—she didn't even have stage fright anymore, practicing in front of the class. But she sure wasn't going to emote, and fling her arms around.
It was, Anastasia thought, really a neat poem. Imagine actually writing that: "O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!" Anastasia had
felt
like that a lot: happy, and in love with the whole world; but she never in a million years would have thought of the right words, the way the poet had.
On the other hand, Anastasia's father—himself a pretty famous poet—had not reacted very well to her recitation when she had practiced at home. He had made
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