them away. (Don’t you just love discovering a sale item you’d forgotten you had? If that isn’t guilt-free shopping, I don’t know what is!)
Whatever Sushi’s dastardly deed had been, and there surely had been one, I decided I’d rather deal with it in the morning; so I said a quick good-night to Mother and went upstairs. Despite my orders to Mother about not talking about the church fiasco, my brain hadn’t got the message.
Why , it asked me, didn’t you get sick? You don’t even need the excuse of food that’s gone off to throw up, do you? And yet you were one of the few who kept it down!
Of course, so had Mother, which only meant she hadn’t partaken of whatever the particular dish was that carried the nasty bug. And Martinette had felt good enough to snatch his egg and run…and die.
A cursory scan of my bedroom indicated nothing had been disturbed—the Donald Pliner shoes still in their box on the floor. ( Phewww! ) I shut off my brain, clicked off the light, stumbled over to the bed, and fell in, not bothering to take off my clothes.
My head hit the pillow in delicious anticipation of deep slumber, but an instant later I bolted upright.
Sushi had peed on my pillow!
“ Sushi! ” I said, not calling the dog, rather invoking her as a nemesis, the way Seinfeld used to with Newman.
It was the little pooch’s ultimate “gotcha,” which she employed only to show her most extreme displeasure—as when, a while back, we had taken in an orphaned dog named Brad Pitt-bull until a new owner could be found. She had marked her territory, all right—with my pillow as her territory.
I ran into the bathroom and scrubbed my face—which, by the way, was a rarity for me, since I often opt for leaving my makeup on at night. (Not a suggestion—an admission.)
Then, muttering, “I’ll get you later, you dog you,” I made for the guest room and crawled under the covers…
…where I found Sushi hiding.
She sheepishly inched her way to my face, then licked it. All over. And I forgave her, of course, kissing her furry little forehead, tucking her close to me. People were sick and dying, and I had a warm doggie who loved me.
Anyway, I’ll take a piddled-on pillow over gnawed-up Pliners any day.
The next morning, Sunday, I awoke with a start, remembering that I had a lunch date at noon with my BFF, Tina. And as she would no doubt be concerned over my wan appearance, I would need several hours to get ready to look healthy and happy.
The first clue that something wasn’t right in the Borne household came when I walked by Mother’s bedroom and saw that her bed was made.
Why suspicious? Well, she never made the bed, leaving that task to me—so that meant it hadn’t been slept in.
Then downstairs, in the living room, I found that my childhood board games had been dragged out of the front closet and scattered around the floor, as if Christmas had come way early, the presents all been opened, but the tree had been stolen.
I wondered if Mother had been so keyed-up that she couldn’t sleep. Had she stayed up all night, playing games? Wasn’t hard to envision her rolling the dice, making a move, then running around the game board to play against herself.
I found Mother in the dining room, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, her eyes wild behind her large glasses, hair disheveled—as if maybe she’d inserted a wet finger into a light socket. She loomed like God Almighty over the Duncan Phyfe table, where, taking up most of the surface, was a large cardboard replica of the inside of St. Mary’s Church!
Vivian Borne had been a busy girl.
The model was quite detailed: Popsicle stick pews; cereal box pulpit (single-serving-size—Cocoa Puffs); ditto for the lectern (Froot Loops); empty tuna can celebrant’s chairs (lids opened for back rests); and taped-together toilet tissue tubes to represent the tall spiral staircase.
Into this miniature playhouse, Mother had placed an assortment of board-game
Whatever Sushi’s dastardly deed had been, and there surely had been one, I decided I’d rather deal with it in the morning; so I said a quick good-night to Mother and went upstairs. Despite my orders to Mother about not talking about the church fiasco, my brain hadn’t got the message.
Why , it asked me, didn’t you get sick? You don’t even need the excuse of food that’s gone off to throw up, do you? And yet you were one of the few who kept it down!
Of course, so had Mother, which only meant she hadn’t partaken of whatever the particular dish was that carried the nasty bug. And Martinette had felt good enough to snatch his egg and run…and die.
A cursory scan of my bedroom indicated nothing had been disturbed—the Donald Pliner shoes still in their box on the floor. ( Phewww! ) I shut off my brain, clicked off the light, stumbled over to the bed, and fell in, not bothering to take off my clothes.
My head hit the pillow in delicious anticipation of deep slumber, but an instant later I bolted upright.
Sushi had peed on my pillow!
“ Sushi! ” I said, not calling the dog, rather invoking her as a nemesis, the way Seinfeld used to with Newman.
It was the little pooch’s ultimate “gotcha,” which she employed only to show her most extreme displeasure—as when, a while back, we had taken in an orphaned dog named Brad Pitt-bull until a new owner could be found. She had marked her territory, all right—with my pillow as her territory.
I ran into the bathroom and scrubbed my face—which, by the way, was a rarity for me, since I often opt for leaving my makeup on at night. (Not a suggestion—an admission.)
Then, muttering, “I’ll get you later, you dog you,” I made for the guest room and crawled under the covers…
…where I found Sushi hiding.
She sheepishly inched her way to my face, then licked it. All over. And I forgave her, of course, kissing her furry little forehead, tucking her close to me. People were sick and dying, and I had a warm doggie who loved me.
Anyway, I’ll take a piddled-on pillow over gnawed-up Pliners any day.
The next morning, Sunday, I awoke with a start, remembering that I had a lunch date at noon with my BFF, Tina. And as she would no doubt be concerned over my wan appearance, I would need several hours to get ready to look healthy and happy.
The first clue that something wasn’t right in the Borne household came when I walked by Mother’s bedroom and saw that her bed was made.
Why suspicious? Well, she never made the bed, leaving that task to me—so that meant it hadn’t been slept in.
Then downstairs, in the living room, I found that my childhood board games had been dragged out of the front closet and scattered around the floor, as if Christmas had come way early, the presents all been opened, but the tree had been stolen.
I wondered if Mother had been so keyed-up that she couldn’t sleep. Had she stayed up all night, playing games? Wasn’t hard to envision her rolling the dice, making a move, then running around the game board to play against herself.
I found Mother in the dining room, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, her eyes wild behind her large glasses, hair disheveled—as if maybe she’d inserted a wet finger into a light socket. She loomed like God Almighty over the Duncan Phyfe table, where, taking up most of the surface, was a large cardboard replica of the inside of St. Mary’s Church!
Vivian Borne had been a busy girl.
The model was quite detailed: Popsicle stick pews; cereal box pulpit (single-serving-size—Cocoa Puffs); ditto for the lectern (Froot Loops); empty tuna can celebrant’s chairs (lids opened for back rests); and taped-together toilet tissue tubes to represent the tall spiral staircase.
Into this miniature playhouse, Mother had placed an assortment of board-game
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