pale tasteful dab of lipstick and blusher, a tiny hint of eyeliner. Has she been having charm sessions with Cherie? She wears pale green pants. It seems that all this time she’s had pale green eyes. She is still plump, which looks sweet.
“My God,” I say.
She agrees, “Oh. Yeah.”
“You look great.”
“Kind of a surprise, huh?”
I remember that I was on my way to my dad’s room and turn to go in that direction, but she falls in beside me. She bounces the orchid on her hip. “This is for your father. I had it, but now I’m giving it to him. Does he like orchids, do you know?”
I can feel myself staring, mouth open.
“Unprecedented, right?” she interprets. The orchid gets shifted. “Well, I have manic-depressive tendencies. And I take meds. And sometimes I need help to get back on track.”
I’m sure there are appropriate responses, like, “I guess we all do, some,” or, “I had a good friend that had that.” But I’m still too astonished to say anything.
We arrive at Daddy’s room side by side, but can’t go in that way, because the door isn’t wide enough.
Rita enters first, orchid held out straight. “Here you are, Ed. Honest, I’m so sorry.”
“Why, my dear,” says my father. “What a beautiful color. Are you on your way to your plane?”
“No, Ed.” She positions the orchid on a table and stands back appraisingly. “I guess I was real bitchy, right?”
“I don’t think so,” Daddy says. “Let us sit down. What do you mean by bitchy ? Isn’t that a handsome flower?”
Rita sits, exposing silver socks and turquoise strap sandals. Definitely, she’s been getting schooling from Cherie.
My father silences the television with the remote. He turns; he smiles a delighted smile. “My dear. What plane is it?”
She says, “No, Ed.”
“So hard on us. Travel. There was a book where they talked about simply putting you in a capsule. You could sleep the whole way. Wake up in Kazakhstan.”
Rita waits a minute. She digs something out of her pocket, a silver and ivory comb, and twiddles the comb-teeth to make it sing. “I guess I’m finding this interview sorta upsetting?”
Yeah , I think.
She snaps and unsnaps the comb.
“I would sure like it if . . .” Kazoom, a fingernail down the edge of the comb.
Maybe what we’re getting here is the original precollapse Rita. Low-key, nervous, anxious to please.
“Oh, hell. Everybody’s entitled to one bitch-day once a month during a bad PMS bout. Am I right? Right. The hell with all you clones.” Kazoom some more.
Well, not that anxious to please. “Rita, cut it out.” She flashes me a good smile and sticks the comb in her pocket.
My father says, “I think someday there will be an implosion of undifferentiated factoids.”
“Seems likely,” Rita examines him. “Some of the basic Ed is still there.”
“Much, my dear.”
“You always were a handsome bastard.”
I do a reassessment. Daddy is sprightly, trim, sturdy. Is he handsome?
Rita fixes on me. “This the way it usually is?” She flexes an eyebrow in Daddy’s direction.
“It varies.”
“Boy, did I ever adore him, once. When we were on the dig in Thebes. A great scene; maybe I should tell you. But maybe not.”
I wait.
“Ah, the hell with it. It’ll wait. You’ll be around here awhile?”
I tell her yes and she says, “Dinner calls, acid reflux falls, keep cool,” and exits in a flurry. Her hair still wants to stand up straight.
It is going to be an engrossing few days at the museum.
Chapter 7
A hassled Egon Rothskellar is trying to induce the right atmosphere around his dinner table.
The right atmosphere would be one of sophistication and intelligent discourse, rising above the fact of Marcus Broussard, whom everybody at this table saw spread-eagled and, we are told, finally dead in Egon’s garden just three nights ago.
“Any news, Egon?” Scott asks.
Egon jumps. “News, Scott? I don’t think so. What kind of news would that
“My God,” I say.
She agrees, “Oh. Yeah.”
“You look great.”
“Kind of a surprise, huh?”
I remember that I was on my way to my dad’s room and turn to go in that direction, but she falls in beside me. She bounces the orchid on her hip. “This is for your father. I had it, but now I’m giving it to him. Does he like orchids, do you know?”
I can feel myself staring, mouth open.
“Unprecedented, right?” she interprets. The orchid gets shifted. “Well, I have manic-depressive tendencies. And I take meds. And sometimes I need help to get back on track.”
I’m sure there are appropriate responses, like, “I guess we all do, some,” or, “I had a good friend that had that.” But I’m still too astonished to say anything.
We arrive at Daddy’s room side by side, but can’t go in that way, because the door isn’t wide enough.
Rita enters first, orchid held out straight. “Here you are, Ed. Honest, I’m so sorry.”
“Why, my dear,” says my father. “What a beautiful color. Are you on your way to your plane?”
“No, Ed.” She positions the orchid on a table and stands back appraisingly. “I guess I was real bitchy, right?”
“I don’t think so,” Daddy says. “Let us sit down. What do you mean by bitchy ? Isn’t that a handsome flower?”
Rita sits, exposing silver socks and turquoise strap sandals. Definitely, she’s been getting schooling from Cherie.
My father silences the television with the remote. He turns; he smiles a delighted smile. “My dear. What plane is it?”
She says, “No, Ed.”
“So hard on us. Travel. There was a book where they talked about simply putting you in a capsule. You could sleep the whole way. Wake up in Kazakhstan.”
Rita waits a minute. She digs something out of her pocket, a silver and ivory comb, and twiddles the comb-teeth to make it sing. “I guess I’m finding this interview sorta upsetting?”
Yeah , I think.
She snaps and unsnaps the comb.
“I would sure like it if . . .” Kazoom, a fingernail down the edge of the comb.
Maybe what we’re getting here is the original precollapse Rita. Low-key, nervous, anxious to please.
“Oh, hell. Everybody’s entitled to one bitch-day once a month during a bad PMS bout. Am I right? Right. The hell with all you clones.” Kazoom some more.
Well, not that anxious to please. “Rita, cut it out.” She flashes me a good smile and sticks the comb in her pocket.
My father says, “I think someday there will be an implosion of undifferentiated factoids.”
“Seems likely,” Rita examines him. “Some of the basic Ed is still there.”
“Much, my dear.”
“You always were a handsome bastard.”
I do a reassessment. Daddy is sprightly, trim, sturdy. Is he handsome?
Rita fixes on me. “This the way it usually is?” She flexes an eyebrow in Daddy’s direction.
“It varies.”
“Boy, did I ever adore him, once. When we were on the dig in Thebes. A great scene; maybe I should tell you. But maybe not.”
I wait.
“Ah, the hell with it. It’ll wait. You’ll be around here awhile?”
I tell her yes and she says, “Dinner calls, acid reflux falls, keep cool,” and exits in a flurry. Her hair still wants to stand up straight.
It is going to be an engrossing few days at the museum.
Chapter 7
A hassled Egon Rothskellar is trying to induce the right atmosphere around his dinner table.
The right atmosphere would be one of sophistication and intelligent discourse, rising above the fact of Marcus Broussard, whom everybody at this table saw spread-eagled and, we are told, finally dead in Egon’s garden just three nights ago.
“Any news, Egon?” Scott asks.
Egon jumps. “News, Scott? I don’t think so. What kind of news would that
Similar Books
