Mahler. She gave him a surreptitious pat on the head as he stretched out under the table. He would never know the joys of a normal dog’s life.
“Mommy,” said a voice from under the table. Linus was playing there, unseen as usual. “Mommy.”
“Yes, darling?”
“Can I sit on Mahler?”
“No, darling.” Heather put on what she called her “stern face.” She peaked under the table. “You know better than that, Linus. Mahler is a sentient being, like you and me. Do you like it when Charlie sits on you?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
Apparently satisfied with this line of logic, Linus went back to playing with blocks or whatever he was doing under there. He was such a quiet child, Ruth thought; it was restful to have him about. Not the way her two children had been, certainly; they were grown now, but when they were young it was like having a pair of whirlwinds in the house. And her grandson, Marcia’s son Melvin, was just the same.
“How’s Melvin, by the way?” Heather asked, in her casually intuitive way.
Ruth shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Do you hear from Marcia?” Heather asked gently.
“Not often. Not nearly often enough, frankly. I’m worried about her,” Ruth said. Her anxious face contracted into tight little lines. “Although what’s new about that? I’m always worried about her.”
Marcia was her 23-year-old daughter, and she was anenigma and a mystery to her parents. At the ripe age of sixteen she had dropped out of high school and set off, as she put it, to “find her true self.” Apparently her true self was living somewhere in California, because that was where she went, with a battered suitcase and a head full of empty dreams. She drifted up and down the coast, getting odd jobs, writing back enthusiastic letters about her lifestyle and the “fantastically interesting” people she was meeting. One of those fantastically interesting people was Melvin’s father, whom Marcia met while she was working in a temporary position at a pizza joint. She stayed only a few weeks, then moved on—that was her rule, never too long in any one place—and a short while later found she was pregnant. Marcia was delighted. She hadn’t planned it, of course; she never planned anything; but she took it in her stride. Ruth and Sam were somewhat less delighted. To this day, the only thing they knew about Melvin’s father was that he had been young, around Marcia’s age, and that, according to their daughter, he made “awfully good pizza.”
“Hardly sterling qualifications,” Ruth would say miserably. “Hardly Harvard Law School, for goodness sakes. We had hoped for—for something a little
better
for our daughter.”
“It’s karmic,” Heather would reply. She was of a different generation than Ruth’s daughter, but sometimes she talked the same way. “It’s karmic, Ruth. You have to accept it. Marcia’s your daughter, not your toy. You have to accept her as she is.”
This was difficult for Ruth to do because she desperately wanted Marcia to be different. She wanted her to be well-educated and successful and married to a man who was the same. Instead, all she had were letters postmarked from California which detailed Marcia’s wanderings up and down the coastline from small town to small town, and which included details of her jobs at a Dairy Queen in Espolito (“
really
interesting—great people, and Melvin ate like a pig”), or a little health food restaurant on the beach near San Diego (“
heavenly
epanadas, honestly, the best I’ve ever tasted”).
“It’s not
fair
,” Ruth would wail. “It’s not fair! Wheredid she come from? She could have dropped in from another galaxy for all I know about her. Honestly, she just doesn’t fit into the
family.
”
The
family,
in Ruth’s world view, consisted of Ruth, Sam, and their son Jonathan. Jonathan was twenty-eight years old and, in Heather’s opinion, a stuck-up prig. He had been a pale shifty child with a nervous face
“Mommy,” said a voice from under the table. Linus was playing there, unseen as usual. “Mommy.”
“Yes, darling?”
“Can I sit on Mahler?”
“No, darling.” Heather put on what she called her “stern face.” She peaked under the table. “You know better than that, Linus. Mahler is a sentient being, like you and me. Do you like it when Charlie sits on you?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
Apparently satisfied with this line of logic, Linus went back to playing with blocks or whatever he was doing under there. He was such a quiet child, Ruth thought; it was restful to have him about. Not the way her two children had been, certainly; they were grown now, but when they were young it was like having a pair of whirlwinds in the house. And her grandson, Marcia’s son Melvin, was just the same.
“How’s Melvin, by the way?” Heather asked, in her casually intuitive way.
Ruth shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Do you hear from Marcia?” Heather asked gently.
“Not often. Not nearly often enough, frankly. I’m worried about her,” Ruth said. Her anxious face contracted into tight little lines. “Although what’s new about that? I’m always worried about her.”
Marcia was her 23-year-old daughter, and she was anenigma and a mystery to her parents. At the ripe age of sixteen she had dropped out of high school and set off, as she put it, to “find her true self.” Apparently her true self was living somewhere in California, because that was where she went, with a battered suitcase and a head full of empty dreams. She drifted up and down the coast, getting odd jobs, writing back enthusiastic letters about her lifestyle and the “fantastically interesting” people she was meeting. One of those fantastically interesting people was Melvin’s father, whom Marcia met while she was working in a temporary position at a pizza joint. She stayed only a few weeks, then moved on—that was her rule, never too long in any one place—and a short while later found she was pregnant. Marcia was delighted. She hadn’t planned it, of course; she never planned anything; but she took it in her stride. Ruth and Sam were somewhat less delighted. To this day, the only thing they knew about Melvin’s father was that he had been young, around Marcia’s age, and that, according to their daughter, he made “awfully good pizza.”
“Hardly sterling qualifications,” Ruth would say miserably. “Hardly Harvard Law School, for goodness sakes. We had hoped for—for something a little
better
for our daughter.”
“It’s karmic,” Heather would reply. She was of a different generation than Ruth’s daughter, but sometimes she talked the same way. “It’s karmic, Ruth. You have to accept it. Marcia’s your daughter, not your toy. You have to accept her as she is.”
This was difficult for Ruth to do because she desperately wanted Marcia to be different. She wanted her to be well-educated and successful and married to a man who was the same. Instead, all she had were letters postmarked from California which detailed Marcia’s wanderings up and down the coastline from small town to small town, and which included details of her jobs at a Dairy Queen in Espolito (“
really
interesting—great people, and Melvin ate like a pig”), or a little health food restaurant on the beach near San Diego (“
heavenly
epanadas, honestly, the best I’ve ever tasted”).
“It’s not
fair
,” Ruth would wail. “It’s not fair! Wheredid she come from? She could have dropped in from another galaxy for all I know about her. Honestly, she just doesn’t fit into the
family.
”
The
family,
in Ruth’s world view, consisted of Ruth, Sam, and their son Jonathan. Jonathan was twenty-eight years old and, in Heather’s opinion, a stuck-up prig. He had been a pale shifty child with a nervous face
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