lot of detail, and then they have to talk about the accidents. There was one where somebody fell out of a window, and one where the beauty parlor burned down, and then something else about a gas heater—really a lot of weird things, Sue, and now this latest one, with Mrs. Dexter and the oyster.”
Susie is all ears about the accidents, which I describe pretty thoroughly, including the glass in the oyster. I don’t tell her about Daddy’s woman in the net. I pretend to myself I omit this because Sue is so fond of my father, and why worry her unduly? But maybe I just don’t want to think about it.
When we’re back to discussing the clients, she asks, “How old is old , Carly? And who’s your favorite?”
It’s like her to want to know which one I like best instead of who makes the most trouble. I tell her old is like Daddy, and my favorites are the ones that love Daddy: that’s Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. La Salle and Mrs. Dexter. They call themselves the trio because they’re his fan club; Mrs. Dexter is bent and smart and cross at me right now, and Mrs. Cohen is small and chirpy. And Mrs. La Salle looks like the news-reels of royalty, maybe Monacan royalty; there’s a duchess or princess or something who looks just like Mrs. La Salle, with a straight back and modernist jewelry and a bright blue superior gaze.
“And, Sue, there are the two old men; they hide behind their doors and say, ‘Who is it? Who is it?’; they’re the only ones that give me grief . . .”
She cuts in here with, “Listen, Carly, when you see my boy, be nice to him, will you?” and I decide it’s time to end the conversation, because when she talks about me and Robbie, it is the only time Sue almost criticizes me. “I love you, Sue; lots of kisses.” She always tells me to be good to Robbie, when the actual truth was that nobody was good to anybody between me and Rob; we were too much alike. He’s a can-do type from having taken care of Susie, who is loving but scattered, and I’m the same way from tending to Daddy, so that between Rob and me, we could never figure out who should do what to whom.
But it still hurts—the fact that he and I aren’t together anymore. When you’ve spent your whole life with someone—living next door to them, and then sharing parents. Susie was for a long time the only mother I had. And my father, who mostly couldn’t remember that he was a father, would sometimes pull himself together and decide he should take me with him to Egypt. And then he would take Rob, too, who didn’t have a father. Daddy really liked Rob, and Rob truly admired my dad. And Rob got into Egyptian archaeology. He and I wanted to go back to Egypt and do good for the populace; Rob would be a doctor, and I would be a social worker or maybe Peace Corps. We were very heavy about those plans. I like remembering them.
I go back to my corridor. I still haven’t dispensed vitamins and Tylenol and antacids to Mr. Rice and Mr. Taylor, the two who hide behind their barricades. “Hi,” I call out cheerily, “it’s just me.” Mr. Rice begins making echoing noises, as if he’s dropping a box full of nails into a tin wastebasket, but I’m not worried, I know what’s happening; he’s undoing the four bolts on the inside of his door.
I finish off my morning duties by writing a postcard to Aunt Crystal. I’m careful not to be too specific about Daddy’s condition because I don’t want her up here on the next plane; she’ll be irritated enough learning that I’ve taken a job at the Manor. I can hear her voice now: “Carla, that is ridiculous, when I was your age . . .” When Aunt Crystal was my age she was halfway through her graduate librarian’s degree, but I guess even she would admit that’s not the right career for me.
Aunt Crystal lives in Venice, California. That seems a peculiar place for Aunt Crystal to live, but that’s where the old family cottage is, the one she and Daddy knew as kids. Back in Daddy’s
Susie is all ears about the accidents, which I describe pretty thoroughly, including the glass in the oyster. I don’t tell her about Daddy’s woman in the net. I pretend to myself I omit this because Sue is so fond of my father, and why worry her unduly? But maybe I just don’t want to think about it.
When we’re back to discussing the clients, she asks, “How old is old , Carly? And who’s your favorite?”
It’s like her to want to know which one I like best instead of who makes the most trouble. I tell her old is like Daddy, and my favorites are the ones that love Daddy: that’s Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. La Salle and Mrs. Dexter. They call themselves the trio because they’re his fan club; Mrs. Dexter is bent and smart and cross at me right now, and Mrs. Cohen is small and chirpy. And Mrs. La Salle looks like the news-reels of royalty, maybe Monacan royalty; there’s a duchess or princess or something who looks just like Mrs. La Salle, with a straight back and modernist jewelry and a bright blue superior gaze.
“And, Sue, there are the two old men; they hide behind their doors and say, ‘Who is it? Who is it?’; they’re the only ones that give me grief . . .”
She cuts in here with, “Listen, Carly, when you see my boy, be nice to him, will you?” and I decide it’s time to end the conversation, because when she talks about me and Robbie, it is the only time Sue almost criticizes me. “I love you, Sue; lots of kisses.” She always tells me to be good to Robbie, when the actual truth was that nobody was good to anybody between me and Rob; we were too much alike. He’s a can-do type from having taken care of Susie, who is loving but scattered, and I’m the same way from tending to Daddy, so that between Rob and me, we could never figure out who should do what to whom.
But it still hurts—the fact that he and I aren’t together anymore. When you’ve spent your whole life with someone—living next door to them, and then sharing parents. Susie was for a long time the only mother I had. And my father, who mostly couldn’t remember that he was a father, would sometimes pull himself together and decide he should take me with him to Egypt. And then he would take Rob, too, who didn’t have a father. Daddy really liked Rob, and Rob truly admired my dad. And Rob got into Egyptian archaeology. He and I wanted to go back to Egypt and do good for the populace; Rob would be a doctor, and I would be a social worker or maybe Peace Corps. We were very heavy about those plans. I like remembering them.
I go back to my corridor. I still haven’t dispensed vitamins and Tylenol and antacids to Mr. Rice and Mr. Taylor, the two who hide behind their barricades. “Hi,” I call out cheerily, “it’s just me.” Mr. Rice begins making echoing noises, as if he’s dropping a box full of nails into a tin wastebasket, but I’m not worried, I know what’s happening; he’s undoing the four bolts on the inside of his door.
I finish off my morning duties by writing a postcard to Aunt Crystal. I’m careful not to be too specific about Daddy’s condition because I don’t want her up here on the next plane; she’ll be irritated enough learning that I’ve taken a job at the Manor. I can hear her voice now: “Carla, that is ridiculous, when I was your age . . .” When Aunt Crystal was my age she was halfway through her graduate librarian’s degree, but I guess even she would admit that’s not the right career for me.
Aunt Crystal lives in Venice, California. That seems a peculiar place for Aunt Crystal to live, but that’s where the old family cottage is, the one she and Daddy knew as kids. Back in Daddy’s
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