Valerie says.
“Really?”
“I don’t think she cared.”
“Really?”
“You know what it’s like when you’re that age. You don’t think of anyone but yourself.”
“If I were eighteen and came home and found my mom naked in the kitchen with her best friend, I’d care plenty.”
“So you’ll tell her later what we were doing. She’ll get it. She’s a good kid.”
Irene sighs. “I know she is. Hey, she’s going rock climbing for a whole weekend, unchaperoned. What do you think?”
“I think it’s great.”
Irene says nothing, but her face says, Wrong answer .
“Do you remember what you were doing at eighteen?” Val asks.
“Probably still playing with dolls.”
“Noooo. As I recall it, you were screwing the drummer in that awful band every hour of every day.”
“Not every hour of every day.”
“Well, it sure seemed like it.”
“It was a different time. Not so dangerous. And sex was … it was like a handshake.
“You know, I’d play dolls now if anyone would play with me. Want to play dolls?”
“Nah. Paper dolls, I’d play. Because I’m only interested in changing their outfits. Remember those little hats paper dolls had, with the slits you put over their heads?”
“You can change outfits on real dolls, too.”
“Too much work. I liked the tabs. Easy on, easy off.” Valerie looks at her watch. “Listen, I have to go. Forget about Don. You’ll write one of your dopey ads and be seeing someone in a week. I just wish you’d write a real ad, sometime.”
“I do write real ads!”
“No, you write facetious ads because it’s so hard for you to say anything serious when you feel something deeply. And also so, if you get hurt, you can say, ‘Ha, I didn’t mean it anyway.’ ”
“Thank you, Dr. Val. Will we be seeing you on the Oprah Winfrey Network soon?”
“It’s true that you do that! And as long as I’m being Dr. Val, don’t worry about Sadie. She doesn’t have to listen to you anymore, anyway. Legally, I mean.”
“I know. Don’t tell her.”
“Believe me, she knows. And you know what else? You need to let her do some serious hating on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she needs to feel free to hate you. Otherwise, she’ll never free herself from you.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say. You have sons.”
“Well, sons do it, too! My sons had to hate me so they could leave and grow up. And they still hate me sometimes. They really hurt my feelings, sometimes! I’ve told you about stuff they’ve done. Come on, Irene. You know that’s the way it goes. Kids are cruel to their parents. You did it, too. When your father used to come and visit, you’d be mean to him, if not in deed, then in thought. Then after he left, you’d be racked with guilt because you loved him.”
“Who said I was so mean to him?”
“ You did!”
“Well.”
“I have to go, hon.”
“I know.”
Valerie comes over to Irene and hugs her. “Oh, buck up, bucky, things aren’t so bad.”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming over. And for the burlesque show.”
Irene watches from the kitchen window as Valerie walks down the sidewalk and rounds the corner. She dumps out the remains of both her and Valerie’s glasses. Turns on the TV and walks away from it. It’s only the sound she wants, the illusion that someone is in the next room.
At nine-thirty, Irene climbs into bed and opens the cookbook Henry Bliss assigned her to read. She’s to pick out the most enticing-sounding appetizers and make copies of the recipes. “Make sure they’re exotic and beautiful!” he told her. That’s what he always tells her. Last time she gave him recipes, he held one up between two fingers and far away from himself, as though it were not only distasteful but malodorous. “ Pizza loaf?” he said. “I ask for elegant appetizers, and you bring me a recipe for pizza loaf ?”
“I tried it!” Irene said. “It’s good! And it has pesto and tapenade! Isn’t that a little
“Really?”
“I don’t think she cared.”
“Really?”
“You know what it’s like when you’re that age. You don’t think of anyone but yourself.”
“If I were eighteen and came home and found my mom naked in the kitchen with her best friend, I’d care plenty.”
“So you’ll tell her later what we were doing. She’ll get it. She’s a good kid.”
Irene sighs. “I know she is. Hey, she’s going rock climbing for a whole weekend, unchaperoned. What do you think?”
“I think it’s great.”
Irene says nothing, but her face says, Wrong answer .
“Do you remember what you were doing at eighteen?” Val asks.
“Probably still playing with dolls.”
“Noooo. As I recall it, you were screwing the drummer in that awful band every hour of every day.”
“Not every hour of every day.”
“Well, it sure seemed like it.”
“It was a different time. Not so dangerous. And sex was … it was like a handshake.
“You know, I’d play dolls now if anyone would play with me. Want to play dolls?”
“Nah. Paper dolls, I’d play. Because I’m only interested in changing their outfits. Remember those little hats paper dolls had, with the slits you put over their heads?”
“You can change outfits on real dolls, too.”
“Too much work. I liked the tabs. Easy on, easy off.” Valerie looks at her watch. “Listen, I have to go. Forget about Don. You’ll write one of your dopey ads and be seeing someone in a week. I just wish you’d write a real ad, sometime.”
“I do write real ads!”
“No, you write facetious ads because it’s so hard for you to say anything serious when you feel something deeply. And also so, if you get hurt, you can say, ‘Ha, I didn’t mean it anyway.’ ”
“Thank you, Dr. Val. Will we be seeing you on the Oprah Winfrey Network soon?”
“It’s true that you do that! And as long as I’m being Dr. Val, don’t worry about Sadie. She doesn’t have to listen to you anymore, anyway. Legally, I mean.”
“I know. Don’t tell her.”
“Believe me, she knows. And you know what else? You need to let her do some serious hating on you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she needs to feel free to hate you. Otherwise, she’ll never free herself from you.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say. You have sons.”
“Well, sons do it, too! My sons had to hate me so they could leave and grow up. And they still hate me sometimes. They really hurt my feelings, sometimes! I’ve told you about stuff they’ve done. Come on, Irene. You know that’s the way it goes. Kids are cruel to their parents. You did it, too. When your father used to come and visit, you’d be mean to him, if not in deed, then in thought. Then after he left, you’d be racked with guilt because you loved him.”
“Who said I was so mean to him?”
“ You did!”
“Well.”
“I have to go, hon.”
“I know.”
Valerie comes over to Irene and hugs her. “Oh, buck up, bucky, things aren’t so bad.”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming over. And for the burlesque show.”
Irene watches from the kitchen window as Valerie walks down the sidewalk and rounds the corner. She dumps out the remains of both her and Valerie’s glasses. Turns on the TV and walks away from it. It’s only the sound she wants, the illusion that someone is in the next room.
At nine-thirty, Irene climbs into bed and opens the cookbook Henry Bliss assigned her to read. She’s to pick out the most enticing-sounding appetizers and make copies of the recipes. “Make sure they’re exotic and beautiful!” he told her. That’s what he always tells her. Last time she gave him recipes, he held one up between two fingers and far away from himself, as though it were not only distasteful but malodorous. “ Pizza loaf?” he said. “I ask for elegant appetizers, and you bring me a recipe for pizza loaf ?”
“I tried it!” Irene said. “It’s good! And it has pesto and tapenade! Isn’t that a little
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