frozen pizza. Or a can of baked beans. Hot dogs.
“No.” He was not going to eat her frozen pizza, or her baked beans.
He wanted to tell her that not even remotely was this how people lived, that this is why he had not come here for the last five years, because he couldn’t stand it. He wanted to tell her that people came back to their house after a tense day, had a drink, made warm food. They turned up the thermostat, spoke to each other, called friends. Jim’s kids were always running up and down the stairs: Mom, have you seen my green sweater; Tell Emily to give me the hair dryer; Dad, you said I could stay out till eleven; even Larry, the quietest one, laughing, Uncle Bob, remember that tepee joke you told me when I was real young? (At Sturbridge Village, wriggling themselves into the stocks and pillories: Take a picture, take a picture! Zachary, so skinny that both legs fit into one ankle hold, quiet as a mouse.)
“Will he go to jail, Bobby?” Susan stopped knitting and looked at him with a face that seemed suddenly young.
“Ah, Susie.” Bob took his hands out of his pockets, leaned forward. “I doubt it. It’s a misdemeanor.”
“He was so scared in that cell. I’ve never seen him so scared. I think he would die if he had to go to jail.”
“Jim says Charlie Tibbetts is great. It’s going to be all right, Susie.”
The dog came into the room, looking guilty again, as if eating her dog food was something she should be beaten for. She lay down and put her head on Susan’s foot. Bob could not remember seeing such a sad dog. He thought of the tiny yapping dog that lived below him in New York. He tried to think of his apartment, his friends, his work in New York—none of it seemed real. He watched while his sister started knitting again, then said, “How’s your job?” Susan had been an optometrist for years, and he realized he had no idea what it was like for her.
Susan pulled slowly on the yarn. “We baby boomers get older, there’s always business. I’ve had a few Somalians come in,” she added. “Not many, but a few.”
After a moment, Bob asked, “What are they like?”
She gave him a glance as though it might be a trick question. “A little secretive, in my opinion. They don’t make appointments. Wary. They don’t know what a keratometer is. One woman acted like I was putting a spell on her.”
“I don’t know what a keratometer is.”
“Nobody does, Bob. But they know I’m not putting a spell on them.” Susan’s knitting needles began to move quickly. “They might try and negotiate the price, which blew me away the first time it happened. Then I heard that’s what they do, barter. No credit cards. They don’t believe in credit. Excuse me. They don’t believe in interest . So they pay cash. I don’t know where they get it.” Susan shook her head at Bob. “Look, they kept coming and coming and there was hardly enough money, well, there wasn’t enough money, and so the city had to get more from the Feds, and really, Shirley Falls, when you consider how unprepared it was, has been great to them. It gives every liberal in town a great cause, which they need, of course—as you know yourself, being a liberal, they always need a cause.” She stopped her knitting. Her face, as she looked up, had a faint overlay of childlike bewilderment and so once again seemed young. “Can I say something?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What I want to say, what I notice, and it puzzles me, are the people in town who are so happy to let everyone know they’re helping the Somalians. Like the Prescotts. They used to own a shoe shop up in South Market, maybe it’s gone out of business now, I don’t know. But Carolyn Prescott and her daughter-in-law are always taking these Somalian women shopping and buying them refrigerators and washing machines or a whole set of pots and pans. And I think, is there something wrong with me that I don’t want to buy a Somalian woman a
“No.” He was not going to eat her frozen pizza, or her baked beans.
He wanted to tell her that not even remotely was this how people lived, that this is why he had not come here for the last five years, because he couldn’t stand it. He wanted to tell her that people came back to their house after a tense day, had a drink, made warm food. They turned up the thermostat, spoke to each other, called friends. Jim’s kids were always running up and down the stairs: Mom, have you seen my green sweater; Tell Emily to give me the hair dryer; Dad, you said I could stay out till eleven; even Larry, the quietest one, laughing, Uncle Bob, remember that tepee joke you told me when I was real young? (At Sturbridge Village, wriggling themselves into the stocks and pillories: Take a picture, take a picture! Zachary, so skinny that both legs fit into one ankle hold, quiet as a mouse.)
“Will he go to jail, Bobby?” Susan stopped knitting and looked at him with a face that seemed suddenly young.
“Ah, Susie.” Bob took his hands out of his pockets, leaned forward. “I doubt it. It’s a misdemeanor.”
“He was so scared in that cell. I’ve never seen him so scared. I think he would die if he had to go to jail.”
“Jim says Charlie Tibbetts is great. It’s going to be all right, Susie.”
The dog came into the room, looking guilty again, as if eating her dog food was something she should be beaten for. She lay down and put her head on Susan’s foot. Bob could not remember seeing such a sad dog. He thought of the tiny yapping dog that lived below him in New York. He tried to think of his apartment, his friends, his work in New York—none of it seemed real. He watched while his sister started knitting again, then said, “How’s your job?” Susan had been an optometrist for years, and he realized he had no idea what it was like for her.
Susan pulled slowly on the yarn. “We baby boomers get older, there’s always business. I’ve had a few Somalians come in,” she added. “Not many, but a few.”
After a moment, Bob asked, “What are they like?”
She gave him a glance as though it might be a trick question. “A little secretive, in my opinion. They don’t make appointments. Wary. They don’t know what a keratometer is. One woman acted like I was putting a spell on her.”
“I don’t know what a keratometer is.”
“Nobody does, Bob. But they know I’m not putting a spell on them.” Susan’s knitting needles began to move quickly. “They might try and negotiate the price, which blew me away the first time it happened. Then I heard that’s what they do, barter. No credit cards. They don’t believe in credit. Excuse me. They don’t believe in interest . So they pay cash. I don’t know where they get it.” Susan shook her head at Bob. “Look, they kept coming and coming and there was hardly enough money, well, there wasn’t enough money, and so the city had to get more from the Feds, and really, Shirley Falls, when you consider how unprepared it was, has been great to them. It gives every liberal in town a great cause, which they need, of course—as you know yourself, being a liberal, they always need a cause.” She stopped her knitting. Her face, as she looked up, had a faint overlay of childlike bewilderment and so once again seemed young. “Can I say something?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows.
“What I want to say, what I notice, and it puzzles me, are the people in town who are so happy to let everyone know they’re helping the Somalians. Like the Prescotts. They used to own a shoe shop up in South Market, maybe it’s gone out of business now, I don’t know. But Carolyn Prescott and her daughter-in-law are always taking these Somalian women shopping and buying them refrigerators and washing machines or a whole set of pots and pans. And I think, is there something wrong with me that I don’t want to buy a Somalian woman a
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