Nicki replied
Dinner was late—five fifteen—at Nanna and Horace’s favorite Italian restaurant, the Olive Garden. Nanna and Horace both ordered eggplant parmigiana. I got rosemary chicken, a desiccated breast the size and consistency of a hockey puck centered on an oversize plate. “Should have gotten the eggplant,” Horace boomed. Nicki poked halfheartedly at her meatball.
“Eat!” said Horace.
“Ess!” said Nanna, pointing her own fork at my sister’s plate. “Mangia!” said the waiter, zipping by holding a platter laden with pasta.
Nicki shredded the meatball with the tines of her fork and asked for a doggie bag. “She barely ate a bite!” Horace whispered loudly enough for people in neighboring restaurants to hear.
“She doesn’t like food,” I explained.
“I don’t like chewing,” Nicki amplified.
“I don’t understand,” said Horace.
“Crazy,” said Nanna. The meatball was stowed in Styrofoam and a plastic bag, and off we went to the movies, with Nicki toting her leftovers along, in case she got hungry during the feature.
We got seats on the aisle (to accommodate Horace’s long legs), about three rows back from the screen (a nod to Nanna’s eyesight), with plenty of space on either side (because Nicki didn’t like people sitting next to her, or really, as she explained to Horace, people under any circumstances). As the lights went down, a couple attempted to ease past us to the seats next to Nicki. “Excuse me,” the man said, stepping first over Horace,then over Nanna. The man stumbled over my feet and then, having failed to notice her, sat down squarely on my sister.
“Hey!” Nicki yelled.
The man bolted to his feet. “Excuse me!”
“Shh!” Horace said.
Nicki, outraged by this gravest of unnecessary touches, whacked the man’s Bermuda-shorts-clad bottom with her meatball bag. “You pervert!”
Half of the theater turned to look. The man sank into the seat beside Nicki with an air of abject humiliation as the lights finally, blessedly, went down.
The first ten minutes of the movie were uneventful, but slowly Nicki and I began to notice something strange. As the actors on the screen said their lines, about half of the people in the theater repeated them in a loud whisper to their hard-of-hearing companions, resulting in a kind of three-part harmony.
“I’ll be going now,” said the handsome leading man.
“What did he say?” whispered half of the theater. “He says he’ll be going now,” said their seatmates. Nanna was busily translating for Horace. Nicki’s eyes gleamed in the light from the screen. Unceremoniously dropping her meatball bag on the floor, she leaned over in her seat and began feeding Horace misinformation.
“I have good news,” breathed the leading lady.
“Huh?” asked Horace.
“She says she wants blue shoes,” whispered Nicki.
Horace’s brow furrowed in puzzlement as Nicki’s whispers grew wilder.
“I love you,” murmured the leading lady.
“What?” whispered Horace.
“She’s having his love child,” said Nicki. Nanna, who had finally figured out what was happening, pursed her lips and reached over to pinch Nicki’s arm. She got mine instead. “Ow!”I yelped. The two rows in front of us went “Shh!” at once. Nicki picked up her meatball bag and whacked me smartly on my sunburn. “Stop disrupting the entertainment,” she said.
• • •
The next morning, we were going to the flea market. By eight a.m., the temperature was inching toward ninety, and we’d poured enough black coffee into Nicki that she consented to getting dressed and exiting the condo. Nanna opened the door of her Cadillac, staggered backward two steps, and screamed my sister’s name.
Nicki flung her hands defensively in front of her face. “What’d I do?” she demanded. Then, wrinkling her nose, she said, “Jesus, what’s that smell?”
“My car!” Nanna groaned. I looked over her shoulder and noticed that my grandmother’s
Dinner was late—five fifteen—at Nanna and Horace’s favorite Italian restaurant, the Olive Garden. Nanna and Horace both ordered eggplant parmigiana. I got rosemary chicken, a desiccated breast the size and consistency of a hockey puck centered on an oversize plate. “Should have gotten the eggplant,” Horace boomed. Nicki poked halfheartedly at her meatball.
“Eat!” said Horace.
“Ess!” said Nanna, pointing her own fork at my sister’s plate. “Mangia!” said the waiter, zipping by holding a platter laden with pasta.
Nicki shredded the meatball with the tines of her fork and asked for a doggie bag. “She barely ate a bite!” Horace whispered loudly enough for people in neighboring restaurants to hear.
“She doesn’t like food,” I explained.
“I don’t like chewing,” Nicki amplified.
“I don’t understand,” said Horace.
“Crazy,” said Nanna. The meatball was stowed in Styrofoam and a plastic bag, and off we went to the movies, with Nicki toting her leftovers along, in case she got hungry during the feature.
We got seats on the aisle (to accommodate Horace’s long legs), about three rows back from the screen (a nod to Nanna’s eyesight), with plenty of space on either side (because Nicki didn’t like people sitting next to her, or really, as she explained to Horace, people under any circumstances). As the lights went down, a couple attempted to ease past us to the seats next to Nicki. “Excuse me,” the man said, stepping first over Horace,then over Nanna. The man stumbled over my feet and then, having failed to notice her, sat down squarely on my sister.
“Hey!” Nicki yelled.
The man bolted to his feet. “Excuse me!”
“Shh!” Horace said.
Nicki, outraged by this gravest of unnecessary touches, whacked the man’s Bermuda-shorts-clad bottom with her meatball bag. “You pervert!”
Half of the theater turned to look. The man sank into the seat beside Nicki with an air of abject humiliation as the lights finally, blessedly, went down.
The first ten minutes of the movie were uneventful, but slowly Nicki and I began to notice something strange. As the actors on the screen said their lines, about half of the people in the theater repeated them in a loud whisper to their hard-of-hearing companions, resulting in a kind of three-part harmony.
“I’ll be going now,” said the handsome leading man.
“What did he say?” whispered half of the theater. “He says he’ll be going now,” said their seatmates. Nanna was busily translating for Horace. Nicki’s eyes gleamed in the light from the screen. Unceremoniously dropping her meatball bag on the floor, she leaned over in her seat and began feeding Horace misinformation.
“I have good news,” breathed the leading lady.
“Huh?” asked Horace.
“She says she wants blue shoes,” whispered Nicki.
Horace’s brow furrowed in puzzlement as Nicki’s whispers grew wilder.
“I love you,” murmured the leading lady.
“What?” whispered Horace.
“She’s having his love child,” said Nicki. Nanna, who had finally figured out what was happening, pursed her lips and reached over to pinch Nicki’s arm. She got mine instead. “Ow!”I yelped. The two rows in front of us went “Shh!” at once. Nicki picked up her meatball bag and whacked me smartly on my sunburn. “Stop disrupting the entertainment,” she said.
• • •
The next morning, we were going to the flea market. By eight a.m., the temperature was inching toward ninety, and we’d poured enough black coffee into Nicki that she consented to getting dressed and exiting the condo. Nanna opened the door of her Cadillac, staggered backward two steps, and screamed my sister’s name.
Nicki flung her hands defensively in front of her face. “What’d I do?” she demanded. Then, wrinkling her nose, she said, “Jesus, what’s that smell?”
“My car!” Nanna groaned. I looked over her shoulder and noticed that my grandmother’s
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