splendid Cadillac no longer smelled like her late husband’s cigars. Instead, the air was filled with the overpowering scent of oregano and decaying meat, emanating from Nicki’s abandoned meatball in the middle of the backseat.
“Are there maggots?” Nicki asked, peering eagerly into the car.
It was not the right question. Nanna turned toward her, lips pursed, hands balled into fists on her Capri-clad hips. “How could you be so careless? What is the matter with you, Nicki?” She stamped one Easy Spirit–shod foot on the pavement. “I’m never going to be able to get that smell out of the upholstery!” She flung open her door, shoved her keys in the ignition, and bent over as she rolled down all four windows. “Where was your head? Why don’t you think?”
Nicki’s lip quivered. She ducked her head and stared down at her devil-red toenails. I quickly grabbed the offending meatball and deposited it in a trash can labeled “Keep Our Community Clean!”
“Sorry,” Nicki muttered as she climbed into the reeking backseat without even making a play for the front. Nanna blasted the air conditioner and didn’t say another word to either of us until we’d pulled into the parking lot.
The trip to the flea market was uneventful, save for my sister being on her best behavior. She wore her sun hat without protest, offered suggestions on watches and T-shirts, promised that if Nanna dropped us at the beach again she’d put lotion on my back, and went on and on about the improving effects the Florida weather had had on her troublesome kidney. She even offered to drive to the airport that afternoon to fetch our mother and Jon.
“Not a chance,” said Nanna, gathering her purchases in their skimpy plastic bags. “I’m taking you out to breakfast, I’m dropping you off at the beach, I’m going to get the car cleaned, and I’m turning you over to your mother as soon as she gets here. No wonder she’s—”
She pressed her lips together.
“No wonder she’s what?” asked Nicki. Nanna just shook her head.
“It’s not Nicki’s fault,” I said, too softly for anyone else in the car to hear me over the roar of the Cadillac’s air conditioner.
“What?” asked Nanna. “Josie, speak up.”
I shook my head. In the backseat, Nicki closed her eyes and rubbed the heels of her hands against the puffy pink flesh of her cheeks. “You okay?” I asked quietly, and she rubbed her face again, then turned toward the window.
“I’m fine.”
On the way to breakfast, Nicki rallied, chattering about her roommate, the parties she’d gone to, the guys she’d dated and dumped. Once we were there, she ordered the lumberjack special and proceeded to eat almost everything: eggs, bacon,homefries, pancakes. She dropped her fork queasily, silent for the first time since her plane had landed. “Ugh.” The waitress was sympathetic. “You want me to wrap that for you, hon?” she asked, pointing to Nicki’s bagel. Nanna snapped the clasp of her purse.
“Absolutely not,” she said.
• • •
An hour later, we were back at the beach. The sun was shining. Families were sharing picnics or tossing Frisbees; girls in bikinis oiled themselves and stretched out on bamboo mats. I was lying on the blanket in my swimsuit, while Nicki, still in her shirt and shorts and sun hat, was huddled miserably beneath a palm tree, groaning that her stomach hurt. “I would say that that’s the least of your problems,” I told her.
“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” she asked.
I propped myself on my elbow. “Hmm. Let’s see. You faked a major illness, left clothes and wet towels all over the place, got us both the worst sunburn of our lives, convinced Horace that Working Girl is actually a movie about Elvis and prostitutes, and Grandpop’s car smells like a rotting corpse that was sprinkled with oregano.” And you’re flunking out of college, which our father won’t pay for anyhow, and it’s going to break our mother’s
“Are there maggots?” Nicki asked, peering eagerly into the car.
It was not the right question. Nanna turned toward her, lips pursed, hands balled into fists on her Capri-clad hips. “How could you be so careless? What is the matter with you, Nicki?” She stamped one Easy Spirit–shod foot on the pavement. “I’m never going to be able to get that smell out of the upholstery!” She flung open her door, shoved her keys in the ignition, and bent over as she rolled down all four windows. “Where was your head? Why don’t you think?”
Nicki’s lip quivered. She ducked her head and stared down at her devil-red toenails. I quickly grabbed the offending meatball and deposited it in a trash can labeled “Keep Our Community Clean!”
“Sorry,” Nicki muttered as she climbed into the reeking backseat without even making a play for the front. Nanna blasted the air conditioner and didn’t say another word to either of us until we’d pulled into the parking lot.
The trip to the flea market was uneventful, save for my sister being on her best behavior. She wore her sun hat without protest, offered suggestions on watches and T-shirts, promised that if Nanna dropped us at the beach again she’d put lotion on my back, and went on and on about the improving effects the Florida weather had had on her troublesome kidney. She even offered to drive to the airport that afternoon to fetch our mother and Jon.
“Not a chance,” said Nanna, gathering her purchases in their skimpy plastic bags. “I’m taking you out to breakfast, I’m dropping you off at the beach, I’m going to get the car cleaned, and I’m turning you over to your mother as soon as she gets here. No wonder she’s—”
She pressed her lips together.
“No wonder she’s what?” asked Nicki. Nanna just shook her head.
“It’s not Nicki’s fault,” I said, too softly for anyone else in the car to hear me over the roar of the Cadillac’s air conditioner.
“What?” asked Nanna. “Josie, speak up.”
I shook my head. In the backseat, Nicki closed her eyes and rubbed the heels of her hands against the puffy pink flesh of her cheeks. “You okay?” I asked quietly, and she rubbed her face again, then turned toward the window.
“I’m fine.”
On the way to breakfast, Nicki rallied, chattering about her roommate, the parties she’d gone to, the guys she’d dated and dumped. Once we were there, she ordered the lumberjack special and proceeded to eat almost everything: eggs, bacon,homefries, pancakes. She dropped her fork queasily, silent for the first time since her plane had landed. “Ugh.” The waitress was sympathetic. “You want me to wrap that for you, hon?” she asked, pointing to Nicki’s bagel. Nanna snapped the clasp of her purse.
“Absolutely not,” she said.
• • •
An hour later, we were back at the beach. The sun was shining. Families were sharing picnics or tossing Frisbees; girls in bikinis oiled themselves and stretched out on bamboo mats. I was lying on the blanket in my swimsuit, while Nicki, still in her shirt and shorts and sun hat, was huddled miserably beneath a palm tree, groaning that her stomach hurt. “I would say that that’s the least of your problems,” I told her.
“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” she asked.
I propped myself on my elbow. “Hmm. Let’s see. You faked a major illness, left clothes and wet towels all over the place, got us both the worst sunburn of our lives, convinced Horace that Working Girl is actually a movie about Elvis and prostitutes, and Grandpop’s car smells like a rotting corpse that was sprinkled with oregano.” And you’re flunking out of college, which our father won’t pay for anyhow, and it’s going to break our mother’s
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