family."
"You pander to her...”
"I'm just trying to be nice...”
he swallowed fast and managed to smile.
But Mom could no longer stop herself.
"... so that you can get in on Uncle Harry's business or get a piece
of Aunt Ida's will, or maybe one of the studios in Chicago...”
That's usually when I come in, just a
second before they really start to fight.
"Hey, son," Dad said happily and
swung a fist playfully into my shoulder. "How's life?"
"Ok," I said without
thinking and went to pour myself a glass of water. Mom watched me, pale
as a ghost. Suddenly, without understanding why, I realized that I knew
the reason: she was afraid of me or, more precisely, afraid of something that
she thought I might say or let slip. The thought that she could doubt my
loyalty shook me. I was thinking how to hint to her not to worry, that I
wouldn't talk, but before I could say anything she barked, "Don't leave
Aunt Ida alone...”
"She's all set," I said
quickly, "telling the tale of Marvin...”
Mom was already on the verge of
exploding. "That'll be enough of your wisecracks, especially at the
expense of a miserable old woman...”
Meanwhile, Aunt Ida was busy
rearranging the drawers in the living room.
"I think," she said from inside a
cabinet, "that there are some pictures here that Marvin took. It's
not possible that there aren't any of his pictures here, right? They're
just scattered, that's all, and I must collect them and organize them in
albums, maybe make an exhibit, too...”
Part of the contents of the drawers
was already strewn all over the rug. I bent down and gathered everything
as best I could.
"One morning," she twittered
faintly, "I discovered one of his pictures in the window of a shoe store.
Just like that, lying there in the back, a little dog inside a big shoe.
Marvin took it in 1938 for three dollars and forty cents. I even
remember the night he printed and mounted it." For a moment her
twittering sounded human, even invited sympathy. "At 10:00 when they
opened the store, I talked to the owner. He didn't want to sell it.
His father had passed the store on to him and the picture was like a good
luck charm...”
I finished stuffing everything back in the drawer
and shut it. But it wouldn't close.
"Finally," said Aunt Ida, "we
agreed on a thousand. A thousand dollars for the photograph of a master
is not much, especially if you consider what's written in the papers about the
sums artists get at auction...”
I pulled the drawer out. Something was stuck
in the back and was preventing it from closing.
"I went to the bank and told the manager.
He'd known me for years, and he'd always advised me...” I stuck my hand
in. It was Mom's yellow notebook, which had been hidden behind the top,
locked drawer and had fallen down and gotten jammed along the back wall of the
cabinet. I stole a sidelong glance at the old lady. She was
standing in the middle of the room, telling some invisible point in mid-air how
the manager had called the store owner and finally convinced him to sell her
the picture for $100.
I opened the cover of the notebook.
From the curlicues of paper clinging to the spiral binding I could tell that
quite a few pages had already been torn out. The top page was covered
with the impressions left by a pen. The words and letters were clear
enough, but I didn't have time to read them because Dad called from the
kitchen.
"Ronny.”
I stuffed the notebook back into the
cabinet and ran out to him. He was standing by the sink and pointing
outside at the repaired, painted, and waxed car that was parked in the
driveway.
"What happened to the car?"
"It was an accident...” I mumbled and
looked at Mom, who was coming up from the garden.
"Was it your fault?"
Mom came in.
"He's not to blame," she said
from behind my back, and before I could start to explain, added,
"You pander to her...”
"I'm just trying to be nice...”
he swallowed fast and managed to smile.
But Mom could no longer stop herself.
"... so that you can get in on Uncle Harry's business or get a piece
of Aunt Ida's will, or maybe one of the studios in Chicago...”
That's usually when I come in, just a
second before they really start to fight.
"Hey, son," Dad said happily and
swung a fist playfully into my shoulder. "How's life?"
"Ok," I said without
thinking and went to pour myself a glass of water. Mom watched me, pale
as a ghost. Suddenly, without understanding why, I realized that I knew
the reason: she was afraid of me or, more precisely, afraid of something that
she thought I might say or let slip. The thought that she could doubt my
loyalty shook me. I was thinking how to hint to her not to worry, that I
wouldn't talk, but before I could say anything she barked, "Don't leave
Aunt Ida alone...”
"She's all set," I said
quickly, "telling the tale of Marvin...”
Mom was already on the verge of
exploding. "That'll be enough of your wisecracks, especially at the
expense of a miserable old woman...”
Meanwhile, Aunt Ida was busy
rearranging the drawers in the living room.
"I think," she said from inside a
cabinet, "that there are some pictures here that Marvin took. It's
not possible that there aren't any of his pictures here, right? They're
just scattered, that's all, and I must collect them and organize them in
albums, maybe make an exhibit, too...”
Part of the contents of the drawers
was already strewn all over the rug. I bent down and gathered everything
as best I could.
"One morning," she twittered
faintly, "I discovered one of his pictures in the window of a shoe store.
Just like that, lying there in the back, a little dog inside a big shoe.
Marvin took it in 1938 for three dollars and forty cents. I even
remember the night he printed and mounted it." For a moment her
twittering sounded human, even invited sympathy. "At 10:00 when they
opened the store, I talked to the owner. He didn't want to sell it.
His father had passed the store on to him and the picture was like a good
luck charm...”
I finished stuffing everything back in the drawer
and shut it. But it wouldn't close.
"Finally," said Aunt Ida, "we
agreed on a thousand. A thousand dollars for the photograph of a master
is not much, especially if you consider what's written in the papers about the
sums artists get at auction...”
I pulled the drawer out. Something was stuck
in the back and was preventing it from closing.
"I went to the bank and told the manager.
He'd known me for years, and he'd always advised me...” I stuck my hand
in. It was Mom's yellow notebook, which had been hidden behind the top,
locked drawer and had fallen down and gotten jammed along the back wall of the
cabinet. I stole a sidelong glance at the old lady. She was
standing in the middle of the room, telling some invisible point in mid-air how
the manager had called the store owner and finally convinced him to sell her
the picture for $100.
I opened the cover of the notebook.
From the curlicues of paper clinging to the spiral binding I could tell that
quite a few pages had already been torn out. The top page was covered
with the impressions left by a pen. The words and letters were clear
enough, but I didn't have time to read them because Dad called from the
kitchen.
"Ronny.”
I stuffed the notebook back into the
cabinet and ran out to him. He was standing by the sink and pointing
outside at the repaired, painted, and waxed car that was parked in the
driveway.
"What happened to the car?"
"It was an accident...” I mumbled and
looked at Mom, who was coming up from the garden.
"Was it your fault?"
Mom came in.
"He's not to blame," she said
from behind my back, and before I could start to explain, added,
Similar Books
