The Private Lives of Pippa Lee by Rebecca Miller Page A
Authors: Rebecca Miller
Tags: General Fiction
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condescending.
The man handed Pippa the cones. The soft white cream looked perfect, plastic, shiny, like ice cream in a commercial. Pippa gave Ben his, Grace hers. Ben licked his hungrily, but Grace didnât touch hers. Pippa began to move toward the door. Ben followed. Grace stood stock-still, glaring at the ground, clutching her cone. âGrace,â Pippa said softly. Abruptly, Grace bolted toward the little dark-haired girl, stood a foot away from her, and offered her the ice cream. The girl stared at the gift, uncomprehending. Grace stood still, the ice cream cone in her fist raised like a sword in the hand of a statue. The lady said something to the little girlin some foreign tongue, and the child took the cone shyly, casting her eyes to the floor. Then Grace turned and fled the Dairy Queen. Pippa rushed out behind her. She could hear the woman calling out a thank-you as the glass door sighed shut behind her. When Pippa finally caught up with Grace, halfway down the block, the childâs face was flushed, her gray eyes clouded with fury.
âThat was a lovely thing to do,â Pippa said.
âNo it wasnât,â Grace said. She didnât want to talk about it after that. She was quiet on the cab ride home and all through dinner. Pippa knew that something had changed in her child that day. Sheâd become angry at her own good fortune.
*
Sponge, spray cleaner, water, mop: time to clean the kitchen! Pippa liked things neat, but she was naturally chaotic. She had to use all her concentration to bend her mind to the task of cleaning, like a high wind forcing a tall tree to the ground. One stray thought and she would wander away from her scrubbing, end up staring at hummingbirds through her binoculars or checking a recipe for spaghetti alla primavera, only to return to the kitchen forty minutes later, surprised to see the dishes still piled high. This morning, however, Pippa was keeping an image of a perfectly neat kitchen in mind, trying to replicate it in reality. She took everything off the counter, sponged it down, then replaced the vitamin bottles and condiments, carefully lining them up. She wiped down the stove, scrubbed the pan encrusted with Herbâs chicken sausage, emptied the dishwasher, putting away clean dishes and flatware, then filled it again with dirty dishes and flatware. She poured blue and white speckled dishwashing powder into the little rectangular box, slid its door shut till it clicked, turned on the machine, selecting âheavy duty washâ because there was a pan in there. She swept the floor, mopped it. She wiped out the sink, even opened up the fridge and threw out everything that looked sad or rotten. She made a list: eggs, soy milk, yogurt, aluminum foil. Grape-Nuts.She folded the list, tucked it into the zip-up compartment inside her purse, and walked out onto the patio. Herb was on the phone. He looked at her expectantly.
âIâm going shopping. Is there anything you need?â she asked.
He shook his head, waved, and went back to his phone call. He was talking about the book. Pippa wondered who the author of the cash cow might be. She walked through the livingroom, out the door, got into the car, and froze.
The floor of the car was littered with cigarette butts. There must have been ten of them, stamped right into the carpeting. Pippa had quit smoking twenty years ago. The smell of smoke made her throat close up. Herb had never smoked cigarettes, and he had given up cigars on the advice of his heart specialist. So what the hell was this? She picked up the butts, dropped them into a Baggie she kept in the glove compartment, and hurried back into the house to tell Herb. He was still on the phone. She lingered in the living room for a few seconds, waiting. The car had been open. It could have been teenagers, some kids from the nearby town, out having fun. It could have been Chris Nadeau, in an oblique act of revenge for coming upon him as she had. Or
The man handed Pippa the cones. The soft white cream looked perfect, plastic, shiny, like ice cream in a commercial. Pippa gave Ben his, Grace hers. Ben licked his hungrily, but Grace didnât touch hers. Pippa began to move toward the door. Ben followed. Grace stood stock-still, glaring at the ground, clutching her cone. âGrace,â Pippa said softly. Abruptly, Grace bolted toward the little dark-haired girl, stood a foot away from her, and offered her the ice cream. The girl stared at the gift, uncomprehending. Grace stood still, the ice cream cone in her fist raised like a sword in the hand of a statue. The lady said something to the little girlin some foreign tongue, and the child took the cone shyly, casting her eyes to the floor. Then Grace turned and fled the Dairy Queen. Pippa rushed out behind her. She could hear the woman calling out a thank-you as the glass door sighed shut behind her. When Pippa finally caught up with Grace, halfway down the block, the childâs face was flushed, her gray eyes clouded with fury.
âThat was a lovely thing to do,â Pippa said.
âNo it wasnât,â Grace said. She didnât want to talk about it after that. She was quiet on the cab ride home and all through dinner. Pippa knew that something had changed in her child that day. Sheâd become angry at her own good fortune.
*
Sponge, spray cleaner, water, mop: time to clean the kitchen! Pippa liked things neat, but she was naturally chaotic. She had to use all her concentration to bend her mind to the task of cleaning, like a high wind forcing a tall tree to the ground. One stray thought and she would wander away from her scrubbing, end up staring at hummingbirds through her binoculars or checking a recipe for spaghetti alla primavera, only to return to the kitchen forty minutes later, surprised to see the dishes still piled high. This morning, however, Pippa was keeping an image of a perfectly neat kitchen in mind, trying to replicate it in reality. She took everything off the counter, sponged it down, then replaced the vitamin bottles and condiments, carefully lining them up. She wiped down the stove, scrubbed the pan encrusted with Herbâs chicken sausage, emptied the dishwasher, putting away clean dishes and flatware, then filled it again with dirty dishes and flatware. She poured blue and white speckled dishwashing powder into the little rectangular box, slid its door shut till it clicked, turned on the machine, selecting âheavy duty washâ because there was a pan in there. She swept the floor, mopped it. She wiped out the sink, even opened up the fridge and threw out everything that looked sad or rotten. She made a list: eggs, soy milk, yogurt, aluminum foil. Grape-Nuts.She folded the list, tucked it into the zip-up compartment inside her purse, and walked out onto the patio. Herb was on the phone. He looked at her expectantly.
âIâm going shopping. Is there anything you need?â she asked.
He shook his head, waved, and went back to his phone call. He was talking about the book. Pippa wondered who the author of the cash cow might be. She walked through the livingroom, out the door, got into the car, and froze.
The floor of the car was littered with cigarette butts. There must have been ten of them, stamped right into the carpeting. Pippa had quit smoking twenty years ago. The smell of smoke made her throat close up. Herb had never smoked cigarettes, and he had given up cigars on the advice of his heart specialist. So what the hell was this? She picked up the butts, dropped them into a Baggie she kept in the glove compartment, and hurried back into the house to tell Herb. He was still on the phone. She lingered in the living room for a few seconds, waiting. The car had been open. It could have been teenagers, some kids from the nearby town, out having fun. It could have been Chris Nadeau, in an oblique act of revenge for coming upon him as she had. Or
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