over. It’s a big deal, writing a bestseller.”
“Well, we don’t know that…”
“Of course it’ll be a bestseller. It’s Milo Short, everyone loves him and they’ll love this book. He has so many stories that have never been told.”
Naomi’s voice brays at us from the doorway. “Ah-ha! The book, at last.” The thick carpet must have masked her steps as she approached. Either that or she tiptoed on purpose. Growing up, all the cousins knew not to bother keeping a journal or writing a secret note in her presence.
“Hello there,” Paul said, his swallow visible even to me, across the space of that vast wooden desk. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Naomi nods and strides over to lean against the front of the desk and look down at me. Her heels are shiny patent and she’d be looming over me even if I were standing up, though I’m still in the chair. “So, the family writer is going to take on the family legacy. I hope you’re up to it.”
“It’s not definite…”
“I don’t blame you for hesitating. It’s a tall order, after all.” Naomi crosses her arms and regards me with the mechanical smile of the salesman. “You lucky thing. All my contacts would be so jealous. This one fellow from the Post has been bugging me for years for some kind of angle to do a new book on Grampa. That’s what the publishers want, of course, is something new. Who did that book, Uncle Paul? The one that covered Grampa’s history and The High Hat ? Fifteen years ago or something.”
“That was a fella named Miller, but…”
“Obviously this will be a Short family project, of course. Assuming it’s accepted in the end. When’s the deadline anyway?”
She directs this last to Paul. I hate that she knows I didn’t ask.
Paul answers, “People have been saying about a year.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Whew. Including research. I’d better let you get to it. I do have some business to discuss with Uncle Paul, anyway.”
“I was just going.” Somehow I tangle in the chair legs and stumble as I try to get out the door. I’m accident-prone around my cousins, always have been. At no other time—not at school, not at magazine interviews, not with college friends—am I likely to drop things, trip, or walk too fast into a revolving door. But under the steely gaze of Naomi, or the amused and tolerant smirk of Eva, and I shapeshift to fulfill their expectations: poor hapless Eleanor, poor mongrel child of that horrible shiksa who abandoned her husband and child and moved to some godforsaken place like California, Colorado, somewhere several time zones away. You should expect something else, with a mother like that?
I leave behind my cousin and Uncle Paul—their mutterings growing louder and more agitated in my wake—as I hurry down the staircase, trying not to hurry so much I tumble down the length of it.
I find Grampa Milo in the chair where I left him, frowning at some kind of board in his lap. As I come around, I can see it’s made of cardboard, with bold letters of the alphabet at wide intervals. There are punctuation marks, and along the bottom, some simple words and phrases: I’m hungry. I need the restroom. I’m tired.
In his good hand is a pointer of sorts, a bit like a conductor’s baton, only shorter. As I have now grown close, I can see that he’s grimacing at the board, his face turned half away from it. It’s like he doesn’t want to get caught looking.
“Hi, Grampa.”
He glances up, then sticks out his tongue at the board.
“I know, it must be so frustrating. But it’s better than nothing? Isn’t it?”
This must be the “communication board” the speech pathologist was talking about, when I overheard her talking to Aunt Linda.
Grampa Milo begins rapping the board with the pointer so fast with his good hand it’s hard to believe he’s impaired at all anywhere else. It takes me a few moments to catch up with him and understand: N-O-T-A-C-H-I-L-D.
“I know you’re
“Well, we don’t know that…”
“Of course it’ll be a bestseller. It’s Milo Short, everyone loves him and they’ll love this book. He has so many stories that have never been told.”
Naomi’s voice brays at us from the doorway. “Ah-ha! The book, at last.” The thick carpet must have masked her steps as she approached. Either that or she tiptoed on purpose. Growing up, all the cousins knew not to bother keeping a journal or writing a secret note in her presence.
“Hello there,” Paul said, his swallow visible even to me, across the space of that vast wooden desk. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Naomi nods and strides over to lean against the front of the desk and look down at me. Her heels are shiny patent and she’d be looming over me even if I were standing up, though I’m still in the chair. “So, the family writer is going to take on the family legacy. I hope you’re up to it.”
“It’s not definite…”
“I don’t blame you for hesitating. It’s a tall order, after all.” Naomi crosses her arms and regards me with the mechanical smile of the salesman. “You lucky thing. All my contacts would be so jealous. This one fellow from the Post has been bugging me for years for some kind of angle to do a new book on Grampa. That’s what the publishers want, of course, is something new. Who did that book, Uncle Paul? The one that covered Grampa’s history and The High Hat ? Fifteen years ago or something.”
“That was a fella named Miller, but…”
“Obviously this will be a Short family project, of course. Assuming it’s accepted in the end. When’s the deadline anyway?”
She directs this last to Paul. I hate that she knows I didn’t ask.
Paul answers, “People have been saying about a year.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Whew. Including research. I’d better let you get to it. I do have some business to discuss with Uncle Paul, anyway.”
“I was just going.” Somehow I tangle in the chair legs and stumble as I try to get out the door. I’m accident-prone around my cousins, always have been. At no other time—not at school, not at magazine interviews, not with college friends—am I likely to drop things, trip, or walk too fast into a revolving door. But under the steely gaze of Naomi, or the amused and tolerant smirk of Eva, and I shapeshift to fulfill their expectations: poor hapless Eleanor, poor mongrel child of that horrible shiksa who abandoned her husband and child and moved to some godforsaken place like California, Colorado, somewhere several time zones away. You should expect something else, with a mother like that?
I leave behind my cousin and Uncle Paul—their mutterings growing louder and more agitated in my wake—as I hurry down the staircase, trying not to hurry so much I tumble down the length of it.
I find Grampa Milo in the chair where I left him, frowning at some kind of board in his lap. As I come around, I can see it’s made of cardboard, with bold letters of the alphabet at wide intervals. There are punctuation marks, and along the bottom, some simple words and phrases: I’m hungry. I need the restroom. I’m tired.
In his good hand is a pointer of sorts, a bit like a conductor’s baton, only shorter. As I have now grown close, I can see that he’s grimacing at the board, his face turned half away from it. It’s like he doesn’t want to get caught looking.
“Hi, Grampa.”
He glances up, then sticks out his tongue at the board.
“I know, it must be so frustrating. But it’s better than nothing? Isn’t it?”
This must be the “communication board” the speech pathologist was talking about, when I overheard her talking to Aunt Linda.
Grampa Milo begins rapping the board with the pointer so fast with his good hand it’s hard to believe he’s impaired at all anywhere else. It takes me a few moments to catch up with him and understand: N-O-T-A-C-H-I-L-D.
“I know you’re
Similar Books
