boxes Sasha had handed me, and made a pile of the fat, thin, ethereal, silly, and cherubic angels.
GILLIAN ROBERTS
80
Sasha munched salad greens and watched me. “Whatever else, Phoebe answered the age-old question,” she said.
“I give up.”
Sasha gestured at the box on the floor. “Hasn’t mankind always been tormented by the question of how many angels fit on the front of a refrigerator?”
Seven
We settled in to dinner while I half-heartedly clicked my way through Phoebe’s laptop. “You may have
been right about The Shopping Channel,” I said. “She had a real problem. Her bookmarks are for online shopping sites and auc-tions. Look at this—kitchenware, antiques, home furnishings, linens, toys, music, books, art, more antiques, household goods, table coverings, pottery, accessories, original art from—”
“I am not surprised. Think about it. Even her business was about turning dogs and cats into tchotchke collectors—or tchotchkes themselves.”
“Her shopping included the male market. Lots of fix-’em-up sites are bookmarked, but how would I know if she’d enrolled in any of them?”
GILLIAN ROBERTS
82
“Believe it or not, I have never done online dating.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“True,” she said, nodding for emphasis. “Never.”
“Wait a minute. It’s not about guys or arranged or blind dates with you, is it. It’s about computer illiteracy.”
“Call it what you will,” she said, finishing off a drumstick.
“But the truth is, I don’ need no stinking Internet.”
“Yet,” I said.
“Yet,” she agreed. “Besides, we’re talking about Phoebe, and she was waiting for those photos I took. I think that means she was waiting to officially sign up and put a picture of herself on there. Wherever ‘there’ is. Maybe those bookmarks were more a case of checking out the possibilities.”
There’d be time to find out later. Meanwhile, unless something leaped out wearing neon script that said “This is important!” I wasn’t going to find anything worthwhile, so I moved on to the word processing program. “Oh, wait. Listen to this. It’s in a file called Shopping. I thought it would be an inventory or something of her purchases, but I think it’s more a list of future, ah, acquisitions, or a rough draft. She was a funny lady, wasn’t she?”
Sasha looked wistful, and nodded. “She was fun,” she said.
“But what are you talking about?”
“She was getting ready for those photos and a lot of shopping.” I cleared my throat and read, “Interested in a feisty forty?”
“An ad? Her ad?”
“A draft of it, anyway.”
“Forty? Phoebe?”
“—who loves games, hates dishonesty—”
“Forty!” Sasha repeated. “And she hates dishonesty?”
“—interested in art, history, genealogy, movies, sports—”
“She hated sports,” Sasha said. “She’d leave the room when my dad watched football, and never went to the games with him.
How stupid is writing an ad like that? What if it works? And he loves sports and wants somebody forty?”
83
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
“Funnier still if they’d both lied, and they wind up at game after game and are both secretly bored out of their skulls. Anyway, the list goes on. She’s also interested in cooking, old music—”
“I hope she included shoes on that list of interests,” Sasha said.
“—and knowing someone deeply and—”
“Stop,” Sasha said softly. “No more. It’s too sad.” She shook her head and said nothing else.
I agreed. “Maybe this is more than we need to know.”
“Sad,” she repeated. “Lying in a rough draft. Lying to herself.
There’s something funny about an ad called ‘personal’ that isn’t close to the truth of the person, isn’t there? An ad supposedly designed to find your soul mate—and you aren’t truthful about your own interests?” Sasha’s voice was still muted.
“Everybody fudges in these ads,” I said. Sasha looked at me intently.
GILLIAN ROBERTS
80
Sasha munched salad greens and watched me. “Whatever else, Phoebe answered the age-old question,” she said.
“I give up.”
Sasha gestured at the box on the floor. “Hasn’t mankind always been tormented by the question of how many angels fit on the front of a refrigerator?”
Seven
We settled in to dinner while I half-heartedly clicked my way through Phoebe’s laptop. “You may have
been right about The Shopping Channel,” I said. “She had a real problem. Her bookmarks are for online shopping sites and auc-tions. Look at this—kitchenware, antiques, home furnishings, linens, toys, music, books, art, more antiques, household goods, table coverings, pottery, accessories, original art from—”
“I am not surprised. Think about it. Even her business was about turning dogs and cats into tchotchke collectors—or tchotchkes themselves.”
“Her shopping included the male market. Lots of fix-’em-up sites are bookmarked, but how would I know if she’d enrolled in any of them?”
GILLIAN ROBERTS
82
“Believe it or not, I have never done online dating.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“True,” she said, nodding for emphasis. “Never.”
“Wait a minute. It’s not about guys or arranged or blind dates with you, is it. It’s about computer illiteracy.”
“Call it what you will,” she said, finishing off a drumstick.
“But the truth is, I don’ need no stinking Internet.”
“Yet,” I said.
“Yet,” she agreed. “Besides, we’re talking about Phoebe, and she was waiting for those photos I took. I think that means she was waiting to officially sign up and put a picture of herself on there. Wherever ‘there’ is. Maybe those bookmarks were more a case of checking out the possibilities.”
There’d be time to find out later. Meanwhile, unless something leaped out wearing neon script that said “This is important!” I wasn’t going to find anything worthwhile, so I moved on to the word processing program. “Oh, wait. Listen to this. It’s in a file called Shopping. I thought it would be an inventory or something of her purchases, but I think it’s more a list of future, ah, acquisitions, or a rough draft. She was a funny lady, wasn’t she?”
Sasha looked wistful, and nodded. “She was fun,” she said.
“But what are you talking about?”
“She was getting ready for those photos and a lot of shopping.” I cleared my throat and read, “Interested in a feisty forty?”
“An ad? Her ad?”
“A draft of it, anyway.”
“Forty? Phoebe?”
“—who loves games, hates dishonesty—”
“Forty!” Sasha repeated. “And she hates dishonesty?”
“—interested in art, history, genealogy, movies, sports—”
“She hated sports,” Sasha said. “She’d leave the room when my dad watched football, and never went to the games with him.
How stupid is writing an ad like that? What if it works? And he loves sports and wants somebody forty?”
83
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS
“Funnier still if they’d both lied, and they wind up at game after game and are both secretly bored out of their skulls. Anyway, the list goes on. She’s also interested in cooking, old music—”
“I hope she included shoes on that list of interests,” Sasha said.
“—and knowing someone deeply and—”
“Stop,” Sasha said softly. “No more. It’s too sad.” She shook her head and said nothing else.
I agreed. “Maybe this is more than we need to know.”
“Sad,” she repeated. “Lying in a rough draft. Lying to herself.
There’s something funny about an ad called ‘personal’ that isn’t close to the truth of the person, isn’t there? An ad supposedly designed to find your soul mate—and you aren’t truthful about your own interests?” Sasha’s voice was still muted.
“Everybody fudges in these ads,” I said. Sasha looked at me intently.
Similar Books
