said it like that, it didn’t sound like such a good idea.
Brian explained, “You only have one hundred minutes to use between nine and five on weekdays, but after five you can call anyone you want for free anyway. Or on weekends.”
“Oh, I see.” Mom said, uncomprehending.
“Does that make sense?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I thought with your converting the house line to business you could use another phone for personal use.”
“But it’s so tiny! Lynn, look at this. Can you believe how tiny it is?”
Uncle Lynn could not be impressed. He himself Facebooked.
Before leaving that night, I helped Grandma clean the kitchen. She set me to work dividing the leftover cookies for everyone to take home. While I was busy lining a row of gingerbread men atop the peanut butter blossoms, she brought up what she perceived as the precarious state of Brian’s virginity. A First Fundamentalist Sunday school teacher raised during the Depression by men who kept pornographic magazines under every other couch cushion, she was an unpredictable mixture of wholesome innocence and bawdy street smarts. Conversation with her was like shaking the Magic 8-Ball: You never knew what maxim would pop up.
“Do you know that Marie is staying over at his place a lot?” she said.
“I didn’t know.”
“Do you think he’s all right?”
“I’m sure they’re fine, Grandma. It’s a half hour drive from her apartment to his, and there’s a lot of ice and snow this time of year. And you know the sort of schedule they keep. He probably doesn’t want her driving on bad roads when she’s tired.”
Grandma considered this. She didn’t believe Marie slept on the couch any more than I did. “He’s nearly twenty-five, the poor boy,” she said. “Men can’t help it. God made them the way they are. It’s not like us women have to do anything. We could just walk into a room and they’re ready to get it on.”
I ripped a long sheet of aluminum foil across the silver razor teeth of the box rim. That Grandma forgave Brian’s behavior in advance bothered me. Why was a man’s impatience for sex biologically justified, while a woman’s virtue was a matter of course? I had yet to hear the church forgive a woman’s lust for being a mere matter of crossed wires and chemical misfires.
By the time we left the house I was exhausted from the imaginative strain of making conversation with my family. I crawled into the backseat of my mother’s sedan and gratefully rested my forehead against the window.
“See you at New Year’s! Love ya! Have a good night!” Mom shouted out her car window, cheerfully waving to Aunt Patty and Uncle Lynn. She slammed the door. She said with steel in her voice: “Amy, you cannot have a stranger living in your apartment.” She glared at me through the rearview mirror. “You call Zoë right now and you tell her that you want that man out of your house.”
“Here we go,” Brian sighed.
“It’s not a problem, Mom.”
She explained that Aunt Patty had told her how in Cleveland, just this year, a young girl had been kidnapped from her home and chained up to the back of a van to be used as a sex slave at every truck stop between Detroit and Louisville.
I didn’t tell her Eli had a van. I reminded her, instead, that Eli was a long-standing friend of Zoë’s and not a stranger.
“Blood runs thicker than wine,” was her response.
“First of all, Mom, that’s nowhere near the correct application of the phrase,” Brian said. “And secondly, that’s not even how the saying goes.”
“What are you talking about,” Mom protested, acting indignant. “Everyone says that.”
“No one says what you just said. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does—it means you can’t just trust anyone.”
Brian laughed. “What does comparing blood to wine have to do with trust? What does that mean? Better a brother than a drunkard? It’s like you’re speaking another language.”
“Isn’t that the
Brian explained, “You only have one hundred minutes to use between nine and five on weekdays, but after five you can call anyone you want for free anyway. Or on weekends.”
“Oh, I see.” Mom said, uncomprehending.
“Does that make sense?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I thought with your converting the house line to business you could use another phone for personal use.”
“But it’s so tiny! Lynn, look at this. Can you believe how tiny it is?”
Uncle Lynn could not be impressed. He himself Facebooked.
Before leaving that night, I helped Grandma clean the kitchen. She set me to work dividing the leftover cookies for everyone to take home. While I was busy lining a row of gingerbread men atop the peanut butter blossoms, she brought up what she perceived as the precarious state of Brian’s virginity. A First Fundamentalist Sunday school teacher raised during the Depression by men who kept pornographic magazines under every other couch cushion, she was an unpredictable mixture of wholesome innocence and bawdy street smarts. Conversation with her was like shaking the Magic 8-Ball: You never knew what maxim would pop up.
“Do you know that Marie is staying over at his place a lot?” she said.
“I didn’t know.”
“Do you think he’s all right?”
“I’m sure they’re fine, Grandma. It’s a half hour drive from her apartment to his, and there’s a lot of ice and snow this time of year. And you know the sort of schedule they keep. He probably doesn’t want her driving on bad roads when she’s tired.”
Grandma considered this. She didn’t believe Marie slept on the couch any more than I did. “He’s nearly twenty-five, the poor boy,” she said. “Men can’t help it. God made them the way they are. It’s not like us women have to do anything. We could just walk into a room and they’re ready to get it on.”
I ripped a long sheet of aluminum foil across the silver razor teeth of the box rim. That Grandma forgave Brian’s behavior in advance bothered me. Why was a man’s impatience for sex biologically justified, while a woman’s virtue was a matter of course? I had yet to hear the church forgive a woman’s lust for being a mere matter of crossed wires and chemical misfires.
By the time we left the house I was exhausted from the imaginative strain of making conversation with my family. I crawled into the backseat of my mother’s sedan and gratefully rested my forehead against the window.
“See you at New Year’s! Love ya! Have a good night!” Mom shouted out her car window, cheerfully waving to Aunt Patty and Uncle Lynn. She slammed the door. She said with steel in her voice: “Amy, you cannot have a stranger living in your apartment.” She glared at me through the rearview mirror. “You call Zoë right now and you tell her that you want that man out of your house.”
“Here we go,” Brian sighed.
“It’s not a problem, Mom.”
She explained that Aunt Patty had told her how in Cleveland, just this year, a young girl had been kidnapped from her home and chained up to the back of a van to be used as a sex slave at every truck stop between Detroit and Louisville.
I didn’t tell her Eli had a van. I reminded her, instead, that Eli was a long-standing friend of Zoë’s and not a stranger.
“Blood runs thicker than wine,” was her response.
“First of all, Mom, that’s nowhere near the correct application of the phrase,” Brian said. “And secondly, that’s not even how the saying goes.”
“What are you talking about,” Mom protested, acting indignant. “Everyone says that.”
“No one says what you just said. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does—it means you can’t just trust anyone.”
Brian laughed. “What does comparing blood to wine have to do with trust? What does that mean? Better a brother than a drunkard? It’s like you’re speaking another language.”
“Isn’t that the
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