the word is urinate !” Then she bursts out laughing. “You know what?” she says. “Carl likes you.”
Four things occur to Vera, all nearly at once. One: Rosie’s never even mentioned Carl to her . Two: Rosie already knows Carl likes her, because Three: She’s more sure of herself than Vera was at her age. Which may have something to do with Four: When Vera was Rosalie’s age, Norma wouldn’t have been half so forthcoming with the information that Carl liked her. Yet only now does Vera understand that Norma’s reticence had nothing to do with jealousy, rivalry, meanness, but rather with the same protectiveness Vera feels for Rosie. Despite her firm belief in liberal attitudes toward children and sexual play, Norma would have hesitated—and perhaps rightly so—to encourage a daughter’s affection for the kind of boy who’d pee in her water gun. With a granddaughter, it’s different: perspective, more humor, and forty years to have learned that such boys may turn out to be the best.
“The dumb part is,” Rosie’s saying, “me and Carl have so much in common it’s unbelievable. We feel the same about everything! He likes Michael Jackson, I like Michael Jackson. He hates Boy George, I hate Boy George. He loves Dungeons and Dragons, I love Dungeons and Dragons. He loves raw spinach and hates cooked spinach, I love raw spinach and hate cooked spinach…isn’t that unbelievable?”
“Unbelievable,” says Norma.
Vera imagines Rosie and Kirsty in their Dungeon Master’s cave with its magic doors; now every one of them swings open, revealing Carl surprised in the act of peeing in a plastic gun. She’s lost the thread of Rosie and Norma’s conversation. It all grows fuzzy, until suddenly—perhaps it’s the light—she sees herself as a character in Our Town or Carousel , any one of those dreadful stories about people who die and come back to watch a soft-focus, tear-blurred version of life without them.
“Can I bring the salad in?” she says. For all the response this gets, she could be one of those ghosts only Topper can see.
“Dinnertime!” Norma sings out.
Following her mother into the living room, Vera notes how Norma’s embroidered blouse and dirndl skirt match the general decor, except that the clothes are fake peasant: machine work on cotton polyester. “Sit!” orders Norma, and Vera does, opposite Dave, while Rosie and Norma carry in platters and pitchers and bowls.
Though the fan’s doing nothing about the August heat, Norma wouldn’t feel she was feeding them without a hot meat meal. The food matches everything else: Jewish international. The lamb stew with potatoes and limas reminds Vera of cholent . Its muttony smell evokes Berbers dipping into a common plate. They should be cross-legged on a carpet on a tent floor, elbow-deep in grease.
Norma fills their plates and, without waiting for them to taste it, says, “How’s the stew? I got it from that new book Daddy got me, Cooking Moroccan .”
Vera used to think that such questions were Norma’s demands for flattery and homage. Her reputation as a cook has never been in doubt. Every time they go out—to a restaurant, to the homes of Norma’s colleagues and their old friends from the Party—Dave compares the cooking unfavorably with his wife’s. The noise of all that dutiful public praise kept Vera from hearing. How long it took her to understand that Norma might need reassurance, too.
“Great,” Vera says, and Rosalie says, “Really great.”
“Dave?”
“It’s all right,” says Dave, and Vera thinks, No wonder she’s got to ask every time.
“What’s wrong?” asks Norma.
“The meat’s a little stringy is all.” Dave’s teeth seem to be bothering him; it’s hurting him to chew.
“Now you’re getting like your granddaughter,” says Norma, “She’d be happy if we never had meat.”
All eyes turn toward Rosie, who’s meticulously spearing limas and scraping gravy off her potatoes. “You know what
Four things occur to Vera, all nearly at once. One: Rosie’s never even mentioned Carl to her . Two: Rosie already knows Carl likes her, because Three: She’s more sure of herself than Vera was at her age. Which may have something to do with Four: When Vera was Rosalie’s age, Norma wouldn’t have been half so forthcoming with the information that Carl liked her. Yet only now does Vera understand that Norma’s reticence had nothing to do with jealousy, rivalry, meanness, but rather with the same protectiveness Vera feels for Rosie. Despite her firm belief in liberal attitudes toward children and sexual play, Norma would have hesitated—and perhaps rightly so—to encourage a daughter’s affection for the kind of boy who’d pee in her water gun. With a granddaughter, it’s different: perspective, more humor, and forty years to have learned that such boys may turn out to be the best.
“The dumb part is,” Rosie’s saying, “me and Carl have so much in common it’s unbelievable. We feel the same about everything! He likes Michael Jackson, I like Michael Jackson. He hates Boy George, I hate Boy George. He loves Dungeons and Dragons, I love Dungeons and Dragons. He loves raw spinach and hates cooked spinach, I love raw spinach and hate cooked spinach…isn’t that unbelievable?”
“Unbelievable,” says Norma.
Vera imagines Rosie and Kirsty in their Dungeon Master’s cave with its magic doors; now every one of them swings open, revealing Carl surprised in the act of peeing in a plastic gun. She’s lost the thread of Rosie and Norma’s conversation. It all grows fuzzy, until suddenly—perhaps it’s the light—she sees herself as a character in Our Town or Carousel , any one of those dreadful stories about people who die and come back to watch a soft-focus, tear-blurred version of life without them.
“Can I bring the salad in?” she says. For all the response this gets, she could be one of those ghosts only Topper can see.
“Dinnertime!” Norma sings out.
Following her mother into the living room, Vera notes how Norma’s embroidered blouse and dirndl skirt match the general decor, except that the clothes are fake peasant: machine work on cotton polyester. “Sit!” orders Norma, and Vera does, opposite Dave, while Rosie and Norma carry in platters and pitchers and bowls.
Though the fan’s doing nothing about the August heat, Norma wouldn’t feel she was feeding them without a hot meat meal. The food matches everything else: Jewish international. The lamb stew with potatoes and limas reminds Vera of cholent . Its muttony smell evokes Berbers dipping into a common plate. They should be cross-legged on a carpet on a tent floor, elbow-deep in grease.
Norma fills their plates and, without waiting for them to taste it, says, “How’s the stew? I got it from that new book Daddy got me, Cooking Moroccan .”
Vera used to think that such questions were Norma’s demands for flattery and homage. Her reputation as a cook has never been in doubt. Every time they go out—to a restaurant, to the homes of Norma’s colleagues and their old friends from the Party—Dave compares the cooking unfavorably with his wife’s. The noise of all that dutiful public praise kept Vera from hearing. How long it took her to understand that Norma might need reassurance, too.
“Great,” Vera says, and Rosalie says, “Really great.”
“Dave?”
“It’s all right,” says Dave, and Vera thinks, No wonder she’s got to ask every time.
“What’s wrong?” asks Norma.
“The meat’s a little stringy is all.” Dave’s teeth seem to be bothering him; it’s hurting him to chew.
“Now you’re getting like your granddaughter,” says Norma, “She’d be happy if we never had meat.”
All eyes turn toward Rosie, who’s meticulously spearing limas and scraping gravy off her potatoes. “You know what
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