good, though the ‘details’ the narrator doesn’t want to remember are ultimately what will make the story interesting. ✓.—J. Trainer”
Kathryn smiles at the grade. It was unusual for her not to get a check-plus—she usually managed to get the tone just right. How fitting, she thinks, that in this one instance she wasn’t able to pull it off.
Chapter 8
“W ell, look at this,” Kathryn’s mother says at breakfast. Kathryn has gotten up early to make banana-walnut pancakes, an old before-school favorite, in an attempt to extend the goodwill between them a little further. Her mother is sipping coffee and leafing through the paper. Her voice is chirpy; breakfast, Kathryn knows, is her favorite meal of the day. Kathryn flips three lopsided pancakes on the griddle and puts them in the toaster oven to stay warm. “Jack Ledbetter has been promoted to assistant news editor of the paper.”
“Really?” Kathryn sticks a glass jar of maple syrup in a pan of water and puts it on the stove to warm.
“I see his byline all the time,” her mother says. “Here it is now. Let’s see: It’s a profile of a lobsterman. ‘Harley Gerow eats lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but he can’t stand clams.’ That’s the first line. Catchy, isn’t it?”
Kathryn looks over at her. “You want to stir up some juice?”
She folds the paper and goes to the freezer. “I just thought you mightbe interested.” She takes out a small, orange, frost-covered cylinder and kneads it with her fingers to soften it. “Didn’t you two use to be friends?”
“Sure, in high school. We lost touch after that.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. We just lost touch. You can’t stay friends with everybody you ever met in your life.”
“Wasn’t he down at the river with you all that night?”
Kathryn looks at the bubbling pancakes and weighs them with the spatula to see if they’re done.
“What do you mean, missing?” Jack had said when she called the next morning.
“She didn’t sleep in her bed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She didn’t sleep in her bed,” she said again, impatient, repeating to him what Will had said to her, as if somehow the words might be enough to contain their meaning.
Kathryn’s mother looks at her intently. “You haven’t stayed in touch with any of them, have you?”
She turns away. “No.”
“Which one of us is going to be famous?” Brian said as they sat around the campfire. “Who’s going to be the alcoholic? Which one of you girls will ditch your husband for me when we come back for our ten-year reunion? Who’s dying young?”
The pancakes are overcooked. Kathryn flips them, three rigid brown disks, and tosses them into the trash. Her mother squeezes the solid chunk of concentrate into a pitcher. She pours water into the juice can to measure it, and then into the pitcher, stirring the mixture with a whisk. “Well, anyway,” she says, “I was thinking: Why don’t you give Jack a call and see if there’s an article you might be able to work on?”
“You mean for the paper?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Oh, Mom.” Kathryn takes two plates from the cabinet above thesink and balances them above her hip as she rummages through the silverware drawer. “I don’t think I want to write anything just now.”
“But Kathryn, you’re so good at it.” She carries the pitcher of juice and two glasses to the table. “You want ice?”
“No, thanks. And I’m not that good. I’m adequate. And anyway—”
“That clipping you sent me about the French circus, now, that was really inspired. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
“Mom-”
“Where this lack of self-esteem comes from, I don’t know,” her mother says, exasperation in her voice. She opens the freezer and loads ice into her glass, three hard clinks. “I mean, I go out, I take people to see a house, and I know I’m going to sell it because I tell myself I can. That’s all it is, Kathryn, is believing in
Kathryn smiles at the grade. It was unusual for her not to get a check-plus—she usually managed to get the tone just right. How fitting, she thinks, that in this one instance she wasn’t able to pull it off.
Chapter 8
“W ell, look at this,” Kathryn’s mother says at breakfast. Kathryn has gotten up early to make banana-walnut pancakes, an old before-school favorite, in an attempt to extend the goodwill between them a little further. Her mother is sipping coffee and leafing through the paper. Her voice is chirpy; breakfast, Kathryn knows, is her favorite meal of the day. Kathryn flips three lopsided pancakes on the griddle and puts them in the toaster oven to stay warm. “Jack Ledbetter has been promoted to assistant news editor of the paper.”
“Really?” Kathryn sticks a glass jar of maple syrup in a pan of water and puts it on the stove to warm.
“I see his byline all the time,” her mother says. “Here it is now. Let’s see: It’s a profile of a lobsterman. ‘Harley Gerow eats lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but he can’t stand clams.’ That’s the first line. Catchy, isn’t it?”
Kathryn looks over at her. “You want to stir up some juice?”
She folds the paper and goes to the freezer. “I just thought you mightbe interested.” She takes out a small, orange, frost-covered cylinder and kneads it with her fingers to soften it. “Didn’t you two use to be friends?”
“Sure, in high school. We lost touch after that.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. We just lost touch. You can’t stay friends with everybody you ever met in your life.”
“Wasn’t he down at the river with you all that night?”
Kathryn looks at the bubbling pancakes and weighs them with the spatula to see if they’re done.
“What do you mean, missing?” Jack had said when she called the next morning.
“She didn’t sleep in her bed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She didn’t sleep in her bed,” she said again, impatient, repeating to him what Will had said to her, as if somehow the words might be enough to contain their meaning.
Kathryn’s mother looks at her intently. “You haven’t stayed in touch with any of them, have you?”
She turns away. “No.”
“Which one of us is going to be famous?” Brian said as they sat around the campfire. “Who’s going to be the alcoholic? Which one of you girls will ditch your husband for me when we come back for our ten-year reunion? Who’s dying young?”
The pancakes are overcooked. Kathryn flips them, three rigid brown disks, and tosses them into the trash. Her mother squeezes the solid chunk of concentrate into a pitcher. She pours water into the juice can to measure it, and then into the pitcher, stirring the mixture with a whisk. “Well, anyway,” she says, “I was thinking: Why don’t you give Jack a call and see if there’s an article you might be able to work on?”
“You mean for the paper?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Oh, Mom.” Kathryn takes two plates from the cabinet above thesink and balances them above her hip as she rummages through the silverware drawer. “I don’t think I want to write anything just now.”
“But Kathryn, you’re so good at it.” She carries the pitcher of juice and two glasses to the table. “You want ice?”
“No, thanks. And I’m not that good. I’m adequate. And anyway—”
“That clipping you sent me about the French circus, now, that was really inspired. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
“Mom-”
“Where this lack of self-esteem comes from, I don’t know,” her mother says, exasperation in her voice. She opens the freezer and loads ice into her glass, three hard clinks. “I mean, I go out, I take people to see a house, and I know I’m going to sell it because I tell myself I can. That’s all it is, Kathryn, is believing in
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