dinner guests raved at Dad’s genius on the grill. They were never the wiser to the secret of his sauce because the fruit bits had been safely washed into the garbage disposal.
Surely most people have these odd family foods. I could do some research, make the article something interesting instead of rehashing what everyone expects. Show a true slice of Americana instead of the safe one.
I click to my e-mail program to write the editor about it, and Stefan’s e-mail blinks back at me.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter, then click it open.
Eleanor,
If your article were not perfect I might be tempted to berate you for your tardiness, firstly, and secondly, your brazen attempt to cover it up. What is the world coming to when a sweet young thing such as Eleanor Samuels of Portland, Oregon, heretofore my best freelancer, resorts to such tomfoolery? Straighten up and fly right, bucko. I have the biggest assignment of your career sitting on my desk. It will take you to the next level. Are you up for the challenge?
S.
“No,” I say automatically, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I hit REPLY .
Stefan,
Firstly, I find it pretentious when people enumerate items of discussion. Secondly, you would have been even snottier had I not at least tried to pretend that I sent the article on time. Thirdly (this is why I hate enumeration), of course my article is perfect. And lastly, don’t tease me, for God’s sake. Just tell me what the stupid assignment is.
E.
I sigh and hit DELETE , then begin a new reply:
Stefan,
Glad you liked the article. Please send information about the new assignment.
E.
My affection for him is dimming rapidly.
At ten till one, I’m walking down the hospital corridor toward Room 632, carrying a pan of cream cheese–frosted spice cake, one of Benny’s favorites. A few steps from the door I hear voices, and stop, edge closer. A monotone male voice is saying, “I’ve been working on a protocol for cases such as Mr. Sloan’s, and we’re interested in starting him on it right away. With his approval, of course.”
Benny coughs. Yolanda—I can tell it is Yolanda somehow—sniffles, blows her nose.
I lean against the wall, try to breathe, the cake pan trembling in my hands. Why did I think this would be an occasion for a cake? I straighten up and walk into the room, depositing the pan as quickly as I can on a shelf near the door.
“Well, hello,” I say, acting surprised. “You’re all here early.”
The doctor, lumpy shaped and stringy haired, avoids my eyes, and Iavoid Benny’s. Yolanda looks at me and tries to smile. “Hi, honey. Dr. Krall was just telling us about the test results.” She motions for me to come stand by her, and takes my arm in hers. “This is our niece Eleanor. Would you mind starting over?”
He wheezes a sigh and looks up from beneath heavily lidded eyes. I miss Dr. Scary.
“What I was explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Sloan was that we believe the initial mass to be inoperable. In most cases we prescribe—”
“Wait a minute,” I say, hating him. “What are you even talking about? Initial mass? Do you mean his pancreas? Was it . . .”
I falter, swallowing hard, and Yolanda squeezes my arm. “Yes, honey,” she says, “it was. And they think it spread to . . . to his . . .” Now she wavers and trembles, crying silently beside me.
Benny stares at the floor, touching his head gingerly, as if feeling for the tumors I already know are there. He looks like he’s pondering something from the ordinary world—what socks to wear, what to eat for breakfast.
“But how can it be inoperable?” I say, arguing so I don’t cry, too, so I don’t break down in front of Benny. “Why can’t you just cut it out?”
Dr. Krall clears his throat. “It would seem Mr. Sloan’s cancer is quite advanced,” he begins, but I cut him off again.
“It would seem? Do you not know? Do we need more tests?”
“Honey,” Yolanda says, and I know I am
Surely most people have these odd family foods. I could do some research, make the article something interesting instead of rehashing what everyone expects. Show a true slice of Americana instead of the safe one.
I click to my e-mail program to write the editor about it, and Stefan’s e-mail blinks back at me.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter, then click it open.
Eleanor,
If your article were not perfect I might be tempted to berate you for your tardiness, firstly, and secondly, your brazen attempt to cover it up. What is the world coming to when a sweet young thing such as Eleanor Samuels of Portland, Oregon, heretofore my best freelancer, resorts to such tomfoolery? Straighten up and fly right, bucko. I have the biggest assignment of your career sitting on my desk. It will take you to the next level. Are you up for the challenge?
S.
“No,” I say automatically, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I hit REPLY .
Stefan,
Firstly, I find it pretentious when people enumerate items of discussion. Secondly, you would have been even snottier had I not at least tried to pretend that I sent the article on time. Thirdly (this is why I hate enumeration), of course my article is perfect. And lastly, don’t tease me, for God’s sake. Just tell me what the stupid assignment is.
E.
I sigh and hit DELETE , then begin a new reply:
Stefan,
Glad you liked the article. Please send information about the new assignment.
E.
My affection for him is dimming rapidly.
At ten till one, I’m walking down the hospital corridor toward Room 632, carrying a pan of cream cheese–frosted spice cake, one of Benny’s favorites. A few steps from the door I hear voices, and stop, edge closer. A monotone male voice is saying, “I’ve been working on a protocol for cases such as Mr. Sloan’s, and we’re interested in starting him on it right away. With his approval, of course.”
Benny coughs. Yolanda—I can tell it is Yolanda somehow—sniffles, blows her nose.
I lean against the wall, try to breathe, the cake pan trembling in my hands. Why did I think this would be an occasion for a cake? I straighten up and walk into the room, depositing the pan as quickly as I can on a shelf near the door.
“Well, hello,” I say, acting surprised. “You’re all here early.”
The doctor, lumpy shaped and stringy haired, avoids my eyes, and Iavoid Benny’s. Yolanda looks at me and tries to smile. “Hi, honey. Dr. Krall was just telling us about the test results.” She motions for me to come stand by her, and takes my arm in hers. “This is our niece Eleanor. Would you mind starting over?”
He wheezes a sigh and looks up from beneath heavily lidded eyes. I miss Dr. Scary.
“What I was explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Sloan was that we believe the initial mass to be inoperable. In most cases we prescribe—”
“Wait a minute,” I say, hating him. “What are you even talking about? Initial mass? Do you mean his pancreas? Was it . . .”
I falter, swallowing hard, and Yolanda squeezes my arm. “Yes, honey,” she says, “it was. And they think it spread to . . . to his . . .” Now she wavers and trembles, crying silently beside me.
Benny stares at the floor, touching his head gingerly, as if feeling for the tumors I already know are there. He looks like he’s pondering something from the ordinary world—what socks to wear, what to eat for breakfast.
“But how can it be inoperable?” I say, arguing so I don’t cry, too, so I don’t break down in front of Benny. “Why can’t you just cut it out?”
Dr. Krall clears his throat. “It would seem Mr. Sloan’s cancer is quite advanced,” he begins, but I cut him off again.
“It would seem? Do you not know? Do we need more tests?”
“Honey,” Yolanda says, and I know I am
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