Ellie sits cross-legged on the floor, breathes deeply through her nose a few times, and presses the clicker.
The movie is about gamblers and showgirls in New York a long time ago. The men wear suits like my dad but in candy colours, and the girls are all stupid except one who works for the Salvation Army, who’s pretty and mean. Then one of the gamblers gets her drunk and she’s not mean anymore. The music is jazzy and the talking is strange, all fancy and stilted, but funny too. There’s one love story between the gambler and the Salvation Army girl, which makes me cringe inside the way love stories always do, and another love story between another gambler and one of the showgirls. They’re dumber and funnier than the first two, and I’m more comfortable when they’re on the screen.
“What is that?” I ask Aunt Ellie.
“Downward Dog,” Aunt Ellie says. She’s bending from the waist with her palms on the floor. Her voice is kind of muffled.
“In the movie, I mean.”
Her head comes up. “It’s a dice game called—”
“Ssh,” Merry says.
“—craps,” Aunt Ellie says.
“Sorry!” I whisper. I must have wrecked her concentration.
“No, the game’s really called craps,” she whispers back.
“Ssh!” Merry says.
When the movie’s over, Merry wants to watch it again right away. Aunt Ellie says she’s going to make supper. “Want to help me or watch it again?”
“I’ll sit with Merry,” I say. “Unless you need me to help?”
“Sit with Merry.”
Halfway into our second time through, Aunt Ellie brings down trays with macaroni and cheese and raw veggies and dip and cranberry juice and chocolate pudding. “Don’t tell your mom we’re not sitting around the table,” Aunt Ellie says.
“We get to eat takeout pizza in front of the TV when there’s an election. Other than that—”
“My sister likes things just so.” Aunt Ellie smiles with just one side of her mouth, as if it’s a joke that isn’t really a joke. “All the family sitting round like a picture in a magazine. But when it’s just the two of us, Merry and me, we’re pretty relaxed.”
“Ssh!” Merry says. She’s sitting up straight in her beanbag, transfixed by the TV. Her plate of food sits untouched on the floor. I’ve never seen her concentrate so hard on anything for so long, let alone ignore food.
“What’s she doing?” I whisper to Aunt Ellie.
She passes me some carrot sticks. “Learning the words.”
When the movie’s all done, Merry wants to watch it a third time. “Tomorrow, Merry,” Aunt Ellie says. “It’s time to go make up a bed for Edie.”
“No,” Merry says.
“I don’t have pyjamas,” I say. “Or a toothbrush. Should I call my mom?”
“Merry can lend you something,” Aunt Ellie says. “And I have a spare toothbrush. You don’t have to go to bed yet, Merry, just get ready. We can do crafts or listen to music.”
“Music,” I say quickly. Crafts, meh .
Merry loans me a pair of too-short orange fleece pants and a too-big Belle Province T-shirt for pyjamas. We drink cocoa and Aunt Ellie puts a Louis Armstrong CD on the stereo. Merry sings along to most of the songs. She’s not a great singer, but she knows every single word and bit of melody, every breath and hesitation and improvisation.
“Merry,” I say when she’s done, “that’s really good. You know all the words and everything.”
“I like that,” she says. Then she starts to sing something else:
Silly old dad of mine ,
Why waste your time and mine?
You make me sad in my heart.
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up to my ears. “That’s Cordelia,” I say to Aunt Ellie. “That’s Cordelia’s first song in our King Lear .”
“She knows all the songs,” Aunt Ellie says, ruffling Merry’s hair. “The words, too. She’s been to every rehearsal, after all.”
“Yeah, but that’s—that’s amazing. Half the cast don’t know their own lines yet.”
“It’s okay, Edie,” Merry
The movie is about gamblers and showgirls in New York a long time ago. The men wear suits like my dad but in candy colours, and the girls are all stupid except one who works for the Salvation Army, who’s pretty and mean. Then one of the gamblers gets her drunk and she’s not mean anymore. The music is jazzy and the talking is strange, all fancy and stilted, but funny too. There’s one love story between the gambler and the Salvation Army girl, which makes me cringe inside the way love stories always do, and another love story between another gambler and one of the showgirls. They’re dumber and funnier than the first two, and I’m more comfortable when they’re on the screen.
“What is that?” I ask Aunt Ellie.
“Downward Dog,” Aunt Ellie says. She’s bending from the waist with her palms on the floor. Her voice is kind of muffled.
“In the movie, I mean.”
Her head comes up. “It’s a dice game called—”
“Ssh,” Merry says.
“—craps,” Aunt Ellie says.
“Sorry!” I whisper. I must have wrecked her concentration.
“No, the game’s really called craps,” she whispers back.
“Ssh!” Merry says.
When the movie’s over, Merry wants to watch it again right away. Aunt Ellie says she’s going to make supper. “Want to help me or watch it again?”
“I’ll sit with Merry,” I say. “Unless you need me to help?”
“Sit with Merry.”
Halfway into our second time through, Aunt Ellie brings down trays with macaroni and cheese and raw veggies and dip and cranberry juice and chocolate pudding. “Don’t tell your mom we’re not sitting around the table,” Aunt Ellie says.
“We get to eat takeout pizza in front of the TV when there’s an election. Other than that—”
“My sister likes things just so.” Aunt Ellie smiles with just one side of her mouth, as if it’s a joke that isn’t really a joke. “All the family sitting round like a picture in a magazine. But when it’s just the two of us, Merry and me, we’re pretty relaxed.”
“Ssh!” Merry says. She’s sitting up straight in her beanbag, transfixed by the TV. Her plate of food sits untouched on the floor. I’ve never seen her concentrate so hard on anything for so long, let alone ignore food.
“What’s she doing?” I whisper to Aunt Ellie.
She passes me some carrot sticks. “Learning the words.”
When the movie’s all done, Merry wants to watch it a third time. “Tomorrow, Merry,” Aunt Ellie says. “It’s time to go make up a bed for Edie.”
“No,” Merry says.
“I don’t have pyjamas,” I say. “Or a toothbrush. Should I call my mom?”
“Merry can lend you something,” Aunt Ellie says. “And I have a spare toothbrush. You don’t have to go to bed yet, Merry, just get ready. We can do crafts or listen to music.”
“Music,” I say quickly. Crafts, meh .
Merry loans me a pair of too-short orange fleece pants and a too-big Belle Province T-shirt for pyjamas. We drink cocoa and Aunt Ellie puts a Louis Armstrong CD on the stereo. Merry sings along to most of the songs. She’s not a great singer, but she knows every single word and bit of melody, every breath and hesitation and improvisation.
“Merry,” I say when she’s done, “that’s really good. You know all the words and everything.”
“I like that,” she says. Then she starts to sing something else:
Silly old dad of mine ,
Why waste your time and mine?
You make me sad in my heart.
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up to my ears. “That’s Cordelia,” I say to Aunt Ellie. “That’s Cordelia’s first song in our King Lear .”
“She knows all the songs,” Aunt Ellie says, ruffling Merry’s hair. “The words, too. She’s been to every rehearsal, after all.”
“Yeah, but that’s—that’s amazing. Half the cast don’t know their own lines yet.”
“It’s okay, Edie,” Merry
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