vaguely Italian accent: Pheeladelphia, she would say; I cannot wait to see the sights of Pheeladelphia, to enjoy its fine cuisine, just subtle enough so that Stan might or might not notice. I noticed.
On the first day of spring break, we piled into the car and headed east. The night before, Fran had made egg salad sandwiches for us—dozens of egg salad sandwiches. Every time we stopped for gas or coffee, whenever someone had to use the bathroom or my dad needed to get out and stretch his legs, she would offer up the sandwiches, like a sacrifice to the gods of family harmony. After an hour, the car smelled like swamp gas and candy; our mother had also come prepared with an endless supply of red licorice, which was one thing we all agreed on.
I took my cues from my brother and pretended to be deeply unattached to the fact that we were trekking across the country on a mission of familial unity and support. Whatever, I said to my parents when one of them asked me a question: Would you like a Sprite? Whatever. Did you and Ben finish the issue of Prose Shop you were working on last weekend? Yeah, I don’t know. Whatever. Secretly I was thrilled, thrilled that we were all together, my grumpy, muttering father; my mood-swinging mother; my brooding, gimlet-eyed brother; and me. I propped my bare feet against the back of the seat and read the Brontés for hours. (What are you reading, Willa Gorilla? Nothing. Whatever.) Seth spent the entire trip plugged in to his portable CD player, staring out the window or at the calculus textbook open on his lap. My parents argued. But they had been arguing for so long that it seemed almost pleasant, an off-key tune, the jangling notes playing so frequently you don’t even realize they have caused you to rearrange your entire definition of “music.”
“Fran, did you write down the mileage at that rest stop?”
“Oh. No.”
“I asked you to write down the mileage.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I forgot.”
“How could you forget? What else are you thinking about that you could forget something as simple as writing down the mileage?”
“Oh, Roger, back off. Here, have a damn sandwich.”
“I don’t want a damn sandwich.”
I’ll have a ham sandwich, I wanted to say. But I kept quiet and stared out the window.
We made it to Cleveland by early evening and pulled into the E-Zzzz Rest Inn, a cut-rate motel off the highway where my father had, absurdly, made a reservation. “We’re the Jacobses, and we have reserved two rooms for tonight,” my dad announced, and the girl behind the desk pulled a wad of gum out of her mouth and laughed.
“I’m going to go swimming,” Seth said to me, pointing to a small, steamy pool behind a wall of glass, and I nodded. It wasn’t an invitation, but it was as close as I would get.
“All righty,” Fran said, lugging her big suitcase, dragging it awkwardly behind her. “Let’s go find our rooms.” My father came up behind her with his smaller, lighter duffel bag slung easily over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s all right,” Fran said, huffing. “I’ve got it,” although Stan hadn’t offered.
We headed down the chlorine-scented hallway, and when we got to rooms 16 and 17, Fran and Stan inserted their separate key cards into separate doors. Seth glanced at me and dropped his backpack on the floor. “Wait, no.” He shook his head, horrified. “Dad, no. ”
Stan tilted his big head toward Seth. “You’re bunking with me, son.”
Seth crossed his arms over his chest. “Dad, no,” he said again. “I can’t!” Our father’s snoring was legendary. His rumbling shook the rafters. There were several states in which he was not welcome. I looked down at the cabbage-rose-strewn, industrial carpeting and tried not to smile. Seth wanted to share a room with me. Yes, he was trying to avoid sleeping next to Mount St. Stan. And, no, it wasn’t as if he wanted the two of us to eat M&M’s at midnight and giggle at bad romantic comedies
On the first day of spring break, we piled into the car and headed east. The night before, Fran had made egg salad sandwiches for us—dozens of egg salad sandwiches. Every time we stopped for gas or coffee, whenever someone had to use the bathroom or my dad needed to get out and stretch his legs, she would offer up the sandwiches, like a sacrifice to the gods of family harmony. After an hour, the car smelled like swamp gas and candy; our mother had also come prepared with an endless supply of red licorice, which was one thing we all agreed on.
I took my cues from my brother and pretended to be deeply unattached to the fact that we were trekking across the country on a mission of familial unity and support. Whatever, I said to my parents when one of them asked me a question: Would you like a Sprite? Whatever. Did you and Ben finish the issue of Prose Shop you were working on last weekend? Yeah, I don’t know. Whatever. Secretly I was thrilled, thrilled that we were all together, my grumpy, muttering father; my mood-swinging mother; my brooding, gimlet-eyed brother; and me. I propped my bare feet against the back of the seat and read the Brontés for hours. (What are you reading, Willa Gorilla? Nothing. Whatever.) Seth spent the entire trip plugged in to his portable CD player, staring out the window or at the calculus textbook open on his lap. My parents argued. But they had been arguing for so long that it seemed almost pleasant, an off-key tune, the jangling notes playing so frequently you don’t even realize they have caused you to rearrange your entire definition of “music.”
“Fran, did you write down the mileage at that rest stop?”
“Oh. No.”
“I asked you to write down the mileage.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I forgot.”
“How could you forget? What else are you thinking about that you could forget something as simple as writing down the mileage?”
“Oh, Roger, back off. Here, have a damn sandwich.”
“I don’t want a damn sandwich.”
I’ll have a ham sandwich, I wanted to say. But I kept quiet and stared out the window.
We made it to Cleveland by early evening and pulled into the E-Zzzz Rest Inn, a cut-rate motel off the highway where my father had, absurdly, made a reservation. “We’re the Jacobses, and we have reserved two rooms for tonight,” my dad announced, and the girl behind the desk pulled a wad of gum out of her mouth and laughed.
“I’m going to go swimming,” Seth said to me, pointing to a small, steamy pool behind a wall of glass, and I nodded. It wasn’t an invitation, but it was as close as I would get.
“All righty,” Fran said, lugging her big suitcase, dragging it awkwardly behind her. “Let’s go find our rooms.” My father came up behind her with his smaller, lighter duffel bag slung easily over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s all right,” Fran said, huffing. “I’ve got it,” although Stan hadn’t offered.
We headed down the chlorine-scented hallway, and when we got to rooms 16 and 17, Fran and Stan inserted their separate key cards into separate doors. Seth glanced at me and dropped his backpack on the floor. “Wait, no.” He shook his head, horrified. “Dad, no. ”
Stan tilted his big head toward Seth. “You’re bunking with me, son.”
Seth crossed his arms over his chest. “Dad, no,” he said again. “I can’t!” Our father’s snoring was legendary. His rumbling shook the rafters. There were several states in which he was not welcome. I looked down at the cabbage-rose-strewn, industrial carpeting and tried not to smile. Seth wanted to share a room with me. Yes, he was trying to avoid sleeping next to Mount St. Stan. And, no, it wasn’t as if he wanted the two of us to eat M&M’s at midnight and giggle at bad romantic comedies
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