says, “and then we can go.”
Oh, of course. She has to bring the dog, she won’t be back for a few days. Well, I’m going to be sitting in the front seat on the way home, that’s for sure. Bones does not seem exactly pleased to make my acquaintance. He is sniffing me, but he has planted himself far enough away that he has to stretch out his neck to do so. This is a dog’s way of saying, “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Hey,” I say to him, friendly.
“I
got a dog.”
He is sniffing one place in particular on my hand. Probably it’s Bridgette he smells, and probably he’s saying to me, “No kidding.”
I take a look at Ginger’s living room, off to the side of the hall. She is not a wealthy woman, I can tell. But she has fixed up what she has so comfortably it makes you want to stay there awhile. There is a jewel-colored afghan draped over the back of an old sofa, books neatly lined up in the cases along the walls, plants along the top shelf. She has a lot of books. I can see from here that they’re nearly all paperbacks so they don’t look quite as pretty as what you see in magazine pictures, but they do their job just fine, which is to make you feel satisfied. It’s a cozy thing to know you have so many books, that you can at any moment walk over and browse in your own house.
There are some pictures on the wall, mostly flowers, it looks like, and the white curtains at the window areclean and ruffled. She has a rug with giant roses on it, a rocking chair with yellow corduroy cushions. There is another chair completely covered by a spread, so I guess its show-off days are over. I can see a little of the kitchen from here, too: it has a black-and-white-checked floor, which is something I have always admired.
“I’m sorry,” Ginger says, coming out into the hallway, pulling on her coat. “I’d put his leash in a different place—I couldn’t find it.”
Bones turns, sees the leash in Ginger’s hand and becomes excited all over again. “No, no,” Ginger says. “We’re not going for a walk.”
Now his ears perk up and his eyes are like cartoon characters when the money sign comes into them.
“No,”
Ginger says, laughing.
But she has put Bones’s leash on and he has his own ideas. He is dragging her to the door. I mean dragging. Her loafers are planted firm, but she is sliding along like the floor is greased. This is like a comedy show about a happy family.
I look at my father. He is smiling, standing there holding Ginger’s suitcase. It seems like we have both almost forgotten what we came here for. But then he takes the leash from Ginger, snaps it smartly and the dog stops pulling. This is the thing about strong people: you can mostly be scared of them but sometimes the way they are makes you feel safe.
G inger makes the most delicious French toast for my breakfast. It is so fancy, cut into triangles, one lying just a little on top of the other, and it has cinnamon sugar sprinkled on it exactly even. And she squeezed real oranges for my juice! I actually like the can kind better, where things don’t clang into your front teeth, but this does taste good and it looks pretty. She folded my napkin, put it neatly under my fork. I guess she thinks this is the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, moved to Missouri.
“I’m going to Woolworth’s with a friend after school today,” I tell her. “But I’ll be home before dinner.”
“Is it Cynthia you’re going with?” Ginger is wearing a pink terry-cloth robe, no makeup. One funny thing is she looks better without it. I have never seen that before. Her face is softer, like Doris Day in love.
“No, I’m going with a girl named Taylor,” I say. “She’s new, too.”
Of course, Taylor is new in a way that is the opposite of me. Everyone wants to know Taylor. Everyone is respectful curious. She is aloof, which I guess they like,because they just keep coming back for more. I suppose I like it too. It’s like a contest then, who can be the one that
Oh, of course. She has to bring the dog, she won’t be back for a few days. Well, I’m going to be sitting in the front seat on the way home, that’s for sure. Bones does not seem exactly pleased to make my acquaintance. He is sniffing me, but he has planted himself far enough away that he has to stretch out his neck to do so. This is a dog’s way of saying, “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Hey,” I say to him, friendly.
“I
got a dog.”
He is sniffing one place in particular on my hand. Probably it’s Bridgette he smells, and probably he’s saying to me, “No kidding.”
I take a look at Ginger’s living room, off to the side of the hall. She is not a wealthy woman, I can tell. But she has fixed up what she has so comfortably it makes you want to stay there awhile. There is a jewel-colored afghan draped over the back of an old sofa, books neatly lined up in the cases along the walls, plants along the top shelf. She has a lot of books. I can see from here that they’re nearly all paperbacks so they don’t look quite as pretty as what you see in magazine pictures, but they do their job just fine, which is to make you feel satisfied. It’s a cozy thing to know you have so many books, that you can at any moment walk over and browse in your own house.
There are some pictures on the wall, mostly flowers, it looks like, and the white curtains at the window areclean and ruffled. She has a rug with giant roses on it, a rocking chair with yellow corduroy cushions. There is another chair completely covered by a spread, so I guess its show-off days are over. I can see a little of the kitchen from here, too: it has a black-and-white-checked floor, which is something I have always admired.
“I’m sorry,” Ginger says, coming out into the hallway, pulling on her coat. “I’d put his leash in a different place—I couldn’t find it.”
Bones turns, sees the leash in Ginger’s hand and becomes excited all over again. “No, no,” Ginger says. “We’re not going for a walk.”
Now his ears perk up and his eyes are like cartoon characters when the money sign comes into them.
“No,”
Ginger says, laughing.
But she has put Bones’s leash on and he has his own ideas. He is dragging her to the door. I mean dragging. Her loafers are planted firm, but she is sliding along like the floor is greased. This is like a comedy show about a happy family.
I look at my father. He is smiling, standing there holding Ginger’s suitcase. It seems like we have both almost forgotten what we came here for. But then he takes the leash from Ginger, snaps it smartly and the dog stops pulling. This is the thing about strong people: you can mostly be scared of them but sometimes the way they are makes you feel safe.
G inger makes the most delicious French toast for my breakfast. It is so fancy, cut into triangles, one lying just a little on top of the other, and it has cinnamon sugar sprinkled on it exactly even. And she squeezed real oranges for my juice! I actually like the can kind better, where things don’t clang into your front teeth, but this does taste good and it looks pretty. She folded my napkin, put it neatly under my fork. I guess she thinks this is the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, moved to Missouri.
“I’m going to Woolworth’s with a friend after school today,” I tell her. “But I’ll be home before dinner.”
“Is it Cynthia you’re going with?” Ginger is wearing a pink terry-cloth robe, no makeup. One funny thing is she looks better without it. I have never seen that before. Her face is softer, like Doris Day in love.
“No, I’m going with a girl named Taylor,” I say. “She’s new, too.”
Of course, Taylor is new in a way that is the opposite of me. Everyone wants to know Taylor. Everyone is respectful curious. She is aloof, which I guess they like,because they just keep coming back for more. I suppose I like it too. It’s like a contest then, who can be the one that
Similar Books
