a question or an apology?” Dad asks.
“I don’t know,” Rachel says, “but
this
is a question.” She stands up. She walks right over to Dad. She pushes her face so close to his face that I bet he can smell her milk breath. “Are
you
sorry?” she says. Then she runs out of the room and up the stairs before Dad can answer.
“Okay,” Dad mumbles. “Well, that didn’t go well.” He’s pacing around the living room and looking down, like he’s hoping to find an escape hatch in the wood floor that he can jump into and be transported to another land, where he doesn’t have a wife in a nuthouseand an oldest daughter who has turned nasty. I think I hear Rachel crying upstairs, but it might just be a maple branch scraping against a window.
It’s probably a good time to check out what the birds are up to in this downpour. I get all suited up and I’m standing by the front door in my yellow rain slicker with my yellow rain hat that’s shaped like an astronaut’s helmet and my brown rubbers when Dad comes over to me and crouches down.
“Hey, honey,” he says, looking right in my eyes, “do you want to play water worms?”
I nod, because suddenly there are tears in my throat that will bubble up and spill out of my eyes if I try to talk. Daddy helps me unbuckle my slicker, like I’m a little girl. He lifts my rain hat off my head and hangs my slicker back up in the closet.
He takes my hand, leads me to the living room window, and points to a squiggle of water near the very top.
“This one’s mine,” he says. “Alfred, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Naomi.”
I point to a squiggle right near Dad’s. “This one’s mine. Dad, Josephine. Josephine, Dad. On your mark, get set, go!”
I lean against Dad, and he doesn’t move away. He smells good, like dry grass. We watch Alfred and Josephine race down the window. Our contestants take their sweet time, but Dad and I, there’s nothing elsewe need to be doing right now. He doesn’t have to go see if Mom needs a bite to eat or if she’s warm enough on the couch or if she’d like him to read a short story to her from
The Best Short Stories of the Sixties
. Maybe once we see whether Alfred or Josephine is the winner, I’ll ask Dad if he’ll come with me to the kitchen. Maybe I’ll have milk tea in a pink mug and a piece of rye toast with margarine. Maybe he’ll have a cup of instant coffee and we’ll sit at the kitchen table and watch the rain splash and just not talk about all of the things there are to talk about.
“Turkey, Corn, Sweet Potatoes, and Peas, one more time!” Miss Gallagher says.
“Do I have to be the turkey?” Joey asks. “I really, really, really don’t want to be the turkey.”
“Joey,” Miss Gallagher says, “we’ve discussed this. We had a fair process. Everyone chose his or her role by pulling a slip of paper out of a bowl. And the turkey is a very important part of the Thanksgiving meal.”
“I guess you don’t have older brothers,” Joey says under his breath.
Miss Gallagher thinks we
could
have a blockbuster of a Thanksgiving play, because she’s added a creative element, which is having the meal dance around the Pilgrims and Indians before it settles on the tableto be eaten,
if only
Peas (Dawn) and Corn (Lisa B.) and Sweet Potatoes (Tommy) and Turkey would add their own unique flavor and spice to the basic step so it doesn’t just look like the Mexican hat dance.
I’m tired of sitting on the floor, waiting to bow my head and lead the other Pilgrims in saying grace before the meal, especially since I’m not even sure I should be saying it.
“Dancers, again!” Miss Gallagher says. Aside from Dawn, who really is trying, because she’s got her cheeks puffed up with air and actually looks a little like a pea, the rest of the meal is just shuffling around.
“I bet Miss Gallagher got this idea from
Harriet the Spy
,” Sally whispers.
I nod. Miss Gallagher is staring at us with her
“I don’t know,” Rachel says, “but
this
is a question.” She stands up. She walks right over to Dad. She pushes her face so close to his face that I bet he can smell her milk breath. “Are
you
sorry?” she says. Then she runs out of the room and up the stairs before Dad can answer.
“Okay,” Dad mumbles. “Well, that didn’t go well.” He’s pacing around the living room and looking down, like he’s hoping to find an escape hatch in the wood floor that he can jump into and be transported to another land, where he doesn’t have a wife in a nuthouseand an oldest daughter who has turned nasty. I think I hear Rachel crying upstairs, but it might just be a maple branch scraping against a window.
It’s probably a good time to check out what the birds are up to in this downpour. I get all suited up and I’m standing by the front door in my yellow rain slicker with my yellow rain hat that’s shaped like an astronaut’s helmet and my brown rubbers when Dad comes over to me and crouches down.
“Hey, honey,” he says, looking right in my eyes, “do you want to play water worms?”
I nod, because suddenly there are tears in my throat that will bubble up and spill out of my eyes if I try to talk. Daddy helps me unbuckle my slicker, like I’m a little girl. He lifts my rain hat off my head and hangs my slicker back up in the closet.
He takes my hand, leads me to the living room window, and points to a squiggle of water near the very top.
“This one’s mine,” he says. “Alfred, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Naomi.”
I point to a squiggle right near Dad’s. “This one’s mine. Dad, Josephine. Josephine, Dad. On your mark, get set, go!”
I lean against Dad, and he doesn’t move away. He smells good, like dry grass. We watch Alfred and Josephine race down the window. Our contestants take their sweet time, but Dad and I, there’s nothing elsewe need to be doing right now. He doesn’t have to go see if Mom needs a bite to eat or if she’s warm enough on the couch or if she’d like him to read a short story to her from
The Best Short Stories of the Sixties
. Maybe once we see whether Alfred or Josephine is the winner, I’ll ask Dad if he’ll come with me to the kitchen. Maybe I’ll have milk tea in a pink mug and a piece of rye toast with margarine. Maybe he’ll have a cup of instant coffee and we’ll sit at the kitchen table and watch the rain splash and just not talk about all of the things there are to talk about.
“Turkey, Corn, Sweet Potatoes, and Peas, one more time!” Miss Gallagher says.
“Do I have to be the turkey?” Joey asks. “I really, really, really don’t want to be the turkey.”
“Joey,” Miss Gallagher says, “we’ve discussed this. We had a fair process. Everyone chose his or her role by pulling a slip of paper out of a bowl. And the turkey is a very important part of the Thanksgiving meal.”
“I guess you don’t have older brothers,” Joey says under his breath.
Miss Gallagher thinks we
could
have a blockbuster of a Thanksgiving play, because she’s added a creative element, which is having the meal dance around the Pilgrims and Indians before it settles on the tableto be eaten,
if only
Peas (Dawn) and Corn (Lisa B.) and Sweet Potatoes (Tommy) and Turkey would add their own unique flavor and spice to the basic step so it doesn’t just look like the Mexican hat dance.
I’m tired of sitting on the floor, waiting to bow my head and lead the other Pilgrims in saying grace before the meal, especially since I’m not even sure I should be saying it.
“Dancers, again!” Miss Gallagher says. Aside from Dawn, who really is trying, because she’s got her cheeks puffed up with air and actually looks a little like a pea, the rest of the meal is just shuffling around.
“I bet Miss Gallagher got this idea from
Harriet the Spy
,” Sally whispers.
I nod. Miss Gallagher is staring at us with her
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