in a voice-cover]: They’re tired. It was a long flight. So they’re not gooey and emotional. That’s not their style anyway. Deal with it.
M: Are you still with us, Ducky?
D [voice-over]: Ducky?
He smiles. F and M sometimes still use his nickname. It’s a touching moment. It sounds so natural, so RIGHT, in a funny way. A glimmer of happiness.
Which ends as he collides with a man in a Hawaiian shirt.
CUT. CHANGE REEL
You reach the baggage claim bruised but alive. You drop the carry-ons. Mom and Dad are looking to the place where the suitcases will first appear.
“How was the trip?” you ask.
Mom begins, “Well, I made great progress on my paper. …”
You hear about the water level of the Volta River. The price fluctuations of manganese ore and bauxite. The condition of the cacao crop and its effects on the coastal Ashanti people.
Right.
“Didn’t you do anything FUN?” you ask.
They don’t answer. They’re distracted by the carousel, which is now going around without their luggage. So Dad begins to worry aloud that his stuff has been stolen or switched onto a flight to Katmandu, where some lucky Sherpa will soon be leading mountain treks dressed in his Brooks Brothers seersucker shirt. And you don’t want him to make a scene, but there’s no way to stop him — he’s off yelling at some skycap, threatening to sue the airline, when
HALLELUJAH!
The suitcases arrive. But now Dad’s caught in one of his funks, so you try to be lighthearted and cheerful as you drag the luggage to the airport doors. You run to the lot, fetch the car, and load everything into the trunk. You hand Dad the keys, but he shakes his head. “No, you go head.”
You turn toward Mom. She’s already sliding into the backseat.
YOU’RE driving, Ducky. No way out.
The Torture Begins.
As you pull away from the curb, Dad STOMPS on an imaginary brake. As you approach the
crosswalk, he YELLS at you to watch out for the pedestrians. He GASPS at near-accidents that are (let’s face it) all in his mind.
Soon you’re crawling along then freeway at five miles UNDER the speed limit, eyes ahead, teeth clenched, knuckles gripping the steering wheel. Mom exclaims how nice it is to be back home, but all you can see out the window is smoggy, gray Culver City, and you think either she’s lying or Ghana must be pretty dismal, when suddenly she asks, “So … how are YOU, sweetie?”
YOU.
What a shock.
There’s so much you want to say — your schoolwork, your new friendships, your job at Winslow Books — and everything rushes out at once, but nothing makes much sense.
Dad interrupts you. “What about Mrs. Winslow?” he mumbles. “Is she …?”
“Still alive, yup,” you reply, and you HATE the way the words sound — a quick update, just the headlines — implying all is well, when in reality it’s NOT — Sunny’s mom is DYING and
Sunny’s going through her own private hell. But you CAN’T go into that or into anything IMPORTANT, because Dad is telling you to bear left, slow down, use your signals — and when your exit FINALLY appears, you want to veer onto a side street, park the car, and walk home.
But instead you obediently drive to your house, then tote the baggage inside while Mom and Dad give Ted a BIG, EMOTIONAL greeting, and Ted seems actually INTERESTED in the news
about bauxite (the faker), which is why they adore him so much more than you (Ducky, you DIDN’T write that).
Soon Dad’s complaining. The TV’s been moved to the wrong side of the living room. There’s no real food in the fridge. A slice of pizza has slipped between the fridge and counter, somehow unseen by you and Ted.
Mom’s wandering around the house, running her fingers along the counters, gazing through the windows, as if visiting the place in a dream. You try not to look at her face as she discovers a sock behind the sofa … and the smudge marks on the ceiling that Ted’s friends made, passing around the basketball inside the
M: Are you still with us, Ducky?
D [voice-over]: Ducky?
He smiles. F and M sometimes still use his nickname. It’s a touching moment. It sounds so natural, so RIGHT, in a funny way. A glimmer of happiness.
Which ends as he collides with a man in a Hawaiian shirt.
CUT. CHANGE REEL
You reach the baggage claim bruised but alive. You drop the carry-ons. Mom and Dad are looking to the place where the suitcases will first appear.
“How was the trip?” you ask.
Mom begins, “Well, I made great progress on my paper. …”
You hear about the water level of the Volta River. The price fluctuations of manganese ore and bauxite. The condition of the cacao crop and its effects on the coastal Ashanti people.
Right.
“Didn’t you do anything FUN?” you ask.
They don’t answer. They’re distracted by the carousel, which is now going around without their luggage. So Dad begins to worry aloud that his stuff has been stolen or switched onto a flight to Katmandu, where some lucky Sherpa will soon be leading mountain treks dressed in his Brooks Brothers seersucker shirt. And you don’t want him to make a scene, but there’s no way to stop him — he’s off yelling at some skycap, threatening to sue the airline, when
HALLELUJAH!
The suitcases arrive. But now Dad’s caught in one of his funks, so you try to be lighthearted and cheerful as you drag the luggage to the airport doors. You run to the lot, fetch the car, and load everything into the trunk. You hand Dad the keys, but he shakes his head. “No, you go head.”
You turn toward Mom. She’s already sliding into the backseat.
YOU’RE driving, Ducky. No way out.
The Torture Begins.
As you pull away from the curb, Dad STOMPS on an imaginary brake. As you approach the
crosswalk, he YELLS at you to watch out for the pedestrians. He GASPS at near-accidents that are (let’s face it) all in his mind.
Soon you’re crawling along then freeway at five miles UNDER the speed limit, eyes ahead, teeth clenched, knuckles gripping the steering wheel. Mom exclaims how nice it is to be back home, but all you can see out the window is smoggy, gray Culver City, and you think either she’s lying or Ghana must be pretty dismal, when suddenly she asks, “So … how are YOU, sweetie?”
YOU.
What a shock.
There’s so much you want to say — your schoolwork, your new friendships, your job at Winslow Books — and everything rushes out at once, but nothing makes much sense.
Dad interrupts you. “What about Mrs. Winslow?” he mumbles. “Is she …?”
“Still alive, yup,” you reply, and you HATE the way the words sound — a quick update, just the headlines — implying all is well, when in reality it’s NOT — Sunny’s mom is DYING and
Sunny’s going through her own private hell. But you CAN’T go into that or into anything IMPORTANT, because Dad is telling you to bear left, slow down, use your signals — and when your exit FINALLY appears, you want to veer onto a side street, park the car, and walk home.
But instead you obediently drive to your house, then tote the baggage inside while Mom and Dad give Ted a BIG, EMOTIONAL greeting, and Ted seems actually INTERESTED in the news
about bauxite (the faker), which is why they adore him so much more than you (Ducky, you DIDN’T write that).
Soon Dad’s complaining. The TV’s been moved to the wrong side of the living room. There’s no real food in the fridge. A slice of pizza has slipped between the fridge and counter, somehow unseen by you and Ted.
Mom’s wandering around the house, running her fingers along the counters, gazing through the windows, as if visiting the place in a dream. You try not to look at her face as she discovers a sock behind the sofa … and the smudge marks on the ceiling that Ted’s friends made, passing around the basketball inside the
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