blushing.
“I thought you said we were having steak,” Pop-pop says, looking at his plate suspiciously. “This looks like chicken.”
“It
is
chicken, Daddy,” my mother says in exasperation.
“Wouldn’t have worn a necktie if I wasn’t going to get steak,” he mutters to himself.
“Mr. Mulligan, would you care for some peas and onions?” I ask in a sweet voice. “Me-me’s famous for her peas and onions.”
Mr. Mulligan holds out his plate with a broad smile. “Why, thank you, Penny. I’d love some.”
Across the table my mother shoots me a warning look, and I shrug innocently.
I give Mr. Mulligan a big helping and then watch as he takes his first bite. He blinks fast when the peas hit his tongue and then chews for a while, finally swallowing hard.
“They’re delicious,” he says to Me-me.
Me-me smiles happily.
“Me-me does a lot of the cooking around here,” I inform Mr. Mulligan.
“Really?” he says, looking a little worried.
I wait until his plate is clean.
“More peas?” I ask.
“Uh,” he says, unsure, his eyes darting between my mother and Me-me. “I don’t want to eat them all.”
“Please, don’t be shy, there’s more on the stove,” Me-me says.
He holds out his plate reluctantly. “In that case, yes, please.”
It takes all my willpower not to burst out laughing from the look on his face. He looks like he’s going to the executioner.
“Penny,” my mother says, “can you come into the kitchen for a moment, please?”
Before I can answer, Scarlett O’Hara trots over to Mr. Mulligan and calmly squats above his foot and tinkles on his shoe.
“Scarlett O’Hara!” my mother says in a horrified voice.
“Dog’s bladder’s going,” Pop-pop says.
“Daddy!” my mother scolds.
“What? Not like it’s a state secret,” Pop-pop says.
“Oh, Pat, I’m so sorry,” my mother says. “Here, let me have your shoe and I’ll clean it up.”
Mr. Mulligan hands his shoe to my mother, who hurries into the kitchen.
Me-me stands up. “I have some rags in the basement.”
Then it’s just me and Pop-pop and Mr. Mulligan.
Mr. Mulligan smiles uncomfortably. He’s been trying not to look at my eye the whole meal, but I know he’s curious.
“That’s gonna be some shiner,” he says.
“Oh, this? It’s nothing,” I say, and lower my voice confidingly. “Mother slugged me for not making my bed. She likes things neat.”
He looks at Pop-pop, as if he’ll tell him it’s not true. Instead, Pop-pop burps loudly.
“So, you gonna marry my daughter or what?” Pop-pop says.
Mr. Mulligan doesn’t stay long. He eats the key lime pie Me-me made in two bites. When my mother asks him if he wants a second cup of coffee, he says he really needs to get home.
I wave as Mr. Mulligan’s car drives away. I figure there’s nothing to worry about after all.
I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.
CHAPTER TWELVE
No Poking
It’s late, nearly midnight, but I can hear the soft staticky sound of the radio.
I step into my slippers and walk down the hallway to the parlor.
Pop-pop is sitting in his chair next to the radio, ear as close to it as possible, listening intently. Our radio’s big, a Philco. Pop-pop’s nodding like someone’s talking to him, except no one’s there. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching. He doesn’t notice me.
“Talking to Mickey, Pop-pop?” I ask.
He looks up, startled.
“Are you talking to Mickey?” I ask again, more loudly.
“What else would I be doing?” he barks back, and then rubs his bald head tiredly.
My grandfather thinks that his nephew, Mickey, who was killed in Germany during World War II, sometimes talks to him through the radio static. Pop-pop was heartbroken when Mickey died; he always says that Mickey was like the son he never had. There’s a picture of Mickey in the upstairs hallway wearing his pilot’s uniform, looking all dashing.
Pop-pop started hearing Mickey a few years ago, and at first he was
“I thought you said we were having steak,” Pop-pop says, looking at his plate suspiciously. “This looks like chicken.”
“It
is
chicken, Daddy,” my mother says in exasperation.
“Wouldn’t have worn a necktie if I wasn’t going to get steak,” he mutters to himself.
“Mr. Mulligan, would you care for some peas and onions?” I ask in a sweet voice. “Me-me’s famous for her peas and onions.”
Mr. Mulligan holds out his plate with a broad smile. “Why, thank you, Penny. I’d love some.”
Across the table my mother shoots me a warning look, and I shrug innocently.
I give Mr. Mulligan a big helping and then watch as he takes his first bite. He blinks fast when the peas hit his tongue and then chews for a while, finally swallowing hard.
“They’re delicious,” he says to Me-me.
Me-me smiles happily.
“Me-me does a lot of the cooking around here,” I inform Mr. Mulligan.
“Really?” he says, looking a little worried.
I wait until his plate is clean.
“More peas?” I ask.
“Uh,” he says, unsure, his eyes darting between my mother and Me-me. “I don’t want to eat them all.”
“Please, don’t be shy, there’s more on the stove,” Me-me says.
He holds out his plate reluctantly. “In that case, yes, please.”
It takes all my willpower not to burst out laughing from the look on his face. He looks like he’s going to the executioner.
“Penny,” my mother says, “can you come into the kitchen for a moment, please?”
Before I can answer, Scarlett O’Hara trots over to Mr. Mulligan and calmly squats above his foot and tinkles on his shoe.
“Scarlett O’Hara!” my mother says in a horrified voice.
“Dog’s bladder’s going,” Pop-pop says.
“Daddy!” my mother scolds.
“What? Not like it’s a state secret,” Pop-pop says.
“Oh, Pat, I’m so sorry,” my mother says. “Here, let me have your shoe and I’ll clean it up.”
Mr. Mulligan hands his shoe to my mother, who hurries into the kitchen.
Me-me stands up. “I have some rags in the basement.”
Then it’s just me and Pop-pop and Mr. Mulligan.
Mr. Mulligan smiles uncomfortably. He’s been trying not to look at my eye the whole meal, but I know he’s curious.
“That’s gonna be some shiner,” he says.
“Oh, this? It’s nothing,” I say, and lower my voice confidingly. “Mother slugged me for not making my bed. She likes things neat.”
He looks at Pop-pop, as if he’ll tell him it’s not true. Instead, Pop-pop burps loudly.
“So, you gonna marry my daughter or what?” Pop-pop says.
Mr. Mulligan doesn’t stay long. He eats the key lime pie Me-me made in two bites. When my mother asks him if he wants a second cup of coffee, he says he really needs to get home.
I wave as Mr. Mulligan’s car drives away. I figure there’s nothing to worry about after all.
I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.
CHAPTER TWELVE
No Poking
It’s late, nearly midnight, but I can hear the soft staticky sound of the radio.
I step into my slippers and walk down the hallway to the parlor.
Pop-pop is sitting in his chair next to the radio, ear as close to it as possible, listening intently. Our radio’s big, a Philco. Pop-pop’s nodding like someone’s talking to him, except no one’s there. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching. He doesn’t notice me.
“Talking to Mickey, Pop-pop?” I ask.
He looks up, startled.
“Are you talking to Mickey?” I ask again, more loudly.
“What else would I be doing?” he barks back, and then rubs his bald head tiredly.
My grandfather thinks that his nephew, Mickey, who was killed in Germany during World War II, sometimes talks to him through the radio static. Pop-pop was heartbroken when Mickey died; he always says that Mickey was like the son he never had. There’s a picture of Mickey in the upstairs hallway wearing his pilot’s uniform, looking all dashing.
Pop-pop started hearing Mickey a few years ago, and at first he was
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