would have gassed him.”
T-Rex, a name Frank dubbed him because the dog’s ears and head make up seventy-five percent of his tan body and his teeth another ten, looks like a mix of Bassett hound, bulldog, and poodle. Frank’s right—he’s ugly.
Aren’t dogs supposed to be the best judges of people? Then why is T-Rex obsessed with following Frank everywhere, even the bathroom? Aunt Irene avoids T-Rex. She says he smells and is ‘displeasing’ to look at. He does have the head of a kickball screwed to the body of an empty paper towel roll and the dinosaur teeth are a little intimidating, but after a while, his ugliness is kind of cute. Aunt Irene doesn’t think so.
She’s just arrived, bringing a tray of baked ziti, lasagna, and stuffed pork chops. Yesterday, Uncle Stan delivered a batch of chili, fried chicken and a Tupperware container of potato salad. They continue to put food in our stomachs, filling us up, but we have never felt emptier.
“Is that animal in the house?” she asks from the front porch.
“No, he’s in the garage. Do you want me to get anything out of the car?” I ask.
“Actually, yes. I got you and Kay a little something. There are two packages on the back seat, would you bring them in?” Today she is wearing a green sleeveless top and a bright pink skirt… a watermelon with breasts.
“Sure, be right back.” I am hoping the ‘somethings’ are not more wide hair bands with ladybugs and bumblebees, like the ones she gave us the other day. But when I sift through the folds of pink and yellow tissue paper to expose the gift, I wish it were another hair band. Instead, there’s an orange and green scarf dotted with fuchsia butterflies.
“Kay’s is the same pattern but in yellow and red with powder blue butterflies. Yours is more sophisticated,” she says, lowering her voice.
“Thank you, Aunt Irene.”
“You are so welcome, sweetheart.” She flings her arms around my waist, pulls me close. “There’s so much more where that came from. We’re going to get through this, you’ll see.” She sniffs. “We’ll all get through this.” Then, she releases me. “Is your father here?”
“He’s in the garage.”
“Hmm.” It is such a small sound, almost like she’s clearing her throat, but I hear the distaste. He thinks she’s a silly piece of cotton candy and she calls him a rude, intolerable beast.
She adjusts the shoulder strap of her pink purse and draws in a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about the knife?”
“What knife?”
She arches a perfect brow. “The one your father chased you up the stairs with.”
Damn Kay. “He didn’t mean it,” I say. “It was a mistake.”
“The kind of mistake people make when they drink too much?” She runs a hand over my hair, not waiting for an answer, “I’ll be back in a little while.”
I watch her pink sandals step over the cracked cement and disappear into the garage. This is not going to be good. They haven’t had a civilized conversation in eight months, not since she accused him of treating Mom like a sheet of used toilet paper. That’s when he threw her out of the house, but Mom gave it right back to him, said if he tried to keep her sister from coming here, she’d pack us up for the weekend, go to Irene’s . He backed down then, and he’s been decent about taking her food since the funeral, probably because of us.
I have to know what they’re saying, so I sneak behind the garage, between the evergreen bushes, and listen at the open window.
“I know about the knife, Frank.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The one you tried to attack Sara with, I know about it.”
“It was just a misunderstanding. Sara knows I’d never hurt her.”
“Well Kay, doesn’t . She’s scared to death of you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Come on, Frank, be honest. You can’t take care of them. Let them come with Stan and me.”
“Like hell. They’re mine and they’re not going anywhere.” These
T-Rex, a name Frank dubbed him because the dog’s ears and head make up seventy-five percent of his tan body and his teeth another ten, looks like a mix of Bassett hound, bulldog, and poodle. Frank’s right—he’s ugly.
Aren’t dogs supposed to be the best judges of people? Then why is T-Rex obsessed with following Frank everywhere, even the bathroom? Aunt Irene avoids T-Rex. She says he smells and is ‘displeasing’ to look at. He does have the head of a kickball screwed to the body of an empty paper towel roll and the dinosaur teeth are a little intimidating, but after a while, his ugliness is kind of cute. Aunt Irene doesn’t think so.
She’s just arrived, bringing a tray of baked ziti, lasagna, and stuffed pork chops. Yesterday, Uncle Stan delivered a batch of chili, fried chicken and a Tupperware container of potato salad. They continue to put food in our stomachs, filling us up, but we have never felt emptier.
“Is that animal in the house?” she asks from the front porch.
“No, he’s in the garage. Do you want me to get anything out of the car?” I ask.
“Actually, yes. I got you and Kay a little something. There are two packages on the back seat, would you bring them in?” Today she is wearing a green sleeveless top and a bright pink skirt… a watermelon with breasts.
“Sure, be right back.” I am hoping the ‘somethings’ are not more wide hair bands with ladybugs and bumblebees, like the ones she gave us the other day. But when I sift through the folds of pink and yellow tissue paper to expose the gift, I wish it were another hair band. Instead, there’s an orange and green scarf dotted with fuchsia butterflies.
“Kay’s is the same pattern but in yellow and red with powder blue butterflies. Yours is more sophisticated,” she says, lowering her voice.
“Thank you, Aunt Irene.”
“You are so welcome, sweetheart.” She flings her arms around my waist, pulls me close. “There’s so much more where that came from. We’re going to get through this, you’ll see.” She sniffs. “We’ll all get through this.” Then, she releases me. “Is your father here?”
“He’s in the garage.”
“Hmm.” It is such a small sound, almost like she’s clearing her throat, but I hear the distaste. He thinks she’s a silly piece of cotton candy and she calls him a rude, intolerable beast.
She adjusts the shoulder strap of her pink purse and draws in a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about the knife?”
“What knife?”
She arches a perfect brow. “The one your father chased you up the stairs with.”
Damn Kay. “He didn’t mean it,” I say. “It was a mistake.”
“The kind of mistake people make when they drink too much?” She runs a hand over my hair, not waiting for an answer, “I’ll be back in a little while.”
I watch her pink sandals step over the cracked cement and disappear into the garage. This is not going to be good. They haven’t had a civilized conversation in eight months, not since she accused him of treating Mom like a sheet of used toilet paper. That’s when he threw her out of the house, but Mom gave it right back to him, said if he tried to keep her sister from coming here, she’d pack us up for the weekend, go to Irene’s . He backed down then, and he’s been decent about taking her food since the funeral, probably because of us.
I have to know what they’re saying, so I sneak behind the garage, between the evergreen bushes, and listen at the open window.
“I know about the knife, Frank.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The one you tried to attack Sara with, I know about it.”
“It was just a misunderstanding. Sara knows I’d never hurt her.”
“Well Kay, doesn’t . She’s scared to death of you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Come on, Frank, be honest. You can’t take care of them. Let them come with Stan and me.”
“Like hell. They’re mine and they’re not going anywhere.” These
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