they are as confused about all of this as I am.
David asks, “If Mom isn’t better soon, will you be living here for a while?”
“Would you like that?”
David stares at his plate before he answers. “Well, I want my mom to get better.”
Paulina speaks. “Of course you do. This is a hard time. We’ll all do the best we can. Did you know I have two children? I have a boy and a girl. They live with their father now, but soon they’re going to come and live with your father and me.”
This sounds unusual to me. I wonder why she doesn’t have her kids with her. Isn’t that how it usually goes with a divorce? The kids live with the mother.
Paulina smiles at me. I ask, “Why don’t they live with you now?”
Paulina starts to answer, but my father interrupts, “Ix-nay on the explanation-ay.” Sometimes he speaks in Pig Latin, like we can’t understand what he’s saying. “Not your business,” he says to us.
We spend the rest of dinner in silence.
After dinner, Paulina asks me to help her with the dishes. I know we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves, and I’m curious to spend time alone with her. While we wash and dry, she tells me about her kids in Scituate and her life with my father in Florida. They live in a town called Destin.
“Where is Destin? I’ve never heard of it.” I’ve never done dishes like this, with someone else. I’m careful when I lift the warm, slippery dishes from her fingers. I dry them with the new pink dish towel she bought at the store and stack them in the new dish rack.
“It’s south of Niceville,” she says.
“Niceville?” I ask. “What part of the state is it in?” My nose is itchy. I can’t tell if it’s her “lemony scented rubbing alcohol perfume” or the dish soap. Wendy never buys this soap. I put the dishes into the automatic dishwasher with the Cascade.
“South. It’s in the southern part by the Gulf of Mexico. I’m not sure how I ended up down there. I grew up in Maine, but I love it down there. Florida’s kinda pretty.”
“I know,” I tell her. “My mother brought us to Key West this year for spring vacation.”
“Oh, I love Key West.”
“Yeah, I liked it too. My favorite is Ernest Hemingway’s house. I love that he left his money to his cats,” I say.
I think Paulina might have been to Hemingway’s.
“Ernest who?” Paulina asks me.
“Hemingway. The writer?”
She seems confused. I continue:
“For Whom the Bell Tolls?”
Her eyes get bigger and rounder.
What I didn’t understand at eight is that most people don’t enjoy reading as much as I do.
Wendy is an avid reader with a wide variety of interests. She’s had lots of time during these long New England winters to do nothing but party and read. She has also, as long as I can remember, taken sporadic college classes, mostly related to psychology. So the shelves are stacked two and three deep with everything from Chaucer and Freud to Erica Jong. I took full advantage of the books. Books are my antidepressants.
By the age of eight, I’d consumed a literary buffet including an assortment of Steinbeck, Thomas, Carroll, and several books of poetry. Ever since Key West, Hemingway has been my favorite.
“I’ve never heard of that book. I’m not much of a reader. I like movies though. Do you like to go to the movies?”
Ahhhh, movie friend. I love going to the movies. “Yes. Did you see
Dr. Zhivago?
It’s one of my favorite movies,” I say.
“Ummm,” Paulina looks confused again, “no, I didn’t. I loved
Airplane.
Did you see
Airplane?”
“No. What’s it about?” I ask.
“Ummm, well, you’ve got to see it. It’s so funny. It makes fun of other movies. It’s so funny.”
I’m beginning to wonder about our being movie buddies.
She asks, “Do you like to go bowling? I noticed there’s a bowling alley here in Withensea.”
I nod. “Yeah, I like to go bowling.”
The bowling alley, Withensea Shore Lanes, is one of the only year-round businesses
David asks, “If Mom isn’t better soon, will you be living here for a while?”
“Would you like that?”
David stares at his plate before he answers. “Well, I want my mom to get better.”
Paulina speaks. “Of course you do. This is a hard time. We’ll all do the best we can. Did you know I have two children? I have a boy and a girl. They live with their father now, but soon they’re going to come and live with your father and me.”
This sounds unusual to me. I wonder why she doesn’t have her kids with her. Isn’t that how it usually goes with a divorce? The kids live with the mother.
Paulina smiles at me. I ask, “Why don’t they live with you now?”
Paulina starts to answer, but my father interrupts, “Ix-nay on the explanation-ay.” Sometimes he speaks in Pig Latin, like we can’t understand what he’s saying. “Not your business,” he says to us.
We spend the rest of dinner in silence.
After dinner, Paulina asks me to help her with the dishes. I know we’ll have the kitchen to ourselves, and I’m curious to spend time alone with her. While we wash and dry, she tells me about her kids in Scituate and her life with my father in Florida. They live in a town called Destin.
“Where is Destin? I’ve never heard of it.” I’ve never done dishes like this, with someone else. I’m careful when I lift the warm, slippery dishes from her fingers. I dry them with the new pink dish towel she bought at the store and stack them in the new dish rack.
“It’s south of Niceville,” she says.
“Niceville?” I ask. “What part of the state is it in?” My nose is itchy. I can’t tell if it’s her “lemony scented rubbing alcohol perfume” or the dish soap. Wendy never buys this soap. I put the dishes into the automatic dishwasher with the Cascade.
“South. It’s in the southern part by the Gulf of Mexico. I’m not sure how I ended up down there. I grew up in Maine, but I love it down there. Florida’s kinda pretty.”
“I know,” I tell her. “My mother brought us to Key West this year for spring vacation.”
“Oh, I love Key West.”
“Yeah, I liked it too. My favorite is Ernest Hemingway’s house. I love that he left his money to his cats,” I say.
I think Paulina might have been to Hemingway’s.
“Ernest who?” Paulina asks me.
“Hemingway. The writer?”
She seems confused. I continue:
“For Whom the Bell Tolls?”
Her eyes get bigger and rounder.
What I didn’t understand at eight is that most people don’t enjoy reading as much as I do.
Wendy is an avid reader with a wide variety of interests. She’s had lots of time during these long New England winters to do nothing but party and read. She has also, as long as I can remember, taken sporadic college classes, mostly related to psychology. So the shelves are stacked two and three deep with everything from Chaucer and Freud to Erica Jong. I took full advantage of the books. Books are my antidepressants.
By the age of eight, I’d consumed a literary buffet including an assortment of Steinbeck, Thomas, Carroll, and several books of poetry. Ever since Key West, Hemingway has been my favorite.
“I’ve never heard of that book. I’m not much of a reader. I like movies though. Do you like to go to the movies?”
Ahhhh, movie friend. I love going to the movies. “Yes. Did you see
Dr. Zhivago?
It’s one of my favorite movies,” I say.
“Ummm,” Paulina looks confused again, “no, I didn’t. I loved
Airplane.
Did you see
Airplane?”
“No. What’s it about?” I ask.
“Ummm, well, you’ve got to see it. It’s so funny. It makes fun of other movies. It’s so funny.”
I’m beginning to wonder about our being movie buddies.
She asks, “Do you like to go bowling? I noticed there’s a bowling alley here in Withensea.”
I nod. “Yeah, I like to go bowling.”
The bowling alley, Withensea Shore Lanes, is one of the only year-round businesses
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