to the figs, eating them rapidly.
“My husband,” Kate says, thrusting her chin up and back, indicating the man behind her. He looks far too normal to be this woman’s husband. “Victor,” she adds in an “I could care less” tone, and I smile at him.
“A pleasure, man,” Victor says with a friendly grin as he pumps my hand. A well-built man of around forty with healthy color; his appearance and manner are the exact opposite of Kate’s. I can see no similarity between the man and Molly. I think the girl has to be his stepdaughter.
“Good to meet you, Victor,” I say.
Charlotte appears then with two cans of cold beer. She hands me one and picks up my empty wine glass.
“What a woman,” I say smiling at her. I introduce her to the Hammonds. Her cheeks are flushed, and I know I’m not the only one finding solace in drink.
I feel something at my feet and look down to see a puddle of spilled Coke. Someone has set a plastic cup down by the cooler, and I’ve just kicked it over.
“Molly!” Kate Hammond’s voice has turned strident. “I
told
you not to put that drink on the floor! The floor is no place for drinks!”
Kate reaches for the stack of paper napkins on the table, but Charlotte gets there ahead of her and scoops up a handful. She kneels quickly and puts several on the puddle of Coke. She picks up the cup and smiles at Molly, who looks like she’ll soon burst into tears.
“No problem, kiddo,” I say and place my hand on the girl’s bony shoulder. She stands motionless, staring down at her feet. Her lower lip is trembling.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Charlotte says, getting to her feet. “This old floor’s seen worse than spilled Coke, I’ll bet.” She reaches to embrace Molly, but Kate steps in front of her. She grasps her daughter firmly by her shoulders and glares down at her.
“You apologize to Mr. Murphy,” she says.
I wonder at this girl’s chances in life with a mother like Kate Hammond.
“Sorry,” Molly mumbles.
“No problem, Molly,” I say. This puny kid already has the hangdog look of a loser.
Kate gathers a few figs into her hand and hauls her daughter off, followed by Victor who flashes Charlotte and me an embarrassed smile.
Just what I needed, Charlotte is thinking, a funeral. It’s the very thing to chase off these annoying blues.
“It’s so bizarre, you know?” She and an inebriated Shelly are seated at a small table in the Russo home. “A loving wife slaughters her beloved husband, but why? For God’s sake, WHY?”
“The thing is,” Shelly says, “we don’t know anything about their marriage. Maybe it was a nightmare, and Aunt Carla simply flipped out.”
“How could a marriage be that bad?”
“But see, that’s my point. We don’t know anything about their marriage. Or Uncle Dante himself for that matter.”
“Another thing I’m confused about,” Charlotte says, “is why you think a funeral for your uncle is actually a cocktail party and that you can come home loaded this way.”
Shelly shrugs and picks up two figs from the basket on the table. She takes a healthy bite out of the greenish one. “Because the only way I can put up with this weird custom of standing around bored silly and mourning is to get bombed just as soon as I can.”
Charlotte wads up her paper napkin and throws it across the table at Shelly. She’s fixed them a fine meal of lamb chops, hearts of palm salad, and homemade popovers but has been unable to eat a bite herself. She’s been fiddling with the popover and pushing the chop around her plate. All she wants now is to crawl under the covers and lose herself until morning.
“Funerals are a weird custom, I guess,” she says to Shelly, trying to be less judgmental. She is, after all, very grateful to her sister for coming to the Russo’s with her. “I think of them as a form of vigorish I pay to God so he won’t take me too. It’s what people do, I guess. When someone close to you dies, you pay your
“My husband,” Kate says, thrusting her chin up and back, indicating the man behind her. He looks far too normal to be this woman’s husband. “Victor,” she adds in an “I could care less” tone, and I smile at him.
“A pleasure, man,” Victor says with a friendly grin as he pumps my hand. A well-built man of around forty with healthy color; his appearance and manner are the exact opposite of Kate’s. I can see no similarity between the man and Molly. I think the girl has to be his stepdaughter.
“Good to meet you, Victor,” I say.
Charlotte appears then with two cans of cold beer. She hands me one and picks up my empty wine glass.
“What a woman,” I say smiling at her. I introduce her to the Hammonds. Her cheeks are flushed, and I know I’m not the only one finding solace in drink.
I feel something at my feet and look down to see a puddle of spilled Coke. Someone has set a plastic cup down by the cooler, and I’ve just kicked it over.
“Molly!” Kate Hammond’s voice has turned strident. “I
told
you not to put that drink on the floor! The floor is no place for drinks!”
Kate reaches for the stack of paper napkins on the table, but Charlotte gets there ahead of her and scoops up a handful. She kneels quickly and puts several on the puddle of Coke. She picks up the cup and smiles at Molly, who looks like she’ll soon burst into tears.
“No problem, kiddo,” I say and place my hand on the girl’s bony shoulder. She stands motionless, staring down at her feet. Her lower lip is trembling.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Charlotte says, getting to her feet. “This old floor’s seen worse than spilled Coke, I’ll bet.” She reaches to embrace Molly, but Kate steps in front of her. She grasps her daughter firmly by her shoulders and glares down at her.
“You apologize to Mr. Murphy,” she says.
I wonder at this girl’s chances in life with a mother like Kate Hammond.
“Sorry,” Molly mumbles.
“No problem, Molly,” I say. This puny kid already has the hangdog look of a loser.
Kate gathers a few figs into her hand and hauls her daughter off, followed by Victor who flashes Charlotte and me an embarrassed smile.
Just what I needed, Charlotte is thinking, a funeral. It’s the very thing to chase off these annoying blues.
“It’s so bizarre, you know?” She and an inebriated Shelly are seated at a small table in the Russo home. “A loving wife slaughters her beloved husband, but why? For God’s sake, WHY?”
“The thing is,” Shelly says, “we don’t know anything about their marriage. Maybe it was a nightmare, and Aunt Carla simply flipped out.”
“How could a marriage be that bad?”
“But see, that’s my point. We don’t know anything about their marriage. Or Uncle Dante himself for that matter.”
“Another thing I’m confused about,” Charlotte says, “is why you think a funeral for your uncle is actually a cocktail party and that you can come home loaded this way.”
Shelly shrugs and picks up two figs from the basket on the table. She takes a healthy bite out of the greenish one. “Because the only way I can put up with this weird custom of standing around bored silly and mourning is to get bombed just as soon as I can.”
Charlotte wads up her paper napkin and throws it across the table at Shelly. She’s fixed them a fine meal of lamb chops, hearts of palm salad, and homemade popovers but has been unable to eat a bite herself. She’s been fiddling with the popover and pushing the chop around her plate. All she wants now is to crawl under the covers and lose herself until morning.
“Funerals are a weird custom, I guess,” she says to Shelly, trying to be less judgmental. She is, after all, very grateful to her sister for coming to the Russo’s with her. “I think of them as a form of vigorish I pay to God so he won’t take me too. It’s what people do, I guess. When someone close to you dies, you pay your
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