her to come back with something priceless—an explanation, maybe. An old slip of paper with my father’s handwriting, perhaps an account of his accident. A recording of my mother’s voice, the last time she visited here. The answer.
Stella held two small pieces of cardboard and ceremoniously handed one to me. “Now. I just know you’re going to win.”
It was a scratch-off lottery ticket. The theme was pot o’ gold, and there was a drawing of a deranged-looking leprechaun with a long goatee shooting rainbows from his fingers. Stella wordlessly passed me a penny, then turned to her own ticket and started feverishly scratching. My windows revealed $5, $15, a pot of gold, a horseshoe, and some kind of unidentifiable blob.
“Nothing for me, I don’t think,” I said.
“Me neither.” Stella brushed the rubbed-off debris onto the carpet. She sounded astonished, like she truly expected me to win the million bucks.
After a while, my father and Pete, his cousin, returned from the funeral home, quiet and clumsy. I had a feeling they were drunk. My dad opened a beer too fast and sent foam frothing to the linoleum. Pete hit his head on the bathroom doorjamb. “Does it smell like smoke in here?” he asked. No one cared enough to pursue it further.
“How was it?” I asked my dad. I sat at the kitchen table, staring atthe place mats, which were the map of the world circa 1954. Most of Eastern Europe was named something I didn’t recognize.
“Oh, she looked beautiful.” Peter smiled at me. “Really nice.”
The kitchen’s wallpaper was divided into squares. Each square contained a fruit, a vegetable, or a flower, and then the big letter of the alphabet they all started with. A was an avocado, B a banana, and so on. It was all done in pastel greens and browns and oranges. On the butter-colored fridge were heavy lacquered magnets molded into the shapes of common American dinners, a mini hamburger and french fries, a plate of pasta, a steak and baked potato.
Stella started on dinner, spaghetti, plopping a big wad of butter on the noodles before pouring the sauce on top. The meat in the sauce looked like little gerbil poops. Pete wafted in and out, a ragged paperback book in his hand. I’d met Pete a few times—he visited us in Brooklyn after my mom left, driving all the way from Arizona, where he lived. Last summer, my father suggested I visit him there— Pete lives in a geodesic dome, he singsonged, as if this were temptation. He’s a nature guide. You could go on some amazing hikes. He raises parakeets!
Pete drove across the country to get here, too. When he found out Steven and I were good students, he showed us the books stacked in the passenger seat of his old Honda Civic. “You know how some people eat to live?” he said to us, his eyes wide. “Well, I read to live.” Except Pete hadn’t attended college. My father was the only one in the family who had done that.
A woman from across the street, Crystal, showed up for dinner, too. She was somewhere between my dad’s and Stella’s age, and wore a paunchy blue dress that draped all wrong on her bony body. “I brought you some muffins.” She handed Stella a plate wrapped in tinfoil.
“Muffins!” Stella cried, as if they were some new thing.
We used a slotted spoon to slop the spaghetti onto our plates. The chipped spaghetti bowl had a bunch of bloody grapes painted on the side. Flies buzzed all over the kitchen, landing on the lips of the beer cans, the edge of the butter dish, the tip of the faucet, vigorously rubbing their feelers together in a way that was vaguely sexual.
“So, do you think he did it?” Stella said, winding the pasta around her fork.
“Who?” my father asked.
“O.J.! Do you think he killed that wife of his?”
“I think he did,” Samantha said a little loudly. Stella was letting her drink a beer. “Why else would he run like that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pete answered. “He was the obvious suspect. Even
Stella held two small pieces of cardboard and ceremoniously handed one to me. “Now. I just know you’re going to win.”
It was a scratch-off lottery ticket. The theme was pot o’ gold, and there was a drawing of a deranged-looking leprechaun with a long goatee shooting rainbows from his fingers. Stella wordlessly passed me a penny, then turned to her own ticket and started feverishly scratching. My windows revealed $5, $15, a pot of gold, a horseshoe, and some kind of unidentifiable blob.
“Nothing for me, I don’t think,” I said.
“Me neither.” Stella brushed the rubbed-off debris onto the carpet. She sounded astonished, like she truly expected me to win the million bucks.
After a while, my father and Pete, his cousin, returned from the funeral home, quiet and clumsy. I had a feeling they were drunk. My dad opened a beer too fast and sent foam frothing to the linoleum. Pete hit his head on the bathroom doorjamb. “Does it smell like smoke in here?” he asked. No one cared enough to pursue it further.
“How was it?” I asked my dad. I sat at the kitchen table, staring atthe place mats, which were the map of the world circa 1954. Most of Eastern Europe was named something I didn’t recognize.
“Oh, she looked beautiful.” Peter smiled at me. “Really nice.”
The kitchen’s wallpaper was divided into squares. Each square contained a fruit, a vegetable, or a flower, and then the big letter of the alphabet they all started with. A was an avocado, B a banana, and so on. It was all done in pastel greens and browns and oranges. On the butter-colored fridge were heavy lacquered magnets molded into the shapes of common American dinners, a mini hamburger and french fries, a plate of pasta, a steak and baked potato.
Stella started on dinner, spaghetti, plopping a big wad of butter on the noodles before pouring the sauce on top. The meat in the sauce looked like little gerbil poops. Pete wafted in and out, a ragged paperback book in his hand. I’d met Pete a few times—he visited us in Brooklyn after my mom left, driving all the way from Arizona, where he lived. Last summer, my father suggested I visit him there— Pete lives in a geodesic dome, he singsonged, as if this were temptation. He’s a nature guide. You could go on some amazing hikes. He raises parakeets!
Pete drove across the country to get here, too. When he found out Steven and I were good students, he showed us the books stacked in the passenger seat of his old Honda Civic. “You know how some people eat to live?” he said to us, his eyes wide. “Well, I read to live.” Except Pete hadn’t attended college. My father was the only one in the family who had done that.
A woman from across the street, Crystal, showed up for dinner, too. She was somewhere between my dad’s and Stella’s age, and wore a paunchy blue dress that draped all wrong on her bony body. “I brought you some muffins.” She handed Stella a plate wrapped in tinfoil.
“Muffins!” Stella cried, as if they were some new thing.
We used a slotted spoon to slop the spaghetti onto our plates. The chipped spaghetti bowl had a bunch of bloody grapes painted on the side. Flies buzzed all over the kitchen, landing on the lips of the beer cans, the edge of the butter dish, the tip of the faucet, vigorously rubbing their feelers together in a way that was vaguely sexual.
“So, do you think he did it?” Stella said, winding the pasta around her fork.
“Who?” my father asked.
“O.J.! Do you think he killed that wife of his?”
“I think he did,” Samantha said a little loudly. Stella was letting her drink a beer. “Why else would he run like that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pete answered. “He was the obvious suspect. Even
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