cousins, not just because they were so much younger or lived in New York, but because now there was this weird psychological barrier caused by the fact that he couldn't help wondering if they "knew" about Uncle Todd (technically, Ex-Uncle Todd). Robert wished he knew more than what he'd overheard, and probably he could have asked his mother outright, but he didn't want to. In any case, when Robert saw Filo and Lee at holidays and tried to "get to know them" (as his aunt, not his mother, encouraged him to do), they had these stiff conversations about sports and movies and how cool New York was and how lucky they were to grow up there.
What made it worse was that Robert had heard his parents completely dissect his aunt's entire life again and again and again, supposedly because they cared for her and wanted her to be happy, yet usually sounding more like they were movie critics and Aunt Clover's life, sad to say, wouldn't be up for any Oscars or Golden Globes unless she fired the writers, the cinematographer, and definitely the continuity guy.
In fact, Robert had heard way more than necessary about his aunt's split from Ex-Uncle Todd because of what Robert's dad did for a living. He was a divorce mediator. Two years ago, when the guano really hit the fan, Aunt Clover had stayed at their house a lot, mostly weeping on the couch. Several evenings in a row, Robert's parents sat with her and discussed her "situation." Robert had been up in his room most of the time, doing homework or phoning friends, but who wouldn't have listened in on the family drama? Robert, unlike his parents, really did love his aunt, no judgment attached, and felt completely sorry for her. He hadn't lived on his own yet back then, but you'd have to be an idiot not to see already that life--that Rubik's Cube of huge decisions and risks--could paralyze you totally.
If she'd asked for Robert's advice, he'd have told her to steer clear of his parents, not because they weren't smart, even wise (their lives seemed so well organized and carefully run, it was spooky), but because he knew they disapproved of her choices and didn't appreciate her spirit.
On Christmas Day when he was seven, Robert had been struck with Cupid's arrow for the very first time. Beautiful, colorful, carefree Aunt Clover had given him a red wooden sled and taken him to the big hill in Matlock where she and his mother went sledding as girls. She had wrapped her arms and legs around him and shrieked at the top of her lungs all the way down to the bottom--several times over. When they returned to Granddad's, she'd made him hot cocoa from a Swiss chocolate bar and swirled in whipped cream with cinnamon. For months after she returned to New York, he'd sent her drawings with scrawled captions. She replied to him with postcards of the city, with promises to show him all the sights if he came for a visit.
The next time she'd come to Massachusetts--it was during a croquet game at Granddad's as she helped Robert send his dad's ball far into the bushes--he had asked her if she'd marry him when he grew up. She looked him in the eye, without laughing, and told him they would discuss it later, in private. He didn't know it, but she had just become engaged to Todd. Alone together by the pond, later that day, she'd explained this to Robert as if he were otherwise a viable suitor. "But you will always be special to me, forever and ever," she'd said, and she'd given him a ring with a pair of clasped hands, which she took right off her pinkie. Robert still had that ring, in a box in his sock drawer in Cambridge.
As far as Robert could tell, Clover had never told a soul about his crush, not even his mother. So it had pained him, over the past few years--even in the car on the way out of the city that night--to hear his parents discussing Aunt Clover as if she were a wayward child.
Robert knew firsthand that only children hear far more than they should, especially on long trips in the car. Where siblings
What made it worse was that Robert had heard his parents completely dissect his aunt's entire life again and again and again, supposedly because they cared for her and wanted her to be happy, yet usually sounding more like they were movie critics and Aunt Clover's life, sad to say, wouldn't be up for any Oscars or Golden Globes unless she fired the writers, the cinematographer, and definitely the continuity guy.
In fact, Robert had heard way more than necessary about his aunt's split from Ex-Uncle Todd because of what Robert's dad did for a living. He was a divorce mediator. Two years ago, when the guano really hit the fan, Aunt Clover had stayed at their house a lot, mostly weeping on the couch. Several evenings in a row, Robert's parents sat with her and discussed her "situation." Robert had been up in his room most of the time, doing homework or phoning friends, but who wouldn't have listened in on the family drama? Robert, unlike his parents, really did love his aunt, no judgment attached, and felt completely sorry for her. He hadn't lived on his own yet back then, but you'd have to be an idiot not to see already that life--that Rubik's Cube of huge decisions and risks--could paralyze you totally.
If she'd asked for Robert's advice, he'd have told her to steer clear of his parents, not because they weren't smart, even wise (their lives seemed so well organized and carefully run, it was spooky), but because he knew they disapproved of her choices and didn't appreciate her spirit.
On Christmas Day when he was seven, Robert had been struck with Cupid's arrow for the very first time. Beautiful, colorful, carefree Aunt Clover had given him a red wooden sled and taken him to the big hill in Matlock where she and his mother went sledding as girls. She had wrapped her arms and legs around him and shrieked at the top of her lungs all the way down to the bottom--several times over. When they returned to Granddad's, she'd made him hot cocoa from a Swiss chocolate bar and swirled in whipped cream with cinnamon. For months after she returned to New York, he'd sent her drawings with scrawled captions. She replied to him with postcards of the city, with promises to show him all the sights if he came for a visit.
The next time she'd come to Massachusetts--it was during a croquet game at Granddad's as she helped Robert send his dad's ball far into the bushes--he had asked her if she'd marry him when he grew up. She looked him in the eye, without laughing, and told him they would discuss it later, in private. He didn't know it, but she had just become engaged to Todd. Alone together by the pond, later that day, she'd explained this to Robert as if he were otherwise a viable suitor. "But you will always be special to me, forever and ever," she'd said, and she'd given him a ring with a pair of clasped hands, which she took right off her pinkie. Robert still had that ring, in a box in his sock drawer in Cambridge.
As far as Robert could tell, Clover had never told a soul about his crush, not even his mother. So it had pained him, over the past few years--even in the car on the way out of the city that night--to hear his parents discussing Aunt Clover as if she were a wayward child.
Robert knew firsthand that only children hear far more than they should, especially on long trips in the car. Where siblings
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