Of course there’s other people here. You can talk to them.”
She holds the phone out toward us, but Angela and Crispy don’t want any part of it; they bumble through the kitchen door and disappear into the living room. I grab the phone from Desirée and start talking.
“Hey, Desirée’s mom! This is … Alex.”
I’m doing such a convincing imitation of someone who’s in control, I actually convince myself.
“Desirée’s here at my house.… Well, I’m kind of a new friend to Desirée and Angela and the gang. I’m showing them around town a bit, giving them a tour.… Okay … Yes, ma’am. I will. I’ll be sure to say hey next time I’m at the golf club. Bye now.”
I flip the phone shut and hand it back to Desirée. “Yourmom’s just checking up on you, making sure you’re not hanging out with ax murderers.”
“She didn’t always worry so much. We lost our house a few years back. Just me and her now, traveling ‘round. Naturally, she’s always gotta be shinin’ a light on me. You know how it goes.”
“I do,” I say, though I have only a dim memory of a light like that shining on me. “What do you mean you lost your house?” I ask.
She hikes up one shoulder and looks around the room as though trying to find something to explain her situation.
“I dunno. They took our house from us. My momma lost her job, and we weren’t able to pay. Next thing I know, I’m packing stuff and we moved to South Carolina with my aunt Tee. Then we stayed some time in Alabama with my momma’s cousins. But we’re gonna get back on track real soon. We are.”
I remind her about her plan—four houses, a private plane, and perfume. And then I tell her that my name is really Dylan.
“What do you mean?” she asks, tilting her head and looking as though she’s been insulted.
“My name,” I repeat. “It’s actually Dylan. I just thought you should know.”
She smiles at me kindly, as though I’m insane and possibly dangerous, and then asks, “Where’re the others?”
The others are in the living room, standing in front of thechina cabinet and ogling Marie’s plates of many countries through the glass.
“Sad,” says Angela.
“Tragic,” Crispy adds.
Desirée nods as though some things don’t even need to be discussed.
For me, those plates represent the good life, the part of my family story that I prize.
“Really?” I remark as casually as I can. “They look like they might be worth something. And besides, I think they’re kinda—”
They all turn toward me to find out what I’m going to say.
“I don’t know, quaint or something.”
Quaint?
No one is convinced.
“You mean quaint like third-world peasants making crap dishware for crap pay so that some American can fill her cabinet back home with fancy knickknacks?” Crispy asks.
“Essssssactly,” Angela says. Then she looks around the room and adds, “How come these people don’t have any family portraits? Everybody’s got family portraits.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe they’re not that kind of family.”
If Doug hadn’t been so stupid and lost all our family pictures, we would have a portrait of Kat propped up on the mantel so everyone could see that we were that kind of family.When people came over to visit they’d say,
“Is that your mom?”
And I’d say,
“Yeah.”
And they’d say,
“She was so pretty.”
And that would be that. It would’ve been the portrait that Kat had taken a year before she met Doug, back when she was at the height of her beauty. According to family legend, she went to a portrait studio at Macy’s because she wanted to send her parents a decent picture of herself. At the time, her parents were in Seattle, and they missed her badly. The photograph was meant to sit on top of their piano, a placeholder until she got back home. But she never did get back. Instead, she met Doug and then I came along, and life unfolded right where she was living. I love that portrait. And I
She holds the phone out toward us, but Angela and Crispy don’t want any part of it; they bumble through the kitchen door and disappear into the living room. I grab the phone from Desirée and start talking.
“Hey, Desirée’s mom! This is … Alex.”
I’m doing such a convincing imitation of someone who’s in control, I actually convince myself.
“Desirée’s here at my house.… Well, I’m kind of a new friend to Desirée and Angela and the gang. I’m showing them around town a bit, giving them a tour.… Okay … Yes, ma’am. I will. I’ll be sure to say hey next time I’m at the golf club. Bye now.”
I flip the phone shut and hand it back to Desirée. “Yourmom’s just checking up on you, making sure you’re not hanging out with ax murderers.”
“She didn’t always worry so much. We lost our house a few years back. Just me and her now, traveling ‘round. Naturally, she’s always gotta be shinin’ a light on me. You know how it goes.”
“I do,” I say, though I have only a dim memory of a light like that shining on me. “What do you mean you lost your house?” I ask.
She hikes up one shoulder and looks around the room as though trying to find something to explain her situation.
“I dunno. They took our house from us. My momma lost her job, and we weren’t able to pay. Next thing I know, I’m packing stuff and we moved to South Carolina with my aunt Tee. Then we stayed some time in Alabama with my momma’s cousins. But we’re gonna get back on track real soon. We are.”
I remind her about her plan—four houses, a private plane, and perfume. And then I tell her that my name is really Dylan.
“What do you mean?” she asks, tilting her head and looking as though she’s been insulted.
“My name,” I repeat. “It’s actually Dylan. I just thought you should know.”
She smiles at me kindly, as though I’m insane and possibly dangerous, and then asks, “Where’re the others?”
The others are in the living room, standing in front of thechina cabinet and ogling Marie’s plates of many countries through the glass.
“Sad,” says Angela.
“Tragic,” Crispy adds.
Desirée nods as though some things don’t even need to be discussed.
For me, those plates represent the good life, the part of my family story that I prize.
“Really?” I remark as casually as I can. “They look like they might be worth something. And besides, I think they’re kinda—”
They all turn toward me to find out what I’m going to say.
“I don’t know, quaint or something.”
Quaint?
No one is convinced.
“You mean quaint like third-world peasants making crap dishware for crap pay so that some American can fill her cabinet back home with fancy knickknacks?” Crispy asks.
“Essssssactly,” Angela says. Then she looks around the room and adds, “How come these people don’t have any family portraits? Everybody’s got family portraits.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe they’re not that kind of family.”
If Doug hadn’t been so stupid and lost all our family pictures, we would have a portrait of Kat propped up on the mantel so everyone could see that we were that kind of family.When people came over to visit they’d say,
“Is that your mom?”
And I’d say,
“Yeah.”
And they’d say,
“She was so pretty.”
And that would be that. It would’ve been the portrait that Kat had taken a year before she met Doug, back when she was at the height of her beauty. According to family legend, she went to a portrait studio at Macy’s because she wanted to send her parents a decent picture of herself. At the time, her parents were in Seattle, and they missed her badly. The photograph was meant to sit on top of their piano, a placeholder until she got back home. But she never did get back. Instead, she met Doug and then I came along, and life unfolded right where she was living. I love that portrait. And I
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