16 Sizzling Sixteen Read Online Free PDF

the house are identical in construction. Living room, dining room, kitchen downstairs. Three small bedrooms and one bath upstairs. Mrs. Markowitz has lived next door to my parents for as long as I can remember. Her husband died years ago, and she lives alone now, making coffee cake and watching television. Shes painted her half of the house lime green. My parents have always had their house brown on the bottom half and mustard yellow on the top. I dont know why. I expect its a Trenton thing.

    The house hasnt changed much over the years. A new appliance when needed. New curtains. Mostly, its overcrowded with comfortable non descript furniture, cooking smells, and good memories.

    My mom has always been a homemaker. Shes a younger, more filled-out version of my grandma Mazur, and I think Im cut from some of the same cloth. I have their good metabolism, oval-shaped face, and blue eyes.

    My dad is retired from the post office, and now he drives a cab part-time. I get my unruly hair from his side of the family. And also my perverted cousin Vinnie.

    The table was set for three when we walked in. My mom quickly added two more place settings, and in minutes, my father had his head bent over his plate, forking in meat and potatoes, and my mother was at the other end, trying not to stare at Lulas fire-engine red hair and tiny leopard-print top that showed about a quarter of a mile of cleavage.

    Isnt this nice, Grandma said, looking around the table. I love when we have guests. Its like a party. What were you two doing in the neighborhood? she asked me. Were you looking for dangerous criminals?

    We were looking for Dirk McCurdle, I told her.

    Wasnt that a scandal? Grandma said. Imagine having four wives. No one even suspected. He was such a pleasant man. I would see him at the funeral parlor when the Knights of Columbus would have a ceremony.

    Do you have any ideas where he might be hiding?

    Did you try all his wives? Grandma asked. One of them might still have a soft spot for him.

    I have one left.

    If that dont work, you could try Pips bottle, Grandma said.

    My mother blew out a sigh, and my father murmured something that sounded like crazy old bat.

    Is that the red bottle youre talking about? Lula said. The one looks like a beer bottle?

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    How does it work? Lula wanted to know. Is it enough to own it? Do you gotta carry it around? Do you have to rub it like a genie bottle?

    I dont know exactly, Grandma said. I never saw Pip use it. She looked over at me. Didnt it come with instructions?

    No.

    Bummer, Grandma said.

    The bottle is a bunch of horse pucky, my father said. Pip was a nut. He didnt know enough to come in out of the rain.

    What about when he won $10, 000 in the lottery? Grandma asked. How do you explain that?

    Dumb luck, my father said.

    Exactly! Grandma said. It was the lucky bottle.

    What about taking a leak in a thunderstorm and electrocuting yourself? my father said. Was that lucky?

    Probably he didnt have the bottle with him, Grandma said.

    What happened to my pot roast? Lula asked.

    You ate it, Grandma said.

    Lula stared down at her plate. She looked in her lap and on the floor. Are you sure I ate it? I dont remember.

    I saw you, Grandma said. It was the first thing you ate.

    Do you think eating something counts if you dont remember? Lula asked.

    No one knew what to say. And my father wasnt going to touch it.

    Lula looked down at her plate. She had a spoonful of mashed potatoes and a pea. Whats for dessert? she asked. It better not be grapes.

    LULA AND I were back in my Jeep, heading for Stark Street to check out Sunflowers funeral home. It was almost eight oclock, and the sun was low in the sky. Id stopped at my apartment to get a sweatshirt, and Lula had insisted we bring the lucky bottle with us.

    Uncle Pip would probably be alive today if hed taken his bottle with him, Lula said. If nothing else, he could have pissed in it instead of on that wire.

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