For Whom the Minivan Rolls Read Online Free PDF Page A

having the “you’ve-got-to-try-new-foods” argument tonight
and stuck a couple of hot dogs in the broiler. So call the child
welfare people. At least he eats.
    Ethan, up in his room with his Nintendo, wouldn’t be
coming down until called, but Leah wandered into the kitchen, bored
with Nickelodeon and looking for someone to talk to.
    “Daddy?” She always asked, like she wasn’t really
sure it was me. “I can think of six words that rhyme with
‘bat.’”
    “No kidding.” The water was boiling, so I got out a
box of Ronzoni elbow macaroni—the biggest bang for your pasta
buck—and dumped the entire box into the water. Well, okay, it was
just the macaroni. The box I put in the recycling bin under the
sink.
    “Yeah. Cat, sat, fat, rat, hat and. . .
um. . .”
    I stirred the pasta in the hot water to keep it from
becoming one huge ball of elbow, then put the top back on the pot
and lowered the flame considerably.
    “‘Mat’?” I asked, reflexively. Big mistake.
    “Daddy! I’m supposed to do it myself!” Leah,
although the most adorable child in the tri-state area, has
developed a whine that could decalcify the spinal column of the
strongest adult. I bent down to look her in the eye.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “What word were you thinking
of?”
    “You used mine!” J’accuse!
    Just then the front door opened with its customary
creak and Abigail Stein walked into the house. Her legs still
looked every bit as good after a long day.
    “Mommy!” Leah yelled, and ran to the door. She did
her best to take Abigail down in a flying tackle, and came damn
close, but my wife managed to put down her briefcase and drape her
raincoat over the railing on the stairs in time to avoid hitting
the deck.
    “Hello, my love,” she said to Leah. “How was your
day?”
    “Good.”
    Abigail looked at me. “So. Trying to pick up women
at Borough Hall again, huh?”
    “I couldn’t resist, Honey. She had these great
legs. . .” I walked over and gave her a welcome home
kiss. Any excuse will do.
    “Oh, knock it off. They’re not that good.”
    Trust me, they are.

Chapter 6
    The kids had eaten by the time Abby came downstairs.
We long ago gave up on the idea of a nice family dinner during the
week, since for Ethan, eating is merely a quick snack to be gulped
down as quickly as possible between cartoon shows, and Abigail gets
home on the late side for the kids, so there’s no sense in delaying
dinner. They’re dangerous when hungry. On weekends, or the days
when Abby gets home early enough, or when the kids have late
snacks, we eat together.
    I was cutting up salad stuff when Abigail walked
into the kitchen, having changed into a pink T-shirt and gray
sweatpants. She frowned, because I was cutting lettuce with a
knife. I frowned, because the sweatpants prevented me from seeing
her legs.
    “You know you’re supposed to tear lettuce.” She had
passed both children on the way in, and they were so deep into the
umpteenth rerun of Hey Arnold that neither could be bothered
to turn around and talk to her. The thrill of her homecoming, like
every night, had been brief. For them.
    “I don’t see how it tastes any different torn, and
this is faster.” She did one of her “you’re-such-a-guy” eye-rolls,
and reached under the counter for a pot, which she filled with
water and put on the stove. I guess she didn’t know what she was
going to cook yet, either.
    “So this guy wants you to, what, find his wife?”
Abby squeezed in between me and the countertop to reach up for some
of what we call “the adult noodles.” The flavored pastas we keep in
an upper cabinet. I didn’t make much of an effort to get out of her
way, and she smiled. She knew I liked being squeezed next to
her.
    “Yeah, it’s ridiculous. He thinks I’m Mannix or
somebody.”
    “God, you are old.” She went to work with
some sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, and garlic to make a pasta
sauce that might once have been in a cookbook. Or not. All