brambles out of the drainpipe, then brushed off his hands and smiled broadly.
“Morning, Tuthill.”
“Looks like a disaster area over here, Freeling.”
“Yeah, I just talked to the governor—he’ll be sending in troops and aid any minute. You suppose we could use your roof for the helicopters?”
“Told you you should have cut this tree down ages ago.”
Steve rubbed his knee, leaned on the porch railing. “This isn’t so bad. It’s the quake damage inside that’ll be hard to clean up.”
“What quake you talkin’ about?”
“You didn’t feel it? Shook us all up last night, about two-thirty. Pictures all over the floor.”
“Didn’t hear about any earthquake on the radio this morning, either. Just this old tree rattlin’ your windows in the storm, most likely. Ought to get rid of this thing; it’s a hazard.” Tuthill smiled and walked back home, hands still in his pockets.
Steve went into the kitchen. Robbie and Carol Anne sat at the table, trying to decide whether to eat, fight, or slip pieces of bacon to E. Buzz under the table. Diane beat eggs in a copper bowl while she talked into the phone cradled on her shoulder. A small black-and-white Sony on the counter blared the “Today Show”. Dana was fixing her hair in the reflection of the microwave window, and eating a Figurine.
“Gotta run,” said Steve. He grabbed a muffin, grabbed a feel, and was out the door before Diane could chastise him.
Robbie jumped up, said, “Gotta run,” and darted for the door, but his mother was faster.
“Finish your milk first,” she ordered. Robbie sat down. Diane spoke back into the phone, “I can’t today. Steve’s taking the wagon, and I can’t sardine sixteen Brownies into a Datsun.”
Dana checked her mouth in the reflection as she spoke. “You could arrange ’em all on a plate and put them in the glove compartment.”
“Human Brownies, wise guy,” Diane bantered across the room. “Okay, gotta go, Sharon, see you at the Antique Guild.” She hung up the phone and poured her scrambled eggs onto the hot skillet.
“Mom, can me and Heather and Serena get an apartment by ourselves?”
“You absolutely may not. I don’t even know why you’d ask such a thing.” Diane lightly salted the cooking eggs, stirred them.
“It’s not that I don’t simply adore it here.” Dana was still speaking to her own spectral image in the microwave window. “It’s just that with these earthquakes earthquakes earthquakes all the time, I can’t get any homework done. I think this place has bad karma.”
“What’s karma?” Robbie piped up.
“Karma is what’s gonna make you come back as a jockstrap after you die, ’cause you’re such a toad now.” Dana finished checking her hair and sat down.
“Dana, I don’t need that kind of talk at breakfast,” Diane said, bringing the eggs over to the table.
“Eeeeew—mangled chicken embryos—probably one of the earthquake victims . . .”
“Dana!”
The dog barked. Carol Anne got up from the table, walked over to the television, turned it to Channel 8. White noise. Dreamily, she sat in front of it, staring at the snow.
“Carol Anne . . .” Diane began, a look of concern on her face.
Dana picked up her school books. “Maybe the fault line runs just under our house. Wouldn’t that be a scream?”
“The ceiling got crumbs all over my bed,” said Robbie.
“Carol Anne,” Diane said again to the girl staring into the set, “do you remember when you said, ‘They’re here,’ last night?”
“Uh huh,” said Carol Anne, without looking up.
“Who did you mean, sweetheart. Who’s here?”
“The TV people,” she answered dreamily, her mouth full of cereal.
“She’s stoned,” grinned Robbie.
“What do you know about it, nitwit?” Dana said with a pained look.
“More’n you. Ask Dad.”
Before Diane could gripe at them to behave, the milk glass crumbled in Robbie’s hand—virtually disintegrated into a hundred pieces,
“Morning, Tuthill.”
“Looks like a disaster area over here, Freeling.”
“Yeah, I just talked to the governor—he’ll be sending in troops and aid any minute. You suppose we could use your roof for the helicopters?”
“Told you you should have cut this tree down ages ago.”
Steve rubbed his knee, leaned on the porch railing. “This isn’t so bad. It’s the quake damage inside that’ll be hard to clean up.”
“What quake you talkin’ about?”
“You didn’t feel it? Shook us all up last night, about two-thirty. Pictures all over the floor.”
“Didn’t hear about any earthquake on the radio this morning, either. Just this old tree rattlin’ your windows in the storm, most likely. Ought to get rid of this thing; it’s a hazard.” Tuthill smiled and walked back home, hands still in his pockets.
Steve went into the kitchen. Robbie and Carol Anne sat at the table, trying to decide whether to eat, fight, or slip pieces of bacon to E. Buzz under the table. Diane beat eggs in a copper bowl while she talked into the phone cradled on her shoulder. A small black-and-white Sony on the counter blared the “Today Show”. Dana was fixing her hair in the reflection of the microwave window, and eating a Figurine.
“Gotta run,” said Steve. He grabbed a muffin, grabbed a feel, and was out the door before Diane could chastise him.
Robbie jumped up, said, “Gotta run,” and darted for the door, but his mother was faster.
“Finish your milk first,” she ordered. Robbie sat down. Diane spoke back into the phone, “I can’t today. Steve’s taking the wagon, and I can’t sardine sixteen Brownies into a Datsun.”
Dana checked her mouth in the reflection as she spoke. “You could arrange ’em all on a plate and put them in the glove compartment.”
“Human Brownies, wise guy,” Diane bantered across the room. “Okay, gotta go, Sharon, see you at the Antique Guild.” She hung up the phone and poured her scrambled eggs onto the hot skillet.
“Mom, can me and Heather and Serena get an apartment by ourselves?”
“You absolutely may not. I don’t even know why you’d ask such a thing.” Diane lightly salted the cooking eggs, stirred them.
“It’s not that I don’t simply adore it here.” Dana was still speaking to her own spectral image in the microwave window. “It’s just that with these earthquakes earthquakes earthquakes all the time, I can’t get any homework done. I think this place has bad karma.”
“What’s karma?” Robbie piped up.
“Karma is what’s gonna make you come back as a jockstrap after you die, ’cause you’re such a toad now.” Dana finished checking her hair and sat down.
“Dana, I don’t need that kind of talk at breakfast,” Diane said, bringing the eggs over to the table.
“Eeeeew—mangled chicken embryos—probably one of the earthquake victims . . .”
“Dana!”
The dog barked. Carol Anne got up from the table, walked over to the television, turned it to Channel 8. White noise. Dreamily, she sat in front of it, staring at the snow.
“Carol Anne . . .” Diane began, a look of concern on her face.
Dana picked up her school books. “Maybe the fault line runs just under our house. Wouldn’t that be a scream?”
“The ceiling got crumbs all over my bed,” said Robbie.
“Carol Anne,” Diane said again to the girl staring into the set, “do you remember when you said, ‘They’re here,’ last night?”
“Uh huh,” said Carol Anne, without looking up.
“Who did you mean, sweetheart. Who’s here?”
“The TV people,” she answered dreamily, her mouth full of cereal.
“She’s stoned,” grinned Robbie.
“What do you know about it, nitwit?” Dana said with a pained look.
“More’n you. Ask Dad.”
Before Diane could gripe at them to behave, the milk glass crumbled in Robbie’s hand—virtually disintegrated into a hundred pieces,
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