Taking Care of Terrific Read Online Free PDF Page A

Garden. I counted them."

Chapter 7
    Dinner at my house takes many different forms. Sometimes my mother has to work late at the hospital, so Dad and I eat together; he usually reads the
Wall Street Journal,
and I stare out the window while I chew. Every now and then he remembers I am there and looks up and says something like, "What happened at school today?" Then I come up with some incident from History class, or Gym, which he listens to politely. Or else I remind him that it is summer, or spring vacation, or whatever; he nods, says "Of course," and goes back to his paper.
    Sometimes Dad has to work late at the office; then Mom and I eat together. She thinks it is the height of rudeness to read at the dinner table. She talks. She asks my opinion about world news, Boston politics, the weather, or any book by Jane Austen. My mother read all of Jane Austen when she was in college; she hasn't had time to read
any books since, only articles about brain tumors.
    None of those things interest me. But that doesn't matter, because when I try to give my opinion in response to my mother's questions, she watches me when I talk. Then she says things like:
    "I wonder if Dr. McCracken took your braces off too soon. That left incisor doesn't seem quite straight to me, Enid."
    Or: "You haven't been snipping at your own bangs, have you, Enid? Call and make an appointment to have a trim tomorrow. You look very jagged across the forehead."
    Or: "I really think it's time to bundle up some of your clothes and take them to a Goodwill box. You're not still
fond
of that shirt, are you?"
    (It all goes with the name. Enid. Squalid. Sordid.
Putrid.
)
    But some nights all three of us are home for dinner. Then Dad doesn't read, and Mom doesn't scrutinize my skin, hair, teeth, and clothes for flaws. Mrs. Kolodny wears a clean white apron; she sets the table with grandmother's silver and lights candles. We have Conversation.
    Here is what Conversation sounded like that night at my house:
    Me: "This afternoon I babysat for this really cute little boy who lives over on West Cedar Street."
    Dad: "Where on earth did Mrs. Kolodny buy this beef, Evelyn? It's like shoe leather."
    Mom: "I assume you saw this morning's
Boston Globe.
Can you imagine
nurses
threatening to strike? It's an absolute outrage."
    Me: "His name is Joshua Warwick Cameron the Fourth. How about
that
for an outrage?"
    Dad: "This beef is an outrage. Did she get this at DeLuca's? Enid, go out to the kitchen and get me a steak knife. You shouldn't need a steak knife to cut roast beef."
    (Enid exits, stage left, to kitchen. Enid returns, with steak knife.)
    Mom: "What ever happened to
humanity,
anyway? If those nurses go on strike, who's going to suffer? The patients, that's who."
    Dad: "I was served better beef than this in the army, in 1951, in Korea."
    Me: "I'm going to take care of him every afternoon, from three to five, if the weather's decent. I'll take him out for walks and to the Public Garden and stuff."
    Mom: "And can you guess what their so-called
grievance is? That they weren't consulted about the changes in scheduling. How on earth can the administration consult every single employee in a hospital, for heaven's sake? Scheduling is an administrative decision."
    Then a weird thing began to happen. Up until that moment, the conversation had been absolutely boring to me. I didn't care about the texture of the beef; mine seemed just fine. And I didn't care about the administrative problems of the hospital where my mother works. But all of a sudden, a little bell began to go off in my head. It was dinging "Root beer. Root beer. Root beer." I looked up from my plate.
    Dad (laying down his knife and fork): "Enough. I have to battle with partners and clients all day long. I'm not going to fight with roast beef on top of that. I'm going to go watch the news. Speak to that woman about the purchasing of meat, Evelyn."
    Exit Father, stage right.
    Then Mom and I were alone at the dinner table.