Chapter Eighty-Eight
Puck took a running dive into the covers next to me, pulling the yellow comforter up around his neck. Crackers began to beg in the other room. She knew her boy was up. Puck looked carefully at me…
“Do you think that meow means – ‘Food’?”
“Yup.”
He paused, patiently, and with dutiful response said…
“I better be going.”
“You’re a good cat daddy.”
I could hear his bare feet pound back up the stairs again, running through the kitchen to jump into the covers. A moment of quiet after he rolled himself up once more…
“Did I just whistle, Mom?”
“Not sure…”
“I think I just heard myself whistle.”
We heard the shower switch on, pale gold-Easter light in the sky. It was time to get up.
“You might be sick for Easter now,” I had told him.
“What?”
Two shocked hazel eyes stared back at me over the blue handle of the grocery cart at the check-out, Thursday…
“What can I say, man? You just put your lips right on the handle of the grocery cart.” I stared him straight in the face like I was about to deliver the sign of the Black Death. “I can’t help you now.”
So of course I wake up Friday morning feeling crumby. All that weather-change sinus-drainage-blah-blah. You’d think I’d prefer a climate where it’s not thunderstorming in the morning and snowing by dinner. But I wouldn’t trade. Bring it on. I’ll spare you another St.-Louis-is-the-Best speech. So while I recuperated with an Advil and two hard-boiled eggs for breakfast, Puck played with the three-hole punch. He finds fun anywhere.
Crackers’ wild yellow-green eyes scanned the front yard and street, watching kids on Good Friday break wheel up and down the pavement, pound basketballs, squeal sometimes if it seemed like the right thing to do. Windows open, Puck running the driveway on bike, kickball, walking the neighborhood, sun and 60 total degrees. We were coming around that corner.
Two hours later we camped down in the cool basement with bowls of pork chops, cheddar, and green peas for Puck’s movie – Dr. Dolittle. The 1967 version with Rex Harrison, of course. Francis joined us after his final madrigal rehearsal, for dinner and film, before shoving off to work. His final Friday shift at the Y.
After awhile, Puck began to spin around in the old desk chair…
“Is this a good idea?” he asked me. “Or is this a bad issue for my stomach?”
He transitioned to standing on the ratty old couch making disco fingers, which I had also found him doing at the grocery store somewhere in the meat department on Thursday.
“Were people staring at him?” Francis asked.
“I’m not sure… sometimes I just pretend it’s not happening…”
