Chapter Eighty-Two
Rose sent us this lovely little number from her week at sea, roughly hand-crafted for our enjoyment…
Yes, that would be Rose “Me” on the Norwegian “Pearl”, accompanied by “Shark” and “Sewage”. Fortunately, she liked Mexico. Something about ancient ruins, a lion cub, and not getting sick from the food. I believe she phrased this triumph of personally conquering Mexican cuisine with a…
“Bwah ha ha!”
We were in for a snow dumping Sunday morning. I guessed we made the eight-inch cut. In spring. Yes. I don’t really know why “yes”, I just felt like it. Of course this likely meant a delay in Rose’s direct flight from Miami, and probably a very irritable Carrie. So I reconsidered that “yes” as the morning went along.
“You smell like an orchid.”
I don’t know why I feel compelled to occasionally tell The Bear what he smells like. I just do.
“I am an orchid,” he replied.
I walk right into that comeback, every time.
“What flower would you be?” he asked me.
“I always liked bleeding hearts when I was younger… guess I could be sort of morbid as a child.”
But it wasn’t just orchids. Then I detected wet sawdust. Next, Budapest. Then aftershave…
“You don’t use aftershave. Do you.”
“Of course not! I don’t even shave!”
Scraps of mirror splintered all over my bedroom floor. Rough-housing with Puck got a little out of hand that afternoon. This time it was probably my fault. There it lay – my second floor length mirror. Dead. Pretty quite dead. I shoveled up the glass and swept up. Puck just relieved that he hadn’t caused the disaster this time.
Curly was in town, once more before the wedding in middle May.
“Well, hello!” Gloria greeted us.
Slice.
Ug. Right into her left middle knuckle. The knife meant for the chicken. Blood. Curly splinted her finger, being the only Boy Scout present in the room. But even he got the tingles from thinking about it. Gloria went back to hacking the chicken. Taxes – The Bear and Theodore. I sat on the couch with my laptop, away from the carnage… just in case. Just in case I fell over like that one time in Sunday School when I was 18, skipped breakfast, and Curt Jefferson was talking about needles and surgery and things I guess I didn’t realized subconsciously bothered me. That… was sort of embarrassing.
Izzy walked in the door. The boys snacked on blue corn chips. Puck knocked on the door, threw a “clover bomb”, and ran, laughing. Whatever gets the energy out. And always with much seriousness…
“I’m bein’ a spy, Mom. I can’t have anyone see me. I’ll see you later, Mom.”
Egg rolls. Salmon puffs. Fresh strawberries.
As far as all that snow goes, if they already canceled the Palm Sunday dinner at church [I had slotted myself to bring a bag of cuties, because people love fruit at a church potluck]… you knew things were brewing.
Joe walked in from a morning at the Art Museum with Jaya and a shift at Vanbuskirk’s…
“So you and Jaya?” Gloria asked him. “Enjoying spending time with each other?”
“No. They hate each other,” said Curly.
“Absolutely loathe each other,” Izzy added.
“She’s a polygamist,” The Bear explained.
“It’s just for political reasons,” Joe offered.
“Ok,” said Gloria. “I feel good about this now.”
It rained as we left, Puck spending the night, very happy. Foretaste to come…