Chapter Fifty
My Kindergartner in tomato red footie pajamas stood on my dresser, both hands clutched around the lenses of his binoculars, surveying the land out the window. Mostly houses halfway to falling apart in at least one corner, if not three…
“What are you doing up there, bud?”
“Ah, I’m just looking at life, Mom. You want to watch with me?”
The only reason I would pass on that opportunity was because I was still packing up four bags and a stack of books for our day in the city while trying to feed Puck and myself and leave by 7:45 at the latest.
“You know, Mom,” Puck contemplated. “After I do math today, it will be the beauty of life because then you will read to me and I won’t have to read anymore.”
Reading is probably his least favorite class. If I say “class” it sounds more professional. I guess he reads about as decent as any average Kindergartner though, so I’m not ashamed.
We hit the road, The Bear still surprising me with his new beard. Puck is right – he does look years younger. We left him for an hour at the Daily Bread Cafe and Bakery to meet with a few youth pastors about the Rock Your Face Off youth retreat this coming October… yeah, their advanced planning surprised me, too. Puck and I had great ambitions to walk the lake at the park down the road where a bundle of wild turkeys flocked near City Hall, but changed our minds when we stepped out into the wind hovering just around freezing. No, it wasn’t even that warm. I guess we could have scouted out a post office; I needed stamps. But I’m not an enormous fan of driving a vehicle that I’m still convinced is way too large for my five-foot three frame to manage, around an elite corner of the city where everyone already knows which lane they need to be in.
Rose’s apartment was cold again. If we gripped the piped webbing of the radiators, we felt a slight change in temperature, but not enough to make me feel welcomed. Stingy old silver boxes. Stinkerbelle was feeling more friendly, though, friendly enough to walk out for a round and hiss obnoxiously at the both of us.
We parked across from the Art Museum just after noon. The wind was super. Super enough to blow us down the sidewalk. Through heavy sets of glass doors and across the marble atrium to the little Puck’s Cafe pressed into the back wall. They were sort of holding things over until the renovations were completely finished in June. We eyed the refrigerated glass case of salads, fruit cups, sandwiches, and sodas. Hot soups in the back. I hoped Puck wouldn’t notice the shelf of muffins and cookies, which he didn’t. He decided ham and turkey would be his sandwich of choice. I took a turkey and gouda. The bread was good. That’s how I knew we had found a quality lunch, even if it was sort of expensive. Granted, it’s for a good cause. You can’t complain when you get to stand in front of a two thousand year-old Roman mosaic for an hour or breeze through a gallery of African skull-art for free. About an hour is what the man can take before sitting down in the middle of the floor because he’s not sure he can make it to the next black leather backless couch. So that’s what we did, and it’s always a more enjoyable experience in the end. Still have to work on figuring out the best way to address “all those naked people” in paintings, young and old. I mean, we can’t pretend they’re not there. But there are a few galleries we can wait a few years on I guess…
We spent the rest of the afternoon in Rose’s chilly abode. I bundled up Puck in one of my old sweaters that Crackers has been using as a nap-location in the basement. We read books, we listened to Odyssey while Puck lounged happily on the heirloom wood trunk under the windows [where Francis’ name is still scratched on the lid], we listened to music [the music The Bear recorded those weeks ago] that Puck really likes, we watched a few Kids Snippets, Madeline once again displayed her profound affection for us by lingering all afternoon in the litter box… We have fun outdoors or in. I prepped dinner…
“Mom, are you making the fajitos that have the bad cheese?”
Yes, fajitos… And the “bad cheese” to which he was referring was gouda. Fortunately for him, I didn’t bring any of the bad cheese.
Crackers greeted us that night with the usual run for the door, sprawl on the floor, and earnest meowing for food.
