Someone Ate Spinach
Our baby sister was sixteen. Sixteen.
Puck was chanting to himself in the living room…
“We want home. I want mama. We want home. I want mama.”
“You called?”
Puck grinned, embarrassed. “I didn’t think you would take it seriously.”
Later, we discussed history…
“Did any Native Americans believe in God back then?” he asked me.
“I hope so.”
“I hope one hundred did!”
Then we began to discuss the bloody civilization of the Maya. He shut the book.
Linnea-Irish drove me to Walgreen’s that afternoon – my first ride with her – for chocolate chips. We were both so distracted by the crackling game on the radio, neither one of us paid any attention to anything on the road. No wreck.
Puck helped Grandma inside with all her bags of goodies. I fidgeted over the game – no audio; for my own sanity – while Grandma filled in Mom about her goddaughter in Cape Girardeau where Ben Affleck was bunking four houses down during the filming of Gone Girl. And how Hollywood loved Missouri. What the coasts – and world, by default – apparently never knew about pleasant Midwest personalities.
Anyway, after my heart almost stopped working during three hours of the afternoon, and victory was secured in Pittsburgh, I could transition attentions to other things. Like… my son, who was tearing around the street with the neighbor kids, and Crackers hiding under the couch, whom Puck had insisted on bringing over for a visit, and the bowl of Kit-Kats on the table in the living room. Then Dad, bringing home one dozen red roses for his fourth Sweet Sixteen. And a few more to split amongst the other ladies…
“It was only three dollars more to get a dozen, so…”
“Dad!” Carrie chastised him. “You’re not supposed to tell us that!”
The engineer. Then he asked me about the game, clearly already knew. “Well,” he said, “I was supposed to give a presentation during the game, but I’m glad they changed the time because I couldn’t get anyone’s attention.”
Welcome to St. Louis.
After corned beef, and before chocolate cheesecake, Linnea unwrapped everything from sparkly headbands to certificates for dinner at the Lemp Mansion and cash…
“Grandma,” Carrie teased. “She’s only sixteen years old. She doesn’t know what to do with all that money. Here, Linnea, deposit it into the Bank of Carrie. I only charge fifty percent interest.”
Joe wrapped up Crackers to put in his room and declared, “Linnea! Happy birthday! May all your dreams come true, and may you get all the hot boyzzzz…”
“Not until she’s eighteen,” Rose corrected.
“Twenty-eight,” Dad amended.