Read Online Back When We Were Grownups by Anne Tyler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Tyler
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I’m about to fall asleep. ‘Oh, hell’s bells!’ in that kind of squawking way she had, just as clear! Just as real! Like she’s there in the bedroom. My heart will start pounding.”
“Yes, I know,” Rebecca said.
With her, it was the pressure of Joe’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her across a street.
“Then I say, ‘Joycie, if you’re going to appear from beyond and give me a message, couldn’t it be something more useful than “Hell’s bells?”’”
Rebecca laughed, and they turned at the end of the block and started back toward home.
* * *
Patch dropped by with her youngest—Meredith, aged seven—and asked if she could leave her while she and Jeep went to a ball game. “Certainly,” Rebecca said. “She can help with the party.” She had to shout, because the disk jockey had arrived and was testing his equipment. Deep, throbbing bass notes shook the floorboards. Patch said, “She hasn’t . . . !” something, something, and Rebecca shouted, “What? Hasn’t what?”
“Hasn’t eaten yet!” Patch said too loudly, speaking into a sudden lull. “Time just got away from us, somehow.”
“That’s okay; we haven’t either,” Rebecca told her. “I’ll give her supper.”
Then the music took over again; so Patch waved instead of saying goodbye.
Back in the kitchen, Rebecca put Merrie to work peeling hard-cooked eggs. “We’re eating upstairs in the family room,” she said. “The party tonight’s extra early.” Deftly, she removed the plastic wrap from one of the catering trays and stole three miniature sandwiches. Then she rearranged the others to cover the gaps. Merrie, meanwhile, picked off tiny fragments of eggshell, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She was standing on the step stool, which made Rebecca think of Biddy tossing the salad so many years ago. Although Merrie looked nothing like Biddy. (She was a carbon copy of Patch, all muscle and bone in sausage-skin bicycling shorts.) But everything else was the same: the ivory metal stool with its corrugated rubber treads, and the chipped and stained sink, and the cupboards so layered with paint that their doors could never quite close.
“I had this really weird dream last night,” Rebecca told Merrie. (And why was it she just then thought of it?) “I dreamed I was on a train with my teenaged son.”
All Merrie said to this was, “
We
went on a train. Me and Emmy and Mama. We went on a train to Washington last week. But Danny stayed at home because it was only us girls.”
So Rebecca changed to her grandma voice and said, “Oh, what fun! What did you see? Tell me all about it!”
She loved these children, every last one of them. They had added more to her life than she could have imagined. But sometimes it was very tiring to have to speak in her grandma voice.
She set plates and silver on a tray, poured three glasses of milk, and piled some fruit in a bowl, meanwhile listening to Merrie’s Washington saga. In the back of her mind, though, her son continued traveling. He gazed out at the scenery while Rebecca studied his hands—those oddly familiar hands with the squared-off thumb joints, a pink Band-Aid wrapping one finger.
Upstairs in the family room, Poppy sat in semi-dark watching a game show. (He had a thing about turning lights on needlessly.) “The answer is Napoleon, you fool!” he was muttering as Rebecca entered. “Don’t they educate people anymore?” Still focusing on the screen, he lowered the foot of his recliner so Rebecca could unfold a snack table in front of him. “There,” he said. “Look at that. Now that woman is six points ahead and he stands to lose it all.”
The woman he was referring to was jumping up and down and clapping her hands and squealing. Game shows selected their guests on the basis of their pep, Rebecca had heard. Like cheerleaders—the same criterion. This woman had a cheerleader ponytail, even, which flew up with a kind of geyser effect each
“Yes, I know,” Rebecca said.
With her, it was the pressure of Joe’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her across a street.
“Then I say, ‘Joycie, if you’re going to appear from beyond and give me a message, couldn’t it be something more useful than “Hell’s bells?”’”
Rebecca laughed, and they turned at the end of the block and started back toward home.
* * *
Patch dropped by with her youngest—Meredith, aged seven—and asked if she could leave her while she and Jeep went to a ball game. “Certainly,” Rebecca said. “She can help with the party.” She had to shout, because the disk jockey had arrived and was testing his equipment. Deep, throbbing bass notes shook the floorboards. Patch said, “She hasn’t . . . !” something, something, and Rebecca shouted, “What? Hasn’t what?”
“Hasn’t eaten yet!” Patch said too loudly, speaking into a sudden lull. “Time just got away from us, somehow.”
“That’s okay; we haven’t either,” Rebecca told her. “I’ll give her supper.”
Then the music took over again; so Patch waved instead of saying goodbye.
Back in the kitchen, Rebecca put Merrie to work peeling hard-cooked eggs. “We’re eating upstairs in the family room,” she said. “The party tonight’s extra early.” Deftly, she removed the plastic wrap from one of the catering trays and stole three miniature sandwiches. Then she rearranged the others to cover the gaps. Merrie, meanwhile, picked off tiny fragments of eggshell, catching her lower lip between her teeth. She was standing on the step stool, which made Rebecca think of Biddy tossing the salad so many years ago. Although Merrie looked nothing like Biddy. (She was a carbon copy of Patch, all muscle and bone in sausage-skin bicycling shorts.) But everything else was the same: the ivory metal stool with its corrugated rubber treads, and the chipped and stained sink, and the cupboards so layered with paint that their doors could never quite close.
“I had this really weird dream last night,” Rebecca told Merrie. (And why was it she just then thought of it?) “I dreamed I was on a train with my teenaged son.”
All Merrie said to this was, “
We
went on a train. Me and Emmy and Mama. We went on a train to Washington last week. But Danny stayed at home because it was only us girls.”
So Rebecca changed to her grandma voice and said, “Oh, what fun! What did you see? Tell me all about it!”
She loved these children, every last one of them. They had added more to her life than she could have imagined. But sometimes it was very tiring to have to speak in her grandma voice.
She set plates and silver on a tray, poured three glasses of milk, and piled some fruit in a bowl, meanwhile listening to Merrie’s Washington saga. In the back of her mind, though, her son continued traveling. He gazed out at the scenery while Rebecca studied his hands—those oddly familiar hands with the squared-off thumb joints, a pink Band-Aid wrapping one finger.
Upstairs in the family room, Poppy sat in semi-dark watching a game show. (He had a thing about turning lights on needlessly.) “The answer is Napoleon, you fool!” he was muttering as Rebecca entered. “Don’t they educate people anymore?” Still focusing on the screen, he lowered the foot of his recliner so Rebecca could unfold a snack table in front of him. “There,” he said. “Look at that. Now that woman is six points ahead and he stands to lose it all.”
The woman he was referring to was jumping up and down and clapping her hands and squealing. Game shows selected their guests on the basis of their pep, Rebecca had heard. Like cheerleaders—the same criterion. This woman had a cheerleader ponytail, even, which flew up with a kind of geyser effect each
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