Read Online Joy School by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Berg
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lively you say to yourself, oh yeah.
I sit at the kitchen table. “What will you be doing tomorrow?”
“Oh,” she turns around, wipes the sink out with a sponge even though it is already clean. “I’ll be making dinner. Wayne will be coming with his family. His parents and his two sisters.” She is tired already, just talkingabout it. Behind the veil of her niceness, you can see the other feelings.
“Well, we’ll save leftovers here for you.”
“Thanks. On Monday, we’ll have turkey sandwiches when you come home from school, how’s that?”
Now I am a little nervous. Dickie eats a lot. The turkey might be plumb gone by Monday. I really meant just that we’d be thinking of her. “Well,” I say. “Or pie, something like that.”
“Right.” She looks at her watch. It’s a cheap silver one, gaps in the links. I wish I could buy her a new one. I know for Christmas I’m getting her a book. A hardback. “I have to go, Katie. Please tell Diane and Dickie that I enjoyed meeting them.”
“I will.”
“And tell your father … Well, just Happy Thanksgiving, I guess.” She looks at me a little too long and I see that she is thinking about him in the romantic way. Which I guess I had known but hadn’t known until now. Facts bump up against me like waves. How she has been fixing herself up more lately. How she leaves at night slowly.
Huh. Him, as a plain man.
Just as Ginger is going out the door, the phone rings. I get an alarmed feeling that it might be Jimmy, although I would also be happy. We had a good time, when I was there. He has a checkers game which we played, I won one, he won one, which of course leaves you with a very satisfied feeling. He said, “Come byagain,” when I left, which was a relief, since that
was
his wife on the phone. They got married right out of high school, is about all he said. He kind of smiled, saying it. But their son is five years old. So figure it out. That man got trapped like a rat.
“Hello?” I say, and I can actually feel my heart beating in my chest.
“Hi! Where have you been?”
Oh. It’s Cynthia.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot to call you back.” She phones a few times a day, and if I don’t answer or call back right away, why call out the FBI.
“It’s okay,” she says. And then there is a loud silence. This is one of those friendships where I’ll have to do all the talking.
“How’s your grandma?” I say.
“She and my mother are going at it right now. Nona got up last night and made three gallons of red sauce.”
“What for?”
Cynthia sighs. “Oh, you know, spaghetti, all that stuff. Calzones. Pizza.”
“No, I mean, are you having a lot of people over?”
“No. Nobody. Nona just loves to cook. It’s her only thing. My god, if
people
are coming over for dinner! Then she makes about two
hundred
gallons. She gets all excited. She rubs her hands together and says, ‘Ah, business, she’s-a pickin’ up!’”
“So what’s wrong if she cooks?” I ask.
“She has bad heart problems. Congestive failure.Sometimes she’s just not supposed to get up. Her legs are swollen up again like crazy. You should see them. If you poke them with your finger, the mark stays.”
This is not something I would buy a ticket for.
“She got up when everyone was sleeping. I don’t know, three in the morning or something, that’s how she does it. She’s really quiet, I have to say that. She lights a candle, cooks by that.”
“Really?” Now this is something I would like to see. Cynthia’s grandmother, dressed in a robe and slippers, her hair wild and sticking out all over, stirring sauce by the light of a big white candle. Like a good witch. The skins of onions and garlic all over the kitchen counter. She would stir and stir, squint into the pot, sprinkle her spices in. I’ll bet she puts wine in, right from the bottle, I saw an Italian grandmother do that once in a movie. The bottle was in its own basket. Nona only uses her own
I sit at the kitchen table. “What will you be doing tomorrow?”
“Oh,” she turns around, wipes the sink out with a sponge even though it is already clean. “I’ll be making dinner. Wayne will be coming with his family. His parents and his two sisters.” She is tired already, just talkingabout it. Behind the veil of her niceness, you can see the other feelings.
“Well, we’ll save leftovers here for you.”
“Thanks. On Monday, we’ll have turkey sandwiches when you come home from school, how’s that?”
Now I am a little nervous. Dickie eats a lot. The turkey might be plumb gone by Monday. I really meant just that we’d be thinking of her. “Well,” I say. “Or pie, something like that.”
“Right.” She looks at her watch. It’s a cheap silver one, gaps in the links. I wish I could buy her a new one. I know for Christmas I’m getting her a book. A hardback. “I have to go, Katie. Please tell Diane and Dickie that I enjoyed meeting them.”
“I will.”
“And tell your father … Well, just Happy Thanksgiving, I guess.” She looks at me a little too long and I see that she is thinking about him in the romantic way. Which I guess I had known but hadn’t known until now. Facts bump up against me like waves. How she has been fixing herself up more lately. How she leaves at night slowly.
Huh. Him, as a plain man.
Just as Ginger is going out the door, the phone rings. I get an alarmed feeling that it might be Jimmy, although I would also be happy. We had a good time, when I was there. He has a checkers game which we played, I won one, he won one, which of course leaves you with a very satisfied feeling. He said, “Come byagain,” when I left, which was a relief, since that
was
his wife on the phone. They got married right out of high school, is about all he said. He kind of smiled, saying it. But their son is five years old. So figure it out. That man got trapped like a rat.
“Hello?” I say, and I can actually feel my heart beating in my chest.
“Hi! Where have you been?”
Oh. It’s Cynthia.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot to call you back.” She phones a few times a day, and if I don’t answer or call back right away, why call out the FBI.
“It’s okay,” she says. And then there is a loud silence. This is one of those friendships where I’ll have to do all the talking.
“How’s your grandma?” I say.
“She and my mother are going at it right now. Nona got up last night and made three gallons of red sauce.”
“What for?”
Cynthia sighs. “Oh, you know, spaghetti, all that stuff. Calzones. Pizza.”
“No, I mean, are you having a lot of people over?”
“No. Nobody. Nona just loves to cook. It’s her only thing. My god, if
people
are coming over for dinner! Then she makes about two
hundred
gallons. She gets all excited. She rubs her hands together and says, ‘Ah, business, she’s-a pickin’ up!’”
“So what’s wrong if she cooks?” I ask.
“She has bad heart problems. Congestive failure.Sometimes she’s just not supposed to get up. Her legs are swollen up again like crazy. You should see them. If you poke them with your finger, the mark stays.”
This is not something I would buy a ticket for.
“She got up when everyone was sleeping. I don’t know, three in the morning or something, that’s how she does it. She’s really quiet, I have to say that. She lights a candle, cooks by that.”
“Really?” Now this is something I would like to see. Cynthia’s grandmother, dressed in a robe and slippers, her hair wild and sticking out all over, stirring sauce by the light of a big white candle. Like a good witch. The skins of onions and garlic all over the kitchen counter. She would stir and stir, squint into the pot, sprinkle her spices in. I’ll bet she puts wine in, right from the bottle, I saw an Italian grandmother do that once in a movie. The bottle was in its own basket. Nona only uses her own
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