Read Online Kicking Tomorrow by Daniel Richler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel Richler
Ads: Link
the Sargasso, with a seaweed-slick continental shelf at the door ofthe study plunging ten thousand leagues to the depths of the basement den. The house was a dripping lagoon,
plip, plip
, smelling nastily damp. He had slapped up the wet stairs to turn off the bathtub taps, and sat down on the rim and wept. Bummer of the century! Now he pictured his records floating in the flooded dungeon like vinyl lily-pads, the pellets from the beanbag chairs clustering like white algae; his sketches, too, including some nude studies of Ivy, saturated, blotting, dissolving. And now with the thrum of the Voyageur bus in his ears he was wondering, should he blame it on burglars? Or not tell at all.
When he and Rosie appeared on the terrace, Grandma Bethel put her hand to her mouth, the lenses of her horn-rimmed glasses magnifying the astonishment in her eyes. Close up for the kiss, her cheek was as soft as the pad in a lady’s compact.
“I can’t believe he’s so
tall
. And look!” Robbie obliged her, bowing his head so she could reach and rummage. “You can’t tell these days if they’re boys or girls. Oy, what a kid!”
“Hey,” Robbie said, seeing Barnabus in a white shirt, and Miriam in a dress. “Why so spiffy? What’s the occasion?”
“Seder!” Barnabus said. “We almost didn’t have it, ’cause Dad said he was going to leave Mom in prison for the weekend to teach her a lesson.”
“He was joking, stupid,” Miriam said.
“Seder in September,” Grandma Bethel said. “God forgive me.”
“It’s all my fault,” Mom said. “I was just too busy in the spring. That’s when I was arrested for the first time, remember – well, the first time this year. It was a bitch. The network president told me our ratings were slipping. So I said to him, how do you makedioxin in gulls’ eggs
entertaining?
Anyway, Mother, you know we do this for the kids. It’s better late than never.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Grandma Bethel said, “I understand perfectly. Do what you think is best for the children. You said it, I’m behind the times. Who am I to want everyone to be as old-fashioned as me?”
Robbie dressed up. Awkward in his suit and tie, trying to pump the nervous guilty bubbles of air from his heart, he opened the fridge for a beer. He cracked one open and sat back to watch everybody working in the kitchen. In the dining room Dad pored over a brand new Haggadah, stiff scotch in hand, moving his lips as he read.
“This is not the draft I’m –” he said.
“ ‘Non-Sexist, Yet Traditional,’
hmm. Where do the eggs, aum, shouldn’t we crack them open first to see if they’re boys or girls?”
“Don’t be gross,” Miriam said. “You dip them in the horseradish.”
“No, darling,” Mom said. “The eggs are dipped in the salt water when we tell the story of the Exodus.”
“Oh my,” Grandma Bethel said, one eye uneasily on Rosie, who looked like a death-watch beetle. “I know you don’t need my help, but we’re not meant to eat any eggs at all. There should be just one, roasted, in the middle of the table. You look at it, as a symbol only.”
Robbie, in his simmering gloom, thought, Don’t lose your shorts over it. The only good thing about tradition is that it’s in the past; the way old people talk about heritage you’d think they did a good job on the world before handing it down. We should just start again, a little nukular war wouldn’t hurt nobody in the long run. But just to be nice, to participate in family life a little – as Mom has demanded not infrequently – he asked, “A symbol of what?”
“That’s a very intelligent question!” Mom said.
“Yes! It’s a symbol of rebirth,” Grandma Bethel said, delighted, “and of the burnt offering that was made every day of the feast during the existence of the Temple in Jerusalem.”
“Far out,” Robbie said flatly. “Thanks a bundle.”
“Can I wear a hat this year, Daddy?” Miriam called out.
“Why not,”
plip, plip
, smelling nastily damp. He had slapped up the wet stairs to turn off the bathtub taps, and sat down on the rim and wept. Bummer of the century! Now he pictured his records floating in the flooded dungeon like vinyl lily-pads, the pellets from the beanbag chairs clustering like white algae; his sketches, too, including some nude studies of Ivy, saturated, blotting, dissolving. And now with the thrum of the Voyageur bus in his ears he was wondering, should he blame it on burglars? Or not tell at all.
When he and Rosie appeared on the terrace, Grandma Bethel put her hand to her mouth, the lenses of her horn-rimmed glasses magnifying the astonishment in her eyes. Close up for the kiss, her cheek was as soft as the pad in a lady’s compact.
“I can’t believe he’s so
tall
. And look!” Robbie obliged her, bowing his head so she could reach and rummage. “You can’t tell these days if they’re boys or girls. Oy, what a kid!”
“Hey,” Robbie said, seeing Barnabus in a white shirt, and Miriam in a dress. “Why so spiffy? What’s the occasion?”
“Seder!” Barnabus said. “We almost didn’t have it, ’cause Dad said he was going to leave Mom in prison for the weekend to teach her a lesson.”
“He was joking, stupid,” Miriam said.
“Seder in September,” Grandma Bethel said. “God forgive me.”
“It’s all my fault,” Mom said. “I was just too busy in the spring. That’s when I was arrested for the first time, remember – well, the first time this year. It was a bitch. The network president told me our ratings were slipping. So I said to him, how do you makedioxin in gulls’ eggs
entertaining?
Anyway, Mother, you know we do this for the kids. It’s better late than never.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Grandma Bethel said, “I understand perfectly. Do what you think is best for the children. You said it, I’m behind the times. Who am I to want everyone to be as old-fashioned as me?”
Robbie dressed up. Awkward in his suit and tie, trying to pump the nervous guilty bubbles of air from his heart, he opened the fridge for a beer. He cracked one open and sat back to watch everybody working in the kitchen. In the dining room Dad pored over a brand new Haggadah, stiff scotch in hand, moving his lips as he read.
“This is not the draft I’m –” he said.
“ ‘Non-Sexist, Yet Traditional,’
hmm. Where do the eggs, aum, shouldn’t we crack them open first to see if they’re boys or girls?”
“Don’t be gross,” Miriam said. “You dip them in the horseradish.”
“No, darling,” Mom said. “The eggs are dipped in the salt water when we tell the story of the Exodus.”
“Oh my,” Grandma Bethel said, one eye uneasily on Rosie, who looked like a death-watch beetle. “I know you don’t need my help, but we’re not meant to eat any eggs at all. There should be just one, roasted, in the middle of the table. You look at it, as a symbol only.”
Robbie, in his simmering gloom, thought, Don’t lose your shorts over it. The only good thing about tradition is that it’s in the past; the way old people talk about heritage you’d think they did a good job on the world before handing it down. We should just start again, a little nukular war wouldn’t hurt nobody in the long run. But just to be nice, to participate in family life a little – as Mom has demanded not infrequently – he asked, “A symbol of what?”
“That’s a very intelligent question!” Mom said.
“Yes! It’s a symbol of rebirth,” Grandma Bethel said, delighted, “and of the burnt offering that was made every day of the feast during the existence of the Temple in Jerusalem.”
“Far out,” Robbie said flatly. “Thanks a bundle.”
“Can I wear a hat this year, Daddy?” Miriam called out.
“Why not,”
Similar Books
