place, but, sweetheart, some of those poor little things are so sad!”
“Don’t call people ‘things,’” said my father.
I said, “Don’t you think people in La Belle think I’m a poor little thing?”
“No, I don’t think people in La Belle think you’re a poor little thing!” said my mother. “I’d like to meet anyone who thinks you’re a poor little thing!”
“The point is, Little Little,” said my father, “it’s not the real world.”
“The real world isn’t real to me, anyway,” I said. “What’s real about a world where you can’t reach the handles of doors?”
“Sweetheart, what door handles can’t you reach that you really have to reach?”
“We’re not talking about door handles,” said my father. “We’re talking about this school. Now, I frankly feel this school could be depressing, as your mother’s pointed out. Some of those youngsters there are too physically exceptional.”
“Not p.f. enough,” my mother said.
“I’m tired of p.f.,” I said. “I’m not p.f.”
“You are so p.f.,” said my mother. “You’re little but you’re p.f.”
“There was a boy there on a board,” my father said. “That’s what we mean, Little Little.”
“If you don’t like going to school in La Belle,” my mother said, “pick out any regular boarding school in the country, cost is no consideration, and go there!”
“And have my classmates’ parents drive off saying, ‘Did you see that poor little dwarf? It’s a nice enough place but that dwarf could be depressing.’”
“In the first place you are not a dwarf,” my mother said, “and in the second place little people who are p.f. don’t depress anyone! They don’t!”
“I’m not for the boarding school idea at all,” my father said.
“Well, you won’t let go!” said my mother. “Even if it’s for her own good, you won’t let go.”
“She doesn’t want to go to boarding school,” my father said.
“She’s never thought about it,” my mother said.
“Why should she?”—my father.
There was always a point in these conversations when I began to be referred to as “she” or “her,” as though I wasn’t there in person, but very much there as their permanent, unsolvable problem.
If Cowboy was a cat she would carry Mock Hiroyuki like a kitten, by his neck, she was so protective of him.
When he announced he had to go home to get ready for the game that afternoon, Cowboy walked him up to Lake Road, to wait while he thumbed a ride.
Mock Hiroyuki is the closest Cowboy has ever come to playing with a doll, and their relationship made my family nervous.
When I went back to the solarium, even though Cowboy and Mock were at least a half a mile from the house, my mother whispered to me, “What is it she sees in that boy?”
She was sitting in the white wicker chair, thumbing through the newspaper. “How can she spend so much time with him?”
“Maybe the Hiroyukis wonder how he can spend so much time with Cowboy.”
“According to your father, the Hiroyukis are too busy trying to set up something called a pachinko parlor downtown, a place full of pinball machines. Now, that’s all this town needs!”
“This town is like me trying to pretend I’m tall,” I said. “Why doesn’t it just face the fact it’s different?”
“And let pinball machines in right in the downtown?” my mother said. “Would you like to live in a town with a Japanese pinball machine parlor right across from The Soda Shoppe? I wouldn’t.”
Then she started in on the Hiroyukis, on a trap plant being one thing and a pachinko parlor being quite another, on give some people an inch and they take a mile, and the next thing you know there’s a sukiyaki restaurant next to the pachinko parlor, and after that the geisha girls arrive.
I went and sat in my white wicker rocking chair, which is my size and has white duck pillows tied to it and faces the white duck couch where my mother moved to, to spread out the
“Don’t call people ‘things,’” said my father.
I said, “Don’t you think people in La Belle think I’m a poor little thing?”
“No, I don’t think people in La Belle think you’re a poor little thing!” said my mother. “I’d like to meet anyone who thinks you’re a poor little thing!”
“The point is, Little Little,” said my father, “it’s not the real world.”
“The real world isn’t real to me, anyway,” I said. “What’s real about a world where you can’t reach the handles of doors?”
“Sweetheart, what door handles can’t you reach that you really have to reach?”
“We’re not talking about door handles,” said my father. “We’re talking about this school. Now, I frankly feel this school could be depressing, as your mother’s pointed out. Some of those youngsters there are too physically exceptional.”
“Not p.f. enough,” my mother said.
“I’m tired of p.f.,” I said. “I’m not p.f.”
“You are so p.f.,” said my mother. “You’re little but you’re p.f.”
“There was a boy there on a board,” my father said. “That’s what we mean, Little Little.”
“If you don’t like going to school in La Belle,” my mother said, “pick out any regular boarding school in the country, cost is no consideration, and go there!”
“And have my classmates’ parents drive off saying, ‘Did you see that poor little dwarf? It’s a nice enough place but that dwarf could be depressing.’”
“In the first place you are not a dwarf,” my mother said, “and in the second place little people who are p.f. don’t depress anyone! They don’t!”
“I’m not for the boarding school idea at all,” my father said.
“Well, you won’t let go!” said my mother. “Even if it’s for her own good, you won’t let go.”
“She doesn’t want to go to boarding school,” my father said.
“She’s never thought about it,” my mother said.
“Why should she?”—my father.
There was always a point in these conversations when I began to be referred to as “she” or “her,” as though I wasn’t there in person, but very much there as their permanent, unsolvable problem.
If Cowboy was a cat she would carry Mock Hiroyuki like a kitten, by his neck, she was so protective of him.
When he announced he had to go home to get ready for the game that afternoon, Cowboy walked him up to Lake Road, to wait while he thumbed a ride.
Mock Hiroyuki is the closest Cowboy has ever come to playing with a doll, and their relationship made my family nervous.
When I went back to the solarium, even though Cowboy and Mock were at least a half a mile from the house, my mother whispered to me, “What is it she sees in that boy?”
She was sitting in the white wicker chair, thumbing through the newspaper. “How can she spend so much time with him?”
“Maybe the Hiroyukis wonder how he can spend so much time with Cowboy.”
“According to your father, the Hiroyukis are too busy trying to set up something called a pachinko parlor downtown, a place full of pinball machines. Now, that’s all this town needs!”
“This town is like me trying to pretend I’m tall,” I said. “Why doesn’t it just face the fact it’s different?”
“And let pinball machines in right in the downtown?” my mother said. “Would you like to live in a town with a Japanese pinball machine parlor right across from The Soda Shoppe? I wouldn’t.”
Then she started in on the Hiroyukis, on a trap plant being one thing and a pachinko parlor being quite another, on give some people an inch and they take a mile, and the next thing you know there’s a sukiyaki restaurant next to the pachinko parlor, and after that the geisha girls arrive.
I went and sat in my white wicker rocking chair, which is my size and has white duck pillows tied to it and faces the white duck couch where my mother moved to, to spread out the
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