Read Online Mendocino and Other Stories by Ann Packer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Packer
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the terrier. Sunny drops the stick and begins sniffing at the terrier. The woman is immediately drawn to Lizzie and starts talking to her. They have a cute few seconds of conversation, which the daddy enters with a mixture of friendliness and irony, because his eyes are still covered.
Finally Lizzie takes her hands away and the grown-ups start in on the dogs.
That's as far as I've gotten; now I just need to figure out how to bring in the product. The woman: “She's a happy-looking dog.” Lizzie: “That's 'cause her name is Sunny.” The daddy (laughing): “It's because she knows she's going home to eat soon.” The woman: “Mealtimes aren't any fun at our house, are they, Fido?” (I haven't thought of the terrier's name yet.) The daddy: “You must not be using Kanine Krunch.” Etc., etc.
Well, it's a start.
BABES IN ARMS just got in a new line of stuffed animals. They're just the right size: smaller, as we used to say when playing Twenty Questions, than a breadbox, but larger than a shoe. There's awonderful, soft grey rhino; a plush brown bear with heartbreaking button eyes; an adorable, jaunty little penguin.
“They're sure to be very popular,” says the saleswoman, chattily, arranging the animals on a shelf. She's gotten to know me a little.
I pick up a rhino; who could resist? But the bear is great, too. And I'm not even ready to buy.
“We're putting them on special this week,” the saleswoman says. “Half off. It's a special promotion to introduce them. They're from Sweden.”
Half off is a good deal. Stuffed animals, I have discovered, are not cheap. I put down the rhino and pick up a bear. I hold him to my face. He even smells good: fresh and clean and, somehow, good for you.
“I'm going to take a bear,” I say. I'll give him to Sam; the mobile is a little too expensive, anyway.
The saleswoman smiles and moves to the cash register. She's probably afraid I'll change my mind, I'm in here so often. She takes my credit card, runs it through the little gadget, and hands me the slip to sign. She wraps the bear in tissue paper printed with little baby bottles and rattles and diaper pins. She carefully puts it in a shopping bag and hands it to me. “Enjoy,” she says.
IT'S 10:20 when the phone rings, jolting me out of sleep so fast that I have the receiver in my hand before I can possibly speak.
“Virginia?” It's a hollow little sound, a vaguely familiar voice coming to me from far away.
“Hello?” I say.
“Virginia?” It's my brother. “Did I wake you up or something?”
“No, no,” I say. “I was reading.” I always feel guilty when thephone awakens me, as if I should apologize for being asleep when someone wants to talk.
“So, how are you?”
“Fine,” I say, and then it occurs to me that he simply wants to chat, that it's still my turn. “How are you?”
“OK,” he says. “I'm at the lab.”
“It's almost 10:30 at night, what, do you live there?” It's actually easier to picture him on a cot next to the Bunsen burners than in his own apartment. I haven't been to Charlottesville, but when I visited him in Cambridge, when he was getting the M.A. in philosophy, he lived in a three-room apartment in which there was nothing but a bed, a table, and two chairs. What bothered me most was that he didn't have a bureau. Where did he keep his socks and underwear? On hangers?
“I've got some cells in a petri dish that need looking at every three hours,” he says. “So, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say. I picture the cells getting restless, saying,
Look at me, look at me.
It's a mystery to me, what my brother does.
“So, how'd you like Hank?”
This is why he called. “He seemed very nice,” I say evenly.
“He liked you, too.”
Not this, please. “Yeah, well,” I say.
“He said you seemed a little depressed.”
“Depressed?”
“You know, a little down.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “Not at all.”
“He said you were kind of quiet, so I figured, something must be
Finally Lizzie takes her hands away and the grown-ups start in on the dogs.
That's as far as I've gotten; now I just need to figure out how to bring in the product. The woman: “She's a happy-looking dog.” Lizzie: “That's 'cause her name is Sunny.” The daddy (laughing): “It's because she knows she's going home to eat soon.” The woman: “Mealtimes aren't any fun at our house, are they, Fido?” (I haven't thought of the terrier's name yet.) The daddy: “You must not be using Kanine Krunch.” Etc., etc.
Well, it's a start.
BABES IN ARMS just got in a new line of stuffed animals. They're just the right size: smaller, as we used to say when playing Twenty Questions, than a breadbox, but larger than a shoe. There's awonderful, soft grey rhino; a plush brown bear with heartbreaking button eyes; an adorable, jaunty little penguin.
“They're sure to be very popular,” says the saleswoman, chattily, arranging the animals on a shelf. She's gotten to know me a little.
I pick up a rhino; who could resist? But the bear is great, too. And I'm not even ready to buy.
“We're putting them on special this week,” the saleswoman says. “Half off. It's a special promotion to introduce them. They're from Sweden.”
Half off is a good deal. Stuffed animals, I have discovered, are not cheap. I put down the rhino and pick up a bear. I hold him to my face. He even smells good: fresh and clean and, somehow, good for you.
“I'm going to take a bear,” I say. I'll give him to Sam; the mobile is a little too expensive, anyway.
The saleswoman smiles and moves to the cash register. She's probably afraid I'll change my mind, I'm in here so often. She takes my credit card, runs it through the little gadget, and hands me the slip to sign. She wraps the bear in tissue paper printed with little baby bottles and rattles and diaper pins. She carefully puts it in a shopping bag and hands it to me. “Enjoy,” she says.
IT'S 10:20 when the phone rings, jolting me out of sleep so fast that I have the receiver in my hand before I can possibly speak.
“Virginia?” It's a hollow little sound, a vaguely familiar voice coming to me from far away.
“Hello?” I say.
“Virginia?” It's my brother. “Did I wake you up or something?”
“No, no,” I say. “I was reading.” I always feel guilty when thephone awakens me, as if I should apologize for being asleep when someone wants to talk.
“So, how are you?”
“Fine,” I say, and then it occurs to me that he simply wants to chat, that it's still my turn. “How are you?”
“OK,” he says. “I'm at the lab.”
“It's almost 10:30 at night, what, do you live there?” It's actually easier to picture him on a cot next to the Bunsen burners than in his own apartment. I haven't been to Charlottesville, but when I visited him in Cambridge, when he was getting the M.A. in philosophy, he lived in a three-room apartment in which there was nothing but a bed, a table, and two chairs. What bothered me most was that he didn't have a bureau. Where did he keep his socks and underwear? On hangers?
“I've got some cells in a petri dish that need looking at every three hours,” he says. “So, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say. I picture the cells getting restless, saying,
Look at me, look at me.
It's a mystery to me, what my brother does.
“So, how'd you like Hank?”
This is why he called. “He seemed very nice,” I say evenly.
“He liked you, too.”
Not this, please. “Yeah, well,” I say.
“He said you seemed a little depressed.”
“Depressed?”
“You know, a little down.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “Not at all.”
“He said you were kind of quiet, so I figured, something must be
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