Read Online My Beautiful Hippie by Janet Nichols Lynch - Free Book Online Page B

shake, and his eyes popped when Jerry hugged him. Jerry hugged Mom and me, but Dan stepped behind me, safely out of man-hugging range. Jerry wore hip-hugger white denim bell-bottoms and a fringed suede vest with his usual Oxford button-down shirt and wing-tip shoes. During the three weeks since the wedding his hair had grown even shaggier. I wanted to laugh at his half-straight, half-hip look.
    I’d been to the apartment the week before the wedding, when Mom was helping Denise furnish it and set up housekeeping. Now it seemed more cramped than ever, with fondue pots, chip-and-dip layered bowls, vases, crystal ashtrays, and silver serving pieces covering every surface in the living room. It would be a tight fit for the six of us to crowd around the kitchen table.
    â€œWhat can I do to help, Denise?”
    â€œNot a thing, Mother. Everything’s about ready. Come into the living room and Jerry will make you a highball.”
    Mom turned a full circle in the center of the tiny kitchen. There was no evidence of meal preparations, except that on the clean counter stood a tossed salad, a loaf of sourdough bread on a cutting board, and an iced chocolate cake. “What about the—”
    â€œThe lasagna is in the oven,” said Denise, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
    â€œLasagna! Oh, boy!” said Dan, clapping his hands. “Mom never makes that anymore.” He followed Dad into the living room, where Denise had set out chips and dips.
    â€œLasagna is so complicated,” said Mom. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble, Denise. How did you ever learn to make it?”
    â€œI just followed the recipe.”
    â€œRecipes don’t teach you how to cook. You need someone who . . .” Mom’s voice trailed off as she gazed at the table set with an avocado-green tablecloth to match Denise’s new Desert Rose Franciscan dinnerware. “A tablecloth
and
cloth napkins? Candles, too? You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble just for us.”
    â€œShe uses them every night,” Jerry said proudly, ringing Denise’s waist with his arm. “They’re so much nicer than place mats and paper napkins. And candles are so romantic.” He kissed her right in front of us. “Oh, honey, run down to our garage locker, will you? Get the other bourbon for us.”
    Denise swung the apron over her head and hiked up her dress, ready to take two flights of stairs in her ballet slippers. Her exit from the apartment gave Mom the opportunity to peek into the oven at the bubbling lasagna. She looked over her shoulder and hastily salted the dish before snapping the oven shut. “Those recipes never say to boil the noodles a few minutes first,” she told me. “We’ll be chewing all night. I just hope we can get it down and spare Denise’s feelings.”
    It was the best lasagna I’d ever eaten, maybe because Denise used real ricotta, while Mom cut corners with cottage cheese.
    Over coffee, the men in the living room argued about the U.S. getting out of the United Nations, Dan in favor of the idea and Dad and Jerry against it, while Mom, helping Denise with the dishes in the kitchen, tried to convince her that ironing the bedsheets and Jerry’s boxer shorts was unnecessary.
    â€œThat’s the way Jerry likes them,” said Denise. “That’s the way his mother and his aunt did things.”
    â€œHumph.” Mom reared back her chin.
    I had no position in either debate, so I slipped away to the bathroom. It was decorated with furry pink throw rugs and amatching furry pink toilet seat cover with just-for-show pink shell-shaped soaps in an abalone dish.
    Coming out of the bathroom, I noticed the looming double bed that nearly filled the only bedroom. Three weeks ago, my sister and I had lain side by side in matching twin beds, and now she slept in a full bed with a
man
. He probably saw her naked. She probably saw him. They