Read Online Summerland by Michael Chabon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Chabon
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for a morning walk in the woods or a bike ride over to Thor's or Jennifer T.'s, Mr. Feld was usually asleep. But on Saturday mornings, no matter how late he had worked, Mr. Feld always woke up, or stayed up, as the case might be, to cook a pancake breakfast for him and Ethan. Pancakes—she called them flannel cakes—had been a specialty of Dr. Feld's, and the Saturday breakfast was a Feld family tradition. Unfortunately, Mr. Feld was a terrible cook, and his own flannel cakes never failed to live up to their rather unappetizing name.
"Well," Mr. Feld said, tipping the bottle of maple syrup onto his stack. "Let's see how I did this week."
"Did you remember the baking powder?" Ethan said, with a shudder. He was still feeling unnerved by the memory of the ugly gray face, with the pointed nose and wicked grin, swimming in the lens of the magnifying glass. "The eggs?"
His father nodded, allowing a large puddle of syrup to form. One of the unspoken but necessary ground rules for eating Mr. Feld's flannel cakes was that you could use as much syrup as you needed to help you get them down.
"And the vanilla?" Ethan said, pouring his own syrup. He preferred Karo; he had seen a movie once of men in fur hats driving long, sharp steel taps into the tender hearts of Canadian maples, and ever since then had felt too sorry for the trees to eat maple syrup.
Mr. Feld nodded again. He cut himself a fat wedge, pale yellow pinstriped with dark brown, and popped it, looking optimistic, into his mouth. Ethan quickly did the same. They chewed, watching each other carefully. Then they both stared down at their plates.
"If only she had written down the recipe," Mr. Feld said at last.
They ate in silence broken only by the clink of their forks, by the hum of the electric clock over the stove and by the steady liquid muttering of their old refrigerator. To Ethan it was like the tedious sound track of their lives. He and his father lived in this little house, alone, his father working sixteen hours a day and more perfecting the Zeppelina, the personal family dirigible that was someday going to revolutionize transportation, while Ethan tried not to disturb him, not to disturb anyone, not to disturb the world. Entire days went by without either of them exchanging more than a few words. They had few friends on the island. Nobody came to visit, and they received no invitations. And then, on Saturday mornings, this wordless attempt to maintain a tradition whose purpose, whose point, and whose animating spirit—Ethan's mother—seemed to be lost forever.
After a few minutes the humming of the clock began to drive Ethan out of his mind. The silence lay upon him like a dense pile of flannel cakes, gummed with syrup. He pushed back in his chair and sprang to his feet.
"Dad?" Ethan said, when they were most of the way through the ordeal. "Hey, Dad?"
His father was half dozing, chewing and chewing on a mouthful of pancakes with one eye shut. His thick black hair stood up in wild coils from his head, and his eyelids were purple with lack of sleep.
Mr. Feld sat up, and took a long swallow of coffee. He winced. He disliked the taste of the coffee he brewed almost as much as he hated his pancakes.
"What, son?" he said.
"Do you think I would ever make a good catcher?"
Mr. Feld stared at him, wide awake now, unable to conceal his disbelief. "You mean…you mean a baseball catcher?"
"Like Buck Ewing."
" Buck Ewing? " Mr. Feld said. "That's going back a ways." But he smiled. "Well, Ethan, I think it's a very intriguing idea."
"I was just sort of thinking…maybe it's time for us—for me—to try something different."
"You mean, like waffles?" Mr. Feld pushed his plate away, sticking out his tongue, and smoothed down his wild hair. "Come," he said. "I think I may have an old catcher's mitt, out in the workshop."
THE PINK HOUSE ON THE HILL HAD ONCE BELONGED TO A FAMILY named Okawa. They had dug clams, kept chickens, and raised strawberries on a
"Well," Mr. Feld said, tipping the bottle of maple syrup onto his stack. "Let's see how I did this week."
"Did you remember the baking powder?" Ethan said, with a shudder. He was still feeling unnerved by the memory of the ugly gray face, with the pointed nose and wicked grin, swimming in the lens of the magnifying glass. "The eggs?"
His father nodded, allowing a large puddle of syrup to form. One of the unspoken but necessary ground rules for eating Mr. Feld's flannel cakes was that you could use as much syrup as you needed to help you get them down.
"And the vanilla?" Ethan said, pouring his own syrup. He preferred Karo; he had seen a movie once of men in fur hats driving long, sharp steel taps into the tender hearts of Canadian maples, and ever since then had felt too sorry for the trees to eat maple syrup.
Mr. Feld nodded again. He cut himself a fat wedge, pale yellow pinstriped with dark brown, and popped it, looking optimistic, into his mouth. Ethan quickly did the same. They chewed, watching each other carefully. Then they both stared down at their plates.
"If only she had written down the recipe," Mr. Feld said at last.
They ate in silence broken only by the clink of their forks, by the hum of the electric clock over the stove and by the steady liquid muttering of their old refrigerator. To Ethan it was like the tedious sound track of their lives. He and his father lived in this little house, alone, his father working sixteen hours a day and more perfecting the Zeppelina, the personal family dirigible that was someday going to revolutionize transportation, while Ethan tried not to disturb him, not to disturb anyone, not to disturb the world. Entire days went by without either of them exchanging more than a few words. They had few friends on the island. Nobody came to visit, and they received no invitations. And then, on Saturday mornings, this wordless attempt to maintain a tradition whose purpose, whose point, and whose animating spirit—Ethan's mother—seemed to be lost forever.
After a few minutes the humming of the clock began to drive Ethan out of his mind. The silence lay upon him like a dense pile of flannel cakes, gummed with syrup. He pushed back in his chair and sprang to his feet.
"Dad?" Ethan said, when they were most of the way through the ordeal. "Hey, Dad?"
His father was half dozing, chewing and chewing on a mouthful of pancakes with one eye shut. His thick black hair stood up in wild coils from his head, and his eyelids were purple with lack of sleep.
Mr. Feld sat up, and took a long swallow of coffee. He winced. He disliked the taste of the coffee he brewed almost as much as he hated his pancakes.
"What, son?" he said.
"Do you think I would ever make a good catcher?"
Mr. Feld stared at him, wide awake now, unable to conceal his disbelief. "You mean…you mean a baseball catcher?"
"Like Buck Ewing."
" Buck Ewing? " Mr. Feld said. "That's going back a ways." But he smiled. "Well, Ethan, I think it's a very intriguing idea."
"I was just sort of thinking…maybe it's time for us—for me—to try something different."
"You mean, like waffles?" Mr. Feld pushed his plate away, sticking out his tongue, and smoothed down his wild hair. "Come," he said. "I think I may have an old catcher's mitt, out in the workshop."
THE PINK HOUSE ON THE HILL HAD ONCE BELONGED TO A FAMILY named Okawa. They had dug clams, kept chickens, and raised strawberries on a
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