Read Online Sweet Like Sugar by Wayne Hoffman - Free Book Online Page A

dead, and sorry to be snooping in an old man’s house.
    â€œThat’s us, too,” he said, pointing to the black-and-white photo. “We had that taken on our tenth anniversary, right after we moved into this house. That was 1962.”
    The man in the old photo certainly resembled the man in the newer photo, even if some forty-five years separated them. Both looked proud, confident, with a flash of vigor in their smiles. But the man standing before me, wet and small and scarcely more alive than his moribund furnishings, seemed another person entirely.
    He picked up the candy dish and extended it in my direction. I demurred. He frowned and sat down in his usual spot by the reading lamp.
    â€œCancer,” he said with a sigh. “It was terribly fast.”
    He was quiet, and I didn’t know how to fill the space, so I tried to change the subject.
    â€œWhat are all these books?” I asked.
    He didn’t answer, and a silence blossomed in the room. Had I spoiled his moment? Perhaps he’d been waiting to talk to someone, anyone, about his wife, and he finally saw his chance in me. It didn’t look like he had many visitors. Maybe he’d been waiting for the opportunity to invite me in and talk about her. But maybe now he was thinking that I wasn’t the one, that I heard a mention of death and quickly changed the subject, preferring the mundane to the profound, the silly to the important. Too young, too shallow, not a serious man. Have a cashew and thanks for the ride.
    â€œI think I should go lie down,” he said, rising from the sofa. “The storm sounds like it’s easing up. You should be okay now.”
    I took my cue, walking toward the front door and picking up my umbrella from the floor.
    â€œI’m sorry about your wife,” I said.
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, waving me off while he started up his stairs.

    My parents had a family snapshot on their mantel, in a bright, plastic frame much like the one in Rabbi Zuckerman’s house. It was a memento of our first vacation in Florida, a trip to Disney.
    I met Mickey Mouse on that trip. He was surprisingly tall.
    He towered over me, a white-gloved hand extended in my direction, his face permanently molded into an open-mouthed smile, black ears blocking out the sun. He scared me. I hid behind my mom. Mickey turned to my sister, Rachel. She was twelve and thought she was too cool for this kind of thing. Physically unable to stop smiling, Mickey waved his white-gloved hand at Rachel; she rolled her eyes and offered a single pathetic wave in return, muttering, “Yeah, hi,” as if she saw Mickey Mouse on the school bus every morning and couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
    But we were not rid of Mickey for long. He popped up around every corner at Walt Disney World—Mickey or one of his friends, all of whom were unexpectedly large and scary, their friendly expressions notwithstanding.
    â€œI want to ride Space Mountain,” I told my dad.
    â€œWe just ate lunch, Benjamin,” he said. “Maybe later.”
    â€œI want to go now,” I insisted.
    He turned to my sister. “Rachel, do you want to take your brother on the roller coaster?”
    She did not. She didn’t want to be there, with any relatives or cartoon characters or fabulous rides, at all.
    â€œNo way,” she said.
    My father shrugged as if to say, “I tried.”
    â€œSid, you two go,” my mother told my father. “Rachel and I are going to look in the shops.”
    Shopping. The one interest my mother and sister shared.
    We were off, my dad and I, to Space Mountain. Just us guys, in silence. My mom and I argued a lot but we were never at a loss for words; it was different with my dad. We weren’t uncomfortable together, but we didn’t usually talk much, so once we were alone, he appeared as unsure as I was about what to say without my mother to keep the conversation going. We