Read Online The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Arsenault
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incomprehensible at us from the third-floor window frame of what appeared to be a gutted house.
“What?” I yelled back.
“Just keep walking, Billy,” Mona said.
“Think again!” the woman called. She undid and then refastened her graying blonde ponytail with an elastic band.
“Sorry?” I yelled. As soon as I’d said it, I realized she wasn’t talking to either of us.
“Not the kind of woman you want around your kids,” the woman shouted. “Not if you want them to turn out
right!”
“Oh,” I called, quickening my pace to catch up with Mona.
“You didn’t want to stop and hear the whole story behind that one?” I asked her.
“Did
you?”
Mona replied.
“Not by myself,” I said.
Mona put her hands in her skirt pockets as she walked.“Yeah, this is kind of an odd little neighborhood. A dictionary publisher parked himself here in Claxton in the 1800s, and come hell or high water, the dictionary’s gonna stay here in this neighborhood. No matter what depressing socioeconomic phenomena have grown up around it.”
“It really doesn’t seem so bad,” I said. “No worse than the neighborhood I live in. I think it’s cool. This place has history
and
a little hardened modern-day reality to it.”
“Can I ask you a personal question, Billy?”
“Sure.”
“Do you still, um, have both of your parents? And are they still married?”
“Yes … and yes. Why?”
“I can usually guess these things, based on little impressions. You can kind of tell these things about people, if they give the right signals.”
“You had a sort of sixth sense that my parents are still kicking, and still married?”
“Not a sixth sense. Just a hunch. Based on certain psychological vibes.”
“What about birth order? Can you guess that too?”
“I’m not as interested in that one. And I’m not as good at it. But I think you’re the youngest.”
“Very impressive. But how many siblings do I have?”
We were approaching the Samuelson walkway. Mona stopped walking, put a finger over her lips, and studied my shoes, then my knees, then my chest. While she tapped her finger and considered her answer, I looked at the Samuelson building. It still jazzed me to approach the place on foot. Coming from the gray, depressed outer neighborhood, it was always surprising to come upon this building, with its manicured lawn and little front garden. The squat brick structure looked like a venerable old elementary school. Anetching of the company building appeared on the front pages of some of Samuelson’s older dictionaries, and the outer appearance of the place hadn’t changed much since then. Coming in the front door, I always felt like I was entering that old drawing. The back entrance, with its parking lot and Dumpster, had never seemed as romantic.
“Two older sisters,” Mona said carefully.
“Wrong. But close. One older sister.”
“Okay. Well, that’s interesting. Is she much older than you?”
“Two years.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a grad student. But she identifies herself as a poet. That’s what she wants to be when she grows up, I guess. She’s already gotten some things published in a couple of obscure literary magazines.”
“Really? What kind of stuff does she write?”
“Long poems. Sort of historical stuff. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s been a couple of years since she’s showed me anything. Rumor has it she’s working on a series of poems about the Hartford witch trials of the 1660s. My parents mentioned she was doing some research on that.”
“Wow,” Mona said. “A research-poet. Sounds pretty classy. I don’t even have any full siblings myself. All half-siblings and step-siblings.”
As Mona talked she led me up the Samuelson steps.
“Hmm,” I said. “Can I ask
you
a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you floss regularly?”
“Oh dear. That
is
personal.”
“Well?”
“I wish I were better about that. I tend not to do
“What?” I yelled back.
“Just keep walking, Billy,” Mona said.
“Think again!” the woman called. She undid and then refastened her graying blonde ponytail with an elastic band.
“Sorry?” I yelled. As soon as I’d said it, I realized she wasn’t talking to either of us.
“Not the kind of woman you want around your kids,” the woman shouted. “Not if you want them to turn out
right!”
“Oh,” I called, quickening my pace to catch up with Mona.
“You didn’t want to stop and hear the whole story behind that one?” I asked her.
“Did
you?”
Mona replied.
“Not by myself,” I said.
Mona put her hands in her skirt pockets as she walked.“Yeah, this is kind of an odd little neighborhood. A dictionary publisher parked himself here in Claxton in the 1800s, and come hell or high water, the dictionary’s gonna stay here in this neighborhood. No matter what depressing socioeconomic phenomena have grown up around it.”
“It really doesn’t seem so bad,” I said. “No worse than the neighborhood I live in. I think it’s cool. This place has history
and
a little hardened modern-day reality to it.”
“Can I ask you a personal question, Billy?”
“Sure.”
“Do you still, um, have both of your parents? And are they still married?”
“Yes … and yes. Why?”
“I can usually guess these things, based on little impressions. You can kind of tell these things about people, if they give the right signals.”
“You had a sort of sixth sense that my parents are still kicking, and still married?”
“Not a sixth sense. Just a hunch. Based on certain psychological vibes.”
“What about birth order? Can you guess that too?”
“I’m not as interested in that one. And I’m not as good at it. But I think you’re the youngest.”
“Very impressive. But how many siblings do I have?”
We were approaching the Samuelson walkway. Mona stopped walking, put a finger over her lips, and studied my shoes, then my knees, then my chest. While she tapped her finger and considered her answer, I looked at the Samuelson building. It still jazzed me to approach the place on foot. Coming from the gray, depressed outer neighborhood, it was always surprising to come upon this building, with its manicured lawn and little front garden. The squat brick structure looked like a venerable old elementary school. Anetching of the company building appeared on the front pages of some of Samuelson’s older dictionaries, and the outer appearance of the place hadn’t changed much since then. Coming in the front door, I always felt like I was entering that old drawing. The back entrance, with its parking lot and Dumpster, had never seemed as romantic.
“Two older sisters,” Mona said carefully.
“Wrong. But close. One older sister.”
“Okay. Well, that’s interesting. Is she much older than you?”
“Two years.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a grad student. But she identifies herself as a poet. That’s what she wants to be when she grows up, I guess. She’s already gotten some things published in a couple of obscure literary magazines.”
“Really? What kind of stuff does she write?”
“Long poems. Sort of historical stuff. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s been a couple of years since she’s showed me anything. Rumor has it she’s working on a series of poems about the Hartford witch trials of the 1660s. My parents mentioned she was doing some research on that.”
“Wow,” Mona said. “A research-poet. Sounds pretty classy. I don’t even have any full siblings myself. All half-siblings and step-siblings.”
As Mona talked she led me up the Samuelson steps.
“Hmm,” I said. “Can I ask
you
a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you floss regularly?”
“Oh dear. That
is
personal.”
“Well?”
“I wish I were better about that. I tend not to do
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