Read Online The Late, Lamented Molly Marx by Sally Koslow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Koslow
Tags: Fiction:Humor
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go over two hundred shoot details.”
“I’m a babbling idiot,” he said. “Sorry.” Still, he pulled out an eye mask and put it on. “Do I look like Zorro or just a pathetic perv?” he asked, turning toward me and speaking in a low Jeremy Irons growl. “Are you scared?”
In my wine-addled haze, he looked cuter than a panda with an extra helping of testosterone. “Terrified,” I admitted as I burrowed beneath my pashmina tent.
When I woke at dawn, I discovered Luke’s legs under the shawl, his feet—in red socks—touching mine. I faked sleep until the flight attendant rocked my shoulder to make sure I was alive.
Those were the days.
Ten
DOO-DAH, DOO-DAH
y mother, my father, and Lucy are gathered around the pine farm table in the kitchen, sipping their second cups of black coffee. Light snow stencils the patio and yard, and whatever sun shines over Illinois cowers under menacing clouds.
Since my death, no one in the family has slept past dawn, even after Ambien—which, unfortunately, Costco does not sell over the counter in jars the size of buckets. Lucy took the commuter train north last night and slept in our childhood bedroom—a circa 1985 homage, lilac for me, aqua for her, Madonna posters, now faded, for both of us. She’s made this trip for the last two weekends and believes she’s here to console my parents, but it’s more the other way around. Lucy is alone; my parents have each other. They speak their grief wordlessly—in the car, while my mother massages my father’s neck; as he brings the morning newspaper to their bed; when they spoon through cold, fitful nights.
“Don’t pick the crumbs off the crumb cake,” my mother says.
“Don’t treat me like I’m ten.”
“Don’t start, you two.”
Don’t, don’t, don’t, you two, you two
. The Divine family anthem.
Doo-dah, doo-dah
.
“So, should I call Barry?” Lucy asks. She asked the same question last night at dinner. “I want to know if anything’s happened with the case that he hasn’t told us.”
“No, honey,” my mother says. “Dad should do it.” I hear her worry that if Lucy asks, Barry will get his back up. Lucy can turn a chat about seasoning hamburger patties into a military engagement.
“It’s too early to call New York,” my dad says, eyes on the sports pages. He dreads speaking to Barry.
Putz
, he’s thinking. My father, I have learned, is not quite the gentleman he presents to the world, but he tries hard to see Barry’s side. “Poor guy may be full of himself, but he’s still just lost his wife and has to raise a daughter alone,” he says to the women in his family, though I suspect it’s to convince himself to treat Barry with decency.
The Divines are determined to have Annabel visit for Passover. For the last three years, Barry, Annabel, and I spent Thanksgiving with Kitty and Passover with my parents, so my parents and Lucy feel they own that holiday. Since shiva ended, they call Annabel every night on the dot of seven, but the conversations are as unsatisfying as tickling an insect bite.
“Annabel would be up now,” my mother points out. “She’d be watching cartoons.”
“But Barry might have gone back to sleep,” my father counters. “It’s Saturday. Give the guy a break.”
“A break?” Lucy shrieks. “What about my sister?”
My mother groans. “We can live without the melodrama, Lucy,” she says, looking down at her newspaper and pretending to read. Fatigue mutes her voice. “Dan, call at eight our time.”
With deep affection, he salutes her. “Yes, Sarge,” he booms.
My family returns to their breakfast, but after a minute Lucy pours her coffee down the drain. “I’m going for a run,” she announces, and bolts upstairs. From her small duffel, she plucks out sneakers and several layers of winter-ready sports clothes. While I left behind a wardrobe of girly gear—lace, chiffon, clingy cashmere, low-rise thongs, numerous garments constructed of fabrics better
“I’m a babbling idiot,” he said. “Sorry.” Still, he pulled out an eye mask and put it on. “Do I look like Zorro or just a pathetic perv?” he asked, turning toward me and speaking in a low Jeremy Irons growl. “Are you scared?”
In my wine-addled haze, he looked cuter than a panda with an extra helping of testosterone. “Terrified,” I admitted as I burrowed beneath my pashmina tent.
When I woke at dawn, I discovered Luke’s legs under the shawl, his feet—in red socks—touching mine. I faked sleep until the flight attendant rocked my shoulder to make sure I was alive.
Those were the days.
Ten
DOO-DAH, DOO-DAH
y mother, my father, and Lucy are gathered around the pine farm table in the kitchen, sipping their second cups of black coffee. Light snow stencils the patio and yard, and whatever sun shines over Illinois cowers under menacing clouds.
Since my death, no one in the family has slept past dawn, even after Ambien—which, unfortunately, Costco does not sell over the counter in jars the size of buckets. Lucy took the commuter train north last night and slept in our childhood bedroom—a circa 1985 homage, lilac for me, aqua for her, Madonna posters, now faded, for both of us. She’s made this trip for the last two weekends and believes she’s here to console my parents, but it’s more the other way around. Lucy is alone; my parents have each other. They speak their grief wordlessly—in the car, while my mother massages my father’s neck; as he brings the morning newspaper to their bed; when they spoon through cold, fitful nights.
“Don’t pick the crumbs off the crumb cake,” my mother says.
“Don’t treat me like I’m ten.”
“Don’t start, you two.”
Don’t, don’t, don’t, you two, you two
. The Divine family anthem.
Doo-dah, doo-dah
.
“So, should I call Barry?” Lucy asks. She asked the same question last night at dinner. “I want to know if anything’s happened with the case that he hasn’t told us.”
“No, honey,” my mother says. “Dad should do it.” I hear her worry that if Lucy asks, Barry will get his back up. Lucy can turn a chat about seasoning hamburger patties into a military engagement.
“It’s too early to call New York,” my dad says, eyes on the sports pages. He dreads speaking to Barry.
Putz
, he’s thinking. My father, I have learned, is not quite the gentleman he presents to the world, but he tries hard to see Barry’s side. “Poor guy may be full of himself, but he’s still just lost his wife and has to raise a daughter alone,” he says to the women in his family, though I suspect it’s to convince himself to treat Barry with decency.
The Divines are determined to have Annabel visit for Passover. For the last three years, Barry, Annabel, and I spent Thanksgiving with Kitty and Passover with my parents, so my parents and Lucy feel they own that holiday. Since shiva ended, they call Annabel every night on the dot of seven, but the conversations are as unsatisfying as tickling an insect bite.
“Annabel would be up now,” my mother points out. “She’d be watching cartoons.”
“But Barry might have gone back to sleep,” my father counters. “It’s Saturday. Give the guy a break.”
“A break?” Lucy shrieks. “What about my sister?”
My mother groans. “We can live without the melodrama, Lucy,” she says, looking down at her newspaper and pretending to read. Fatigue mutes her voice. “Dan, call at eight our time.”
With deep affection, he salutes her. “Yes, Sarge,” he booms.
My family returns to their breakfast, but after a minute Lucy pours her coffee down the drain. “I’m going for a run,” she announces, and bolts upstairs. From her small duffel, she plucks out sneakers and several layers of winter-ready sports clothes. While I left behind a wardrobe of girly gear—lace, chiffon, clingy cashmere, low-rise thongs, numerous garments constructed of fabrics better
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