of it hauling a grocery sack. He stomps up the porch steps and eyes the red bump on my temple.
“What happened to your head?”
I start to tell him, but he strides on into the house slamming the screen door behind him. He’s pissed about something, that’s for sure. I get up, putting my weight on my right foot. My left ankle feels pretty good, but my balance is way off so I sit right back down.
The screen door bangs again, and Frank charges over to me, still hot about something. He has two bottles of beer, hands one to me, and takes a deep draught of the other.
“Terrible day,” he mutters, sitting down next to me. “You remember Carla, so friendly and all? Remember she asked us to dinner some night this week?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Yeah, well. I went to the market, picked up a couple things, and was starting to walk back to my truck when she comes bursting out of the market behind me. I turn around to say hello, and she damn near knocks me over! She’s swinging that big black purse of hers. And damn it all to hell, she swings it at me.
At me.
Cassidy, she was aimin’ for my privates!”
I laugh. It’s a stupid joke. What he describes is unthinkable.
“It’s not funny,” my uncle says, scowling.
“You must be mistaken, Frank. You’re talking about a good friend—”
“I know. I know.” He’s close to tears.
I put my arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with you. She’s pissed about something—”
“Well, shit sakes Cassidy … swingin’ that big purse at my privates? What’s she thinkin’ anyhow?”
“I don’t have a clue, Uncle Frank.”
Carla Russo is in her favorite place doing her favorite thing. She’s in her kitchen baking lace cookies, a specialty of hers. She’ll drape each over an inverted coffee cup when freshly baked and limp from the oven. When cool and firm, she’ll turn them back over, now in the shape of the inverted coffee cups. After dinner, she’ll spoon vanilla ice cream into them and top each with fresh strawberries, a delightful and pretty dessert.
Carla takes the marinating chops out of the fridge and sets them on the butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen. She puts the cleaver there also in case Dante wants to trim the meat a bit before he barbecues. She had felt somewhat guilty selecting the nicely marbled lamb chops at the market, because both she and Dante were supposed to be watching their cholesterol intake. Her guilt is fading however as she pats the chops lovingly.
Wait a minute,
Carla thinks, vaguely troubled as she mops her steamy brow with a paper towel.
I’m angry with Dante, am I not? And I’m none too pleased with Frank Murphy as well, though just now I can’t think why.
Carla walks to the sink and turns on the cold water. She splashes it onto her face and neck and into her hair.
Oh my goodness; that feels good!
To prolong the refreshment, she lets the water dry naturally on her face and gazes out the kitchen window at the barn and the stand of tall Eucalyptus that buffers their home from the dusty road. She selects another fig from a bowl, this one a delightful bright orange. What a pretty place they have, she and Dante, especially just now as the sun is low in the sky, preparing to set.
Sweet fig juice courses down her chin, and she dabs at it with the towel. She must ask Dante to get some more of these tasty fruits from his friend Frank. Dante told her Frank has many more than he can possibly use. Carla is forgetting something … What?
I filed for divorce today.
What? What an astonishing thing her mind has just said to her!
Rubbish! That simply can’t be true!
Carla’s mind goes completely awry then and shows a very disturbing picture of herself talking with the Russo’s attorney, Brandon Sims.
Whatever about?
“Aunt Carla, what time is dinner?” Charlotte calls out from the living room just as the oven timer dings.
“Oh, an hour or so,” Carla cries, slipping on her oven mitts.
“What happened to your head?”
I start to tell him, but he strides on into the house slamming the screen door behind him. He’s pissed about something, that’s for sure. I get up, putting my weight on my right foot. My left ankle feels pretty good, but my balance is way off so I sit right back down.
The screen door bangs again, and Frank charges over to me, still hot about something. He has two bottles of beer, hands one to me, and takes a deep draught of the other.
“Terrible day,” he mutters, sitting down next to me. “You remember Carla, so friendly and all? Remember she asked us to dinner some night this week?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Yeah, well. I went to the market, picked up a couple things, and was starting to walk back to my truck when she comes bursting out of the market behind me. I turn around to say hello, and she damn near knocks me over! She’s swinging that big black purse of hers. And damn it all to hell, she swings it at me.
At me.
Cassidy, she was aimin’ for my privates!”
I laugh. It’s a stupid joke. What he describes is unthinkable.
“It’s not funny,” my uncle says, scowling.
“You must be mistaken, Frank. You’re talking about a good friend—”
“I know. I know.” He’s close to tears.
I put my arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with you. She’s pissed about something—”
“Well, shit sakes Cassidy … swingin’ that big purse at my privates? What’s she thinkin’ anyhow?”
“I don’t have a clue, Uncle Frank.”
Carla Russo is in her favorite place doing her favorite thing. She’s in her kitchen baking lace cookies, a specialty of hers. She’ll drape each over an inverted coffee cup when freshly baked and limp from the oven. When cool and firm, she’ll turn them back over, now in the shape of the inverted coffee cups. After dinner, she’ll spoon vanilla ice cream into them and top each with fresh strawberries, a delightful and pretty dessert.
Carla takes the marinating chops out of the fridge and sets them on the butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen. She puts the cleaver there also in case Dante wants to trim the meat a bit before he barbecues. She had felt somewhat guilty selecting the nicely marbled lamb chops at the market, because both she and Dante were supposed to be watching their cholesterol intake. Her guilt is fading however as she pats the chops lovingly.
Wait a minute,
Carla thinks, vaguely troubled as she mops her steamy brow with a paper towel.
I’m angry with Dante, am I not? And I’m none too pleased with Frank Murphy as well, though just now I can’t think why.
Carla walks to the sink and turns on the cold water. She splashes it onto her face and neck and into her hair.
Oh my goodness; that feels good!
To prolong the refreshment, she lets the water dry naturally on her face and gazes out the kitchen window at the barn and the stand of tall Eucalyptus that buffers their home from the dusty road. She selects another fig from a bowl, this one a delightful bright orange. What a pretty place they have, she and Dante, especially just now as the sun is low in the sky, preparing to set.
Sweet fig juice courses down her chin, and she dabs at it with the towel. She must ask Dante to get some more of these tasty fruits from his friend Frank. Dante told her Frank has many more than he can possibly use. Carla is forgetting something … What?
I filed for divorce today.
What? What an astonishing thing her mind has just said to her!
Rubbish! That simply can’t be true!
Carla’s mind goes completely awry then and shows a very disturbing picture of herself talking with the Russo’s attorney, Brandon Sims.
Whatever about?
“Aunt Carla, what time is dinner?” Charlotte calls out from the living room just as the oven timer dings.
“Oh, an hour or so,” Carla cries, slipping on her oven mitts.
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