Read Online The Misfortunes of Others by Gloria Dank - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gloria Dank
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you,” said Maya, tears rolling down her cheeks, hormones thundering in her veins. “I never did ask you. You with your criticisms of the
f
sounds, and Bernard naming our baby after a lobster. I hate both of you.”
“Fine,” said Snooky, ladling soup into her bowl. “Try this soup. I guarantee it will bring calmness and peace to the household.”
Maya wiped her face with her napkin. She grudgingly dipped her spoon into the bowl. An expression of beatific calm spread over her sharp, worry-worn features. “Delicious. And nutritious. It tastes—I don’t know—like mother’s soup. What is it?”
“Your favorite. Celery soup. I saw three tons of it in the refrigerator and decided I had to do something to correct the situation. Not bad, is it?”
“It’s wonderful. What do you think, Bernard?”
But Bernard was far away, his lips moving slightly, his gaze focused out the dining room window.
“He’s gone,” Snooky said. “Far away in lobsterland. I told you Sophie was a perfect name. Have some bread, Maya, it’s nice and warm now.”
The next day Snooky picked up the phone after lunch and dialed Weezy’s number.
“I’m tired of cooking and cleaning for this household,” he told her. “Can I come over and drink some of your wine?”
“Of course, sweetie. Bring your sister and Bernard.”
“Maya’s upstairs lying down, digesting her lunch. Bernard’s in his study planning the route of a lobster migration.”
“What fascinating lives you all lead. All right, so it’s just you?”
“Just me.”
“Come on over. I have a couple of students here, but we’re almost done.”
When Snooky walked into the studio twenty minutes later, Weezy was conferring over a painting with a tall young man whose torn T-shirt did nothing to hide his well-muscled physique. In the corner, hunched over an easel, was a sweet-faced old lady with a cane.
Weezy was in the middle of a thought and did not like being interrupted. “Oh. It’s you,” she said ungraciously.
“It’s me.”
She waved her hand and performed perfunctory introductions. “Snooky Randolph. Elmo Oliveira. Snooky. Mrs. Castor.”
The students nodded and turned back to their work. Snooky lounged around for a few moments; then, seeing thatthe lesson was not in fact coming to an end, he went out on the deck and sprawled in one of the lounge chairs, lifting his face to the unseasonably hot sun.
He slumbered for a few minutes; like a cat, he could fall asleep anywhere, at any time. When he opened his eyes, he felt disoriented. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by. Stretching, he yawned hugely and then went inside to poke around in the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass of orange juice. Hearing voices from the studio, he wandered back in.
Weezy and the young bodybuilder known as Elmo were having a heated argument over a painting.
“No, no,
no
,” Weezy was saying, raking her hands through her hair until it stood out in a frizzy aureole around her face. “No, Elmo, that’s all wrong. You can’t do things at random, there has to be a vision before you start …”
“Who says, Weezy? Where’s the room for creativity then? What’s wrong with doing it that way?”
“Creativity comes from the moment, but there has to be a glimmer of purpose, surely you see that …”
The sweet-faced old lady was packing up her paints and brushes. She seemed to be unaffected by the sight of Weezy and Elmo shouting at each other.
“I’ll be going on my way now,” she said mildly.
Weezy raised her voice. “Haven’t I taught you
anything?
You can’t just toss paints at a canvas, that’s not art—”
“That’s not art?” the young man said incredulously. “Where have you been, Weezy, living with your head under a rock? Let me take you to a museum or gallery sometime—”
“Thank you so much for the lesson,” the old lady said in bell-like tones. She took her leather portfolio and her cane and edged past Snooky. He held
f
sounds, and Bernard naming our baby after a lobster. I hate both of you.”
“Fine,” said Snooky, ladling soup into her bowl. “Try this soup. I guarantee it will bring calmness and peace to the household.”
Maya wiped her face with her napkin. She grudgingly dipped her spoon into the bowl. An expression of beatific calm spread over her sharp, worry-worn features. “Delicious. And nutritious. It tastes—I don’t know—like mother’s soup. What is it?”
“Your favorite. Celery soup. I saw three tons of it in the refrigerator and decided I had to do something to correct the situation. Not bad, is it?”
“It’s wonderful. What do you think, Bernard?”
But Bernard was far away, his lips moving slightly, his gaze focused out the dining room window.
“He’s gone,” Snooky said. “Far away in lobsterland. I told you Sophie was a perfect name. Have some bread, Maya, it’s nice and warm now.”
The next day Snooky picked up the phone after lunch and dialed Weezy’s number.
“I’m tired of cooking and cleaning for this household,” he told her. “Can I come over and drink some of your wine?”
“Of course, sweetie. Bring your sister and Bernard.”
“Maya’s upstairs lying down, digesting her lunch. Bernard’s in his study planning the route of a lobster migration.”
“What fascinating lives you all lead. All right, so it’s just you?”
“Just me.”
“Come on over. I have a couple of students here, but we’re almost done.”
When Snooky walked into the studio twenty minutes later, Weezy was conferring over a painting with a tall young man whose torn T-shirt did nothing to hide his well-muscled physique. In the corner, hunched over an easel, was a sweet-faced old lady with a cane.
Weezy was in the middle of a thought and did not like being interrupted. “Oh. It’s you,” she said ungraciously.
“It’s me.”
She waved her hand and performed perfunctory introductions. “Snooky Randolph. Elmo Oliveira. Snooky. Mrs. Castor.”
The students nodded and turned back to their work. Snooky lounged around for a few moments; then, seeing thatthe lesson was not in fact coming to an end, he went out on the deck and sprawled in one of the lounge chairs, lifting his face to the unseasonably hot sun.
He slumbered for a few minutes; like a cat, he could fall asleep anywhere, at any time. When he opened his eyes, he felt disoriented. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by. Stretching, he yawned hugely and then went inside to poke around in the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass of orange juice. Hearing voices from the studio, he wandered back in.
Weezy and the young bodybuilder known as Elmo were having a heated argument over a painting.
“No, no,
no
,” Weezy was saying, raking her hands through her hair until it stood out in a frizzy aureole around her face. “No, Elmo, that’s all wrong. You can’t do things at random, there has to be a vision before you start …”
“Who says, Weezy? Where’s the room for creativity then? What’s wrong with doing it that way?”
“Creativity comes from the moment, but there has to be a glimmer of purpose, surely you see that …”
The sweet-faced old lady was packing up her paints and brushes. She seemed to be unaffected by the sight of Weezy and Elmo shouting at each other.
“I’ll be going on my way now,” she said mildly.
Weezy raised her voice. “Haven’t I taught you
anything?
You can’t just toss paints at a canvas, that’s not art—”
“That’s not art?” the young man said incredulously. “Where have you been, Weezy, living with your head under a rock? Let me take you to a museum or gallery sometime—”
“Thank you so much for the lesson,” the old lady said in bell-like tones. She took her leather portfolio and her cane and edged past Snooky. He held
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