Read Online Today Will Be Different by Maria Semple - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maria Semple
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Humorous, Family Life, Contemporary Women, Fiction / Family Life, Fiction / Literary, Fiction / Contemporary Women, Fiction / Humorous
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Ivy. “We’re leaving.”
“I want to see the show.”
I yanked her away. We sat on velvet chairs in the lobby and fell asleep, awaking to the wail of bagpipes.
Daddy couldn’t face sleeping in their bed so he’d been spending the nights on the couch. But it was the cat’s couch. The morning after the memorial, the three of us were silently eating the food people had brought. (Weird stuff in unfamiliar casseroles: shepherd’s pie with ground beef, not lamb; lasagna that tasted of cinnamon; macaroni and cheese with peas: all of it only compounding our dread of what the world would be like without Mom in it.) The cat hopped up on the couch, squatted over the spot where Daddy’s head had been, and, staring straight at us, peed. It was completely evil and felt personal, as if Pumpkin were saying, You think you have it bad now? Try this.
I guess Daddy had to take his bottled fury and fear out on something, and better the cat than us. But still, I should have hurried Ivy out of there.
That afternoon, Gigi and another friend of Mom’s, Alan, came over, and Daddy took Ivy and me to the park.
When we returned, Gigi and Alan were gone. The couch was gone. Pumpkin was gone. Everything of Mom’s had been removed: the dresses in her closet, the sweaters and silk scarves folded in her drawers, the hats on the shelves, her jewelry, her makeup. Even her lingering smell had vanished.
In the hallway sat two boxes. One marked ELEANOR. One marked IVY.
The only thing Daddy kept were Tyler family heirlooms: a pair of antique derringers.
That night, while Daddy snored in his bed, I stared at those two boxes for hours. I finally picked them up, walked them to the incinerator chute, and tossed them in. (The scratch of sequins and beads against cardboard still haunts me.)
A week later, Daddy drove us to Colorado. He didn’t tell us it would be one way. He’d met a woman from Dallas who had a second house in Aspen. We could live in the guesthouse in exchange for Daddy doing maintenance and small repairs. (In the ’70s, Aspen was a funky former mining town with the best powder in the world, attracting mostly Texans. It was more cowboy hats and Wranglers than Mariah Carey and Gulfstream 550s.)
In New York, Daddy had installed sound systems for a living. His hope was to do that in Aspen, but something must have happened. I’ve since learned that many bookies started as gamblers who got in too deep and had to work off their debts.
The first time he left us alone was our first winter there. “You can take care of your sister?” Daddy had asked me. It was an odd question. He said we could sign for what we needed at Carl’s Pharmacy. (Everything with Daddy is still a puzzle with missing pieces. My best guess is that he drove to Vegas to lay off Super Bowl bets.)
He was gone nine days. Ivy and I lived by ourselves in the guesthouse. (“Come, let’s away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage.” That was the Lear speech Mom used to recite before bed.) It was January. When the school bus dropped us off, we’d hit Carl’s, then slip into the little gingerbread house like thieves, the sun already behind Shadow Mountain. We’d turn on all the lights, start a fire, watch TV, and eat our haul of pharmacy Jolly Ranchers, Pringles, and whatever random piece of fruit sometimes appeared on top of a barrel by the back register.
A few days in, Ivy got sick and sicker. A 102 fever, wet cough, and earache that had her moaning. We didn’t even have a pediatrician. If I called 911, the police would know we’d been left alone. We’d be taken away, most likely separated. I forged Daddy’s signature on notes to school and nursed Ivy with whatever beckoned from the shelves at Carl’s. Aspirin, VapoRub, Sucrets, throat spray, Benadryl, cough syrup—the what-might-have-beens still send shivers. I’d return home every day praying Ivy was alive.
She always was, and wanting to hear stories about what had happened at
“I want to see the show.”
I yanked her away. We sat on velvet chairs in the lobby and fell asleep, awaking to the wail of bagpipes.
Daddy couldn’t face sleeping in their bed so he’d been spending the nights on the couch. But it was the cat’s couch. The morning after the memorial, the three of us were silently eating the food people had brought. (Weird stuff in unfamiliar casseroles: shepherd’s pie with ground beef, not lamb; lasagna that tasted of cinnamon; macaroni and cheese with peas: all of it only compounding our dread of what the world would be like without Mom in it.) The cat hopped up on the couch, squatted over the spot where Daddy’s head had been, and, staring straight at us, peed. It was completely evil and felt personal, as if Pumpkin were saying, You think you have it bad now? Try this.
I guess Daddy had to take his bottled fury and fear out on something, and better the cat than us. But still, I should have hurried Ivy out of there.
That afternoon, Gigi and another friend of Mom’s, Alan, came over, and Daddy took Ivy and me to the park.
When we returned, Gigi and Alan were gone. The couch was gone. Pumpkin was gone. Everything of Mom’s had been removed: the dresses in her closet, the sweaters and silk scarves folded in her drawers, the hats on the shelves, her jewelry, her makeup. Even her lingering smell had vanished.
In the hallway sat two boxes. One marked ELEANOR. One marked IVY.
The only thing Daddy kept were Tyler family heirlooms: a pair of antique derringers.
That night, while Daddy snored in his bed, I stared at those two boxes for hours. I finally picked them up, walked them to the incinerator chute, and tossed them in. (The scratch of sequins and beads against cardboard still haunts me.)
A week later, Daddy drove us to Colorado. He didn’t tell us it would be one way. He’d met a woman from Dallas who had a second house in Aspen. We could live in the guesthouse in exchange for Daddy doing maintenance and small repairs. (In the ’70s, Aspen was a funky former mining town with the best powder in the world, attracting mostly Texans. It was more cowboy hats and Wranglers than Mariah Carey and Gulfstream 550s.)
In New York, Daddy had installed sound systems for a living. His hope was to do that in Aspen, but something must have happened. I’ve since learned that many bookies started as gamblers who got in too deep and had to work off their debts.
The first time he left us alone was our first winter there. “You can take care of your sister?” Daddy had asked me. It was an odd question. He said we could sign for what we needed at Carl’s Pharmacy. (Everything with Daddy is still a puzzle with missing pieces. My best guess is that he drove to Vegas to lay off Super Bowl bets.)
He was gone nine days. Ivy and I lived by ourselves in the guesthouse. (“Come, let’s away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage.” That was the Lear speech Mom used to recite before bed.) It was January. When the school bus dropped us off, we’d hit Carl’s, then slip into the little gingerbread house like thieves, the sun already behind Shadow Mountain. We’d turn on all the lights, start a fire, watch TV, and eat our haul of pharmacy Jolly Ranchers, Pringles, and whatever random piece of fruit sometimes appeared on top of a barrel by the back register.
A few days in, Ivy got sick and sicker. A 102 fever, wet cough, and earache that had her moaning. We didn’t even have a pediatrician. If I called 911, the police would know we’d been left alone. We’d be taken away, most likely separated. I forged Daddy’s signature on notes to school and nursed Ivy with whatever beckoned from the shelves at Carl’s. Aspirin, VapoRub, Sucrets, throat spray, Benadryl, cough syrup—the what-might-have-beens still send shivers. I’d return home every day praying Ivy was alive.
She always was, and wanting to hear stories about what had happened at
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