Read Online Tuesday Night Miracles by Kris Radish - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kris Radish
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unopened wooden box.
“Am I in the will?”
“Yes, you are.”
Before she decides what to say next, Kit imagines sitting across a long oak table from her brothers. They would all be dressed up in the nice dark suits their wives had just had dry-cleaned for the big meeting. One brother would not be able to look her in the eye. They would all be politely silent, eager, wondering how much money the folks had squirreled away while they were off running around the neighborhood and terrorizing everyone smaller than them, including their own sister.
The attorney finally clears his throat.
“I’m still here,” Kit says, much louder.
“So your brothers have asked to have Peter, your husband, represent you.”
“I know who Peter is, for God’s sake.”
Isn’t this just perfect? Isn’t it just like them? Isn’t this the Good Ol’ Boys’ Club personified? Isn’t this the frosting on the cake, the top of the mountain, the day before the fat lady sings?
Kit can’t help herself. “You can tell my selfish, controlling brothers that they can kiss my ass!” she shouts into the phone. “I’m sure I have legal rights when it comes to this. An—”
“Excuse me, but you’re yelling,” the attorney says, cutting her off.
“No kidding, brain box!” she yells again, and then slams her phone shut.
Kit is immediately embarrassed. Why does she do that? It’s as if she’s forgotten to be normal, forgiving, light. She staggers back to the table, sits down, picks up the letter from Dr. Bayer, and violently rips it open. It begins the same way as Grace’s letter but does not end that way at all:
Next week, instead of class as a group your assignment is to attend a comedy club by yourself. You must go alone, go early, stay for the entire show, and work hard to enjoy yourself. Try and keep track of how many times you laugh. You have a week to complete this task, and you must tell me what you did, how you felt, and send me an email by one week from today. The next class details will follow once I have your assignment .
Sincerely ,
Dr. Bayer .
Kit reads the letter three times in total disbelief. Is this doctor nuts? A comedy club? Then she puts the letter down and looks around to make certain she’s alive, in her house, and actually reading an assignment from her anger-class doctor.
“This Dr. Bayer woman must have fallen and hit her head!” she says, unable to keep herself from laughing. “This proves she was a hippie. Drugs! It must have been the drugs.”
9
The Red Dot
J ane is already halfway through her bottle of California Zinfandel and making believe the envelope from class doesn’t exist.
Her kitchen is almost as quiet as Kit’s, yet so very different. Kit’s eat-in kitchen, with its cracked tiled floor, fading brown-and-yellow Formica countertops, and simple white appliances, appears to have gotten stuck in the 1970s. Jane’s kitchen is to the far side of modern.
The entire left wall, facing a huge open living-room area, is actually one of the most unique wine racks in Chicago. Jane made sure it was featured in three real-estate magazines. Instead of a wall between the kitchen and dining area, Jane had the designers build in the transparent handblown glass wine rack. It also houses an extensive French, California, and South American wine collection that Jane is drinking away one bottle at a time every single night of the week.
Kit would call the whole damn thing sterile. The stainless-steel appliances are top-of-the-line. The Kohler sink looks more like an indoor fountain than a place to wash out dirty wineglasses. The spotless floor is made of bamboo, and the recessed lighting makes the entire room look more like a museum than a friendly, warm hangout.
The rest of the house has the same attitude. The long entryway hall is a solid mass of snow-white tile that looks as if it’s never felt the pressure of feet dancing across its surface. The cathedral ceilings are stunning, capped in dark
“Am I in the will?”
“Yes, you are.”
Before she decides what to say next, Kit imagines sitting across a long oak table from her brothers. They would all be dressed up in the nice dark suits their wives had just had dry-cleaned for the big meeting. One brother would not be able to look her in the eye. They would all be politely silent, eager, wondering how much money the folks had squirreled away while they were off running around the neighborhood and terrorizing everyone smaller than them, including their own sister.
The attorney finally clears his throat.
“I’m still here,” Kit says, much louder.
“So your brothers have asked to have Peter, your husband, represent you.”
“I know who Peter is, for God’s sake.”
Isn’t this just perfect? Isn’t it just like them? Isn’t this the Good Ol’ Boys’ Club personified? Isn’t this the frosting on the cake, the top of the mountain, the day before the fat lady sings?
Kit can’t help herself. “You can tell my selfish, controlling brothers that they can kiss my ass!” she shouts into the phone. “I’m sure I have legal rights when it comes to this. An—”
“Excuse me, but you’re yelling,” the attorney says, cutting her off.
“No kidding, brain box!” she yells again, and then slams her phone shut.
Kit is immediately embarrassed. Why does she do that? It’s as if she’s forgotten to be normal, forgiving, light. She staggers back to the table, sits down, picks up the letter from Dr. Bayer, and violently rips it open. It begins the same way as Grace’s letter but does not end that way at all:
Next week, instead of class as a group your assignment is to attend a comedy club by yourself. You must go alone, go early, stay for the entire show, and work hard to enjoy yourself. Try and keep track of how many times you laugh. You have a week to complete this task, and you must tell me what you did, how you felt, and send me an email by one week from today. The next class details will follow once I have your assignment .
Sincerely ,
Dr. Bayer .
Kit reads the letter three times in total disbelief. Is this doctor nuts? A comedy club? Then she puts the letter down and looks around to make certain she’s alive, in her house, and actually reading an assignment from her anger-class doctor.
“This Dr. Bayer woman must have fallen and hit her head!” she says, unable to keep herself from laughing. “This proves she was a hippie. Drugs! It must have been the drugs.”
9
The Red Dot
J ane is already halfway through her bottle of California Zinfandel and making believe the envelope from class doesn’t exist.
Her kitchen is almost as quiet as Kit’s, yet so very different. Kit’s eat-in kitchen, with its cracked tiled floor, fading brown-and-yellow Formica countertops, and simple white appliances, appears to have gotten stuck in the 1970s. Jane’s kitchen is to the far side of modern.
The entire left wall, facing a huge open living-room area, is actually one of the most unique wine racks in Chicago. Jane made sure it was featured in three real-estate magazines. Instead of a wall between the kitchen and dining area, Jane had the designers build in the transparent handblown glass wine rack. It also houses an extensive French, California, and South American wine collection that Jane is drinking away one bottle at a time every single night of the week.
Kit would call the whole damn thing sterile. The stainless-steel appliances are top-of-the-line. The Kohler sink looks more like an indoor fountain than a place to wash out dirty wineglasses. The spotless floor is made of bamboo, and the recessed lighting makes the entire room look more like a museum than a friendly, warm hangout.
The rest of the house has the same attitude. The long entryway hall is a solid mass of snow-white tile that looks as if it’s never felt the pressure of feet dancing across its surface. The cathedral ceilings are stunning, capped in dark
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