Breathing Lessons (1989 Pulitzer Prize) - Anne Tyler [133]
The dishes in the draining rack were dry by now and she stacked them and put them in the cupboard. Then she fixed herself a big bowl of ice cream. She wished they had bought mint chocolate chip. Fudge ripple was too white-tasting. She climbed the stairs, digging her spoon in. At the door to Daisy's room, she paused. Daisy was kneeling on the floor, fitting books into a carton. "Want some ice cream?" Maggie asked her.
Daisy glanced up and said, "No, thanks." "All you had for supper was a drumstick." "I'm not hungry," Daisy said, and she pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. She was wearing clothes that she wouldn't be taking with her-baggy jeans and a blouse with a torn buttonhole. Her room already seemed uninhabited; the knickknacks that usually sat on her shelves had been packed for weeks.
"Where are your stuffed animals?" Maggie said.
"In my suitcase." "I thought you were leaving them home." "I was, but I changed my mind," Daisy said.
She had been quiet all through supper. Maggie could tell she was anxious about tomorrow. It was like her not to talk about it, though. You had to read the signs-her lack of appetite and her decision to bring her stuffed animals after all. Maggie said, "Well, honey," you let me know if you want any help." "Thanks, Mom." Maggie went on down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Ira. Ira was sitting tailor-fashion on the bed, laying out a game of solitaire. He had taken off his shoes and rolled his shirt sleeves up. "Care for some ice cream?" Maggie asked him.
"No, thanks." "I shouldn't have any, either," she said. "But travel is such a strain, somehow. I feel I've burned a million calories just sitting in that car." In the mirror above the bureau, though, she was positively obese. She set her ice cream on the dresser scarf and leaned forward to study her face, sucking in her cheeks to give herself a hollow look. It didn't work. She sighed and moved away. She went into the bathroom for her nightgown. "Ira," she called, her voice echoing off the tiles, "do you suppose Serena is still mad at us?" She had to peer around the door to catch Ms answer: a shrug.
"I was thinking I might phone to see how she's doing," she told him, "but I'd hate for her to hang up on me." She unbuttoned her dress and pulled it over her head and tossed it onto the toilet lid. Then she stepped out of her shoes. "Remember when I helped her put her mother in the nursing home?" she asked. "Tiat time, she didn't speak for months and whenever I tried to call she'd bang the receiver down. hated when she did that. That thunk on die other end of the line. It made me feel so small. It made me fed we were back in third grade." "That's because she was behaving like a third-grader," Ira said.
Maggie came out in her slip to take another spoonful of ice cream. "And I don't even know why she got so upset," she told Ira^s reflection in the mirror. "It was a perfectly honest mistake! I had the best intentions in die world! I said to her mother, 'Listen,' I said, 'you want to make a hit with the other residents? Want to show the "taff right off that you're not just another bland old la%T I mean this was Anita! Who used to wear the red toreador pants! I couldn't have them underestimating her, could I? That's why I told Serena we shouldn't take her in till Sunday evening, Halloween, and that's why I sewed that clown suit on my own machine and went all the way out Eastern Avenue to a what-do-you-call-it. What's it called?" "Theatrical supply house," Ira said, dealing out another row of cards.
"Theatrical supply house, for white greasepaint. How was I to know they'd thrown the costume party on Saturday that year?" She brought her ice cream over to the bed and settled down, propping her pillow against the headboard. Ira was frowning at his layout. "You would think