Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [18]
“. . . through the bounty of Christ our Lord, amen,” Dave finishes up.
After we all make the sign of the cross, Mother tells him in a charming voice we don’t get to hear very often, “It’s so nice to have you home tonight.” It really is. Dave’s been so busy chasing the cat burglar that he’s had to skip suppers with us more than a couple of times every week. “Now . . . who’d like to begin this evening’s stimulating conversation?”
Mother has recently started making us talk at the table about important events while we listen to the music and chew with our mouths closed. Dave and her usually chat about what’s going on in the neighborhood, but lately they are very keen on discussing what is going on in our nation’s capital. Both of them really like John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who is an Irish political man, and more important—a Catholic. Dave and Mother think Mr. Kennedy might become president of the United States if he plays his cards right. I like Ike, so I don’t care who the next president is just so long as it isn’t that man, Nixon. I saw him give a talk on television. I know from going to the movies that heavy sweating and darting eyes make a person suspicious. That man is a twofer.
“Pass everything,” our granny bosses.
Granny doesn’t usually eat over unless it’s Sunday, but the potluck up at church got cancelled because of the heat making the cafeteria stink even worse than it usually does, so Dave drove over to 59th Street and got her out of her small house where she lives with our brain-damaged uncle who isn’t here. Uncle Paulie probably stayed in his bedroom to finish off his newest Popsicle-stick house or he went early to his job setting pins at Jerbak’s Beer ’n Bowl, which is at least one thing to be grateful for. He doesn’t sing, “Peek-a-boo, Troo, Peek-a-boo, Daddy,” every two seconds the way he used to, but just looking at him makes Troo remember the crash. (Our uncle was in the car coming home from the game, too. I think peek-a-boo is the last thing he remembers hearing before he flew outta the windshield.)
Granny’s name is Alice. Her and Mother don’t get along all that good except at church and on holidays. Granny thinks her daughter is too uppity for a girl that grew up across the street from the Feelin’ Good Cookie Factory and will ask her, “When will you learn that you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Helen?” if she thinks Mother is getting above herself. Granny is largish, especially in her underarm area, which looks like a sheet on a clothesline flapping on a windy day, but her face hardly has any wrinkles considering how old she is—eighty-five. Her hair is Wonder Bread white and she wears it in a page boy. If you ever met her, you would immediately think you’d seen her somewhere before. That’s because she looks a lot like George Washington on the dollar bill. Except for her clothes. She used to wear regular dotted Swiss old lady dresses, but lately she’s always got on a muu-muu. Mother buys them for her out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. I think the dresses are a bribe so Granny will like her more than she does and Mother may finally be wearing her down because, I’m not kidding, my grandmother goes ape for these flowery dresses. I thought she looked kinda cute in them, too, when I still thought they were spelled moo-moos and made by some nice 4-H ladies who could use the extra money because their husbands are farmers and every little bit helps.
It was Mrs. Kambowski who once again wrecked it all.
Dave dropped Granny and me at the Finney Library a few weeks ago so we could get something new to read. She likes books about love and death. All Irish people adore those subjects. And whiskey. I picked up another Nancy Drew story, which I’ve started loving. (Her father musta told her to pay attention, too, because that girl doesn’t seem to miss a thing.)
When