Good Graces - Lesley Kagen [19]
I told her, “No,” a little snippy because her always teaching my sister French gets my Irish up.
“Muu-muu means amputated in their language,” Mrs. Kambowski told us.
Granny said, “You learn something new every day,” but I said, “Am . . . pu . . . ta . . . ted?” and felt pretty queasy. “Doesn’t that mean not having an arm or a leg?”
Mrs. Kambowski said, “A gold star for you, Sally.”
So that means the purple-and-pink parrot one Granny’s got on tonight was probably made by some of the most famous armless and legless people there are—lepers, who live with the most famous of all Hawaiians, Father Damien, on an island called Molokai. We learn all about lepers at school. This is a big subject. How those poor people gotta walk around and yell, “Unclean” if they still got legs. Since they can’t work in a store or some kind of factory because they are so contagious, lepers must earn money by sewing muu-muus for Sears and Roebuck. That’s why I’m relieved Granny is sitting on the other end of the table tonight. Part of those lepers could have fallen off into her dress and I don’t need that disease to hop out of a hem and onto me. I got enough on my hands keeping Troo safe. And getting this supper down.
I am sorry to have to say this, but my mother is the worst cook in the neighborhood, maybe on the whole west side or the world. They don’t even ask her to contribute to the Pagan Baby Cake Walks at school anymore because the last time she did three people had to get their stomachs pumped out at St. Joe’s. That was the only good thing about her being in the hospital almost all of last summer. We didn’t have to eat her cooking. She made us SOS tonight. Shit on a Shingle. (Help us, o mighty God.)
Granny reaches across the table and scoops a heaping ladle of the slop onto her plate. Her eyes are always bigger than her stomach. She has a medical condition called a thyroid so her peepers look like two ping-pong balls.
“Did you hear about the boy who ran away from the orphanage?” Granny asks, starting off tonight’s stimulating dinner conversation.
I cough . . . cough . . . cough and say, “That’s . . . they’re talkin’ about Charlie Fitch. Did you hear why he ran away?” I am hoping it’s for some reason other than Artie Latour not listening to him. I’d love to be the one to tell him his best friend’s leaving wasn’t his fault.
Granny says, “All Sister Jean told me at morning Mass is that the boy took off in the middle of the night. Hand me the succotash, Sally.”
That’s okay. She may not have the scoop now, but she will hear some more about Charlie’s taking off sooner or later. Our granny always finds out what’s going on in the neighborhood, the really secret stuff. Like how Mrs. Delancey who owns the grocery store down the block from her, the one our half sister Nell’s apartment is over, used to work in a nightclub dancing with snakes. Granny drinks six bottles of Coca-Cola a day that she gets free from Mrs. Delancey to keep her mouth shut.
I lift another forkful to my mouth and cough some more into my napkin.
Dave says, “Gosh, Sally, you’re doing a lot of that tonight. Are you feeling all right?”
“Did you catch a cold?” Troo asks, seeing an opening. “A fever? Let me check.” When she reaches to put her hand to my forehead, she accidentally on purpose brushes her spoon down to the linoleum.
This was another one of her Troo genius plans. Coming up with this coughing-into-my-napkin trick and her dropping-the-spoon trick to avoid having to eat Mother’s food. Thank goodness for our little collie, Lizzie. She’s lying openmouthed at our feet like she got invited to an all-you-can-eat dog buffet the same way she does every night except for the ones Dave cooks.
Mother says to me, “You don’t look flushed.”
“I’m fine. It’s just that