Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [100]
“It’s field trip day,” she said to Olive, who was tempted to stick her tongue out at that damn little staring baby. “The school takes them to the beach and I get worried about him getting dehydrated.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Olive, finishing her doughnut. “Chris ever tell you about the sunstroke he got when we went to Greece? He was twelve. A witch doctor came over and did some swoopy arm motions in front of him.”
“Really?” said Ann. “Theodore, do you want grape or orange?”
“Grape.”
“I think,” Ann said, “grape makes you more thirsty. What do you think, Mom? Doesn’t grape make you more thirsty than orange?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Orange, honey.” And Theodore began to cry. Ann gave Olive a hesitant look. “I was going to ask you to walk him to school, just a block—”
“No,” Theodore cried. “I don’t want her walking me to school…. I don’t want her walking me to school….”
Shut the hell up, Olive thought. Chris was right, you are a little piece of crap.
Ann said, “Oh, Theodore, pleeeease don’t cry.”
Olive pushed back her chair. “How about I take Dog-Face to the park?”
“You don’t mind picking up his poops in the bag?”
“No,” said Olive. “I certainly don’t. Having stepped in one myself.”
She was, to be truthful, uneasy about walking the dog to the park. But the dog was a good boy. He sat while they waited for the light to change. She walked him past picnic tables and big garbage bins overloaded with food and newspapers and tinfoil streaked with barbecue sauce, and he did strain a bit on the leash toward all that, but when they got to the meadow, she let him run free, as Ann had said she could do. “Now stay nearby,” she said. He sniffed around, not running off.
She noticed a man watching her. He was young, and wore a leather jacket, even though it was warm enough that you didn’t need to wear a leather jacket. He stood beside the trunk of a huge oak, and called to his dog, a short-haired white dog with a sharp pink nose. The man made his way over to her. “Are you Olive?” he finally asked.
Her face got hot. “Olive who?” she said.
“Christopher’s mother. Ann said you were coming to visit.”
“I see,” said Olive, reaching into her pocket and finding her sunglasses. “Well, here I am.” She put on her sunglasses and turned to watch for Dog-Face.
“You staying at the house?” the man asked eventually, and Olive didn’t really think it was any of his business.
“I am,” said Olive. “The basement’s very nice.”
“Your son stuck you in the basement?” the man said, and Olive especially didn’t think that was nice.
“It’s a very pleasant basement,” Olive said. “It suits me quite well.” She looked straight ahead but she could feel him looking at her. She wanted to say: “Haven’t you ever seen an old lady before?”
She watched her son’s dog sniff the rear end of a passing golden retriever, whose heavy-breasted young owner held a metal mug in one hand, the leash in the other.
“Some of these old brownstones have rats and mice in their basements,” the man said.
“No rats,” said Olive. “A nice daddy longlegs went by. Didn’t bother me a bit.”
“Your son’s practice must do well. These places cost a fortune now.”
Olive didn’t answer. That he should say this was vulgar.
“Blanche!” called the man, starting after his dog. “Blanche, come here now.”
Blanche had no intention of coming, Olive noted. Blanche had found an old, dead pigeon, and the man went berserk. “Drop it, Blanche, drop it!” Blanche had the mess in her pointed mouth, and slunk away from her approaching owner.
“Jesus Christ,” said the big-breasted woman with the golden retriever, because the bloodied insides of the pigeon’s body were right there, sliding out of Blanche’s mouth.
Praise God, came a voice from the oak tree.
Olive called to Dog-Face, clicked the leash onto his collar, then turned and walked home. Right before she got to the house, she glanced