Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [104]
“Praise God,” she said. But they didn’t hear her. They were busy unbuckling the kids, arranging the baby in a high chair, Theodore in his own chair pulled up to the edge. Ann’s stomach was too big to get her into the booth, so she had to trade places with Theodore, make him sit in the booth, which he did only when Christopher took the child’s small wrists in one hand, leaned forward, and said quietly, “Sit.”
Something vaguely discomfiting moved in Olive. But the child sat. Politely, he said he wanted vanilla ice cream. “Christopher was always so polite,” she said to him. “People used to compliment me on how polite my little son was.” Did Christopher and Ann exchange a glance? No, they were just getting ready to order. It seemed impossible to Olive that Ann carried within her the grandchild of Henry, but there you were.
She ordered a butterscotch sundae.
“No fair,” said Theodore. “I want a sundae.”
“Well, okay, I guess,” said Ann. “What kind?”
The kid looked distressed, as if the answer were beyond his comprehension. Finally he said, putting his head down onto his arms, “I’ll have a vanilla cone.”
“Your father would have ordered a root beer float,” said Olive to Christopher.
“No,” said Christopher. “He would have ordered a dish of strawberry ice cream.”
“Nope,” said Olive. “A root beer float.”
“I want that—I want a root beer float,” said Theodore, picking his head up. “What is it?”
Ann said, “They put lots of root beer in a glass, and then they float vanilla ice cream in it.”
“I want it.”
“He’s not going to like it,” said Christopher.
And he didn’t. Theodore began to cry halfway through, and said it wasn’t what he thought it would be. Olive, on the other hand, enjoyed her butterscotch sundae immensely, eating every spoonful, while Ann and Christopher talked about whether Theodore should be allowed to order again. Ann was for it, Christopher against. Olive stayed out of it but noticed that Christopher won.
Walking home, she had more energy, undoubtedly from her ice cream. And also because Chris walked with her, while Ann pushed the stroller ahead of them, the children, thank God, quiet. Chris’s podiatry practice was going well. “People in New York take their feet very seriously,” he said. Often, he saw twenty people a day.
“Good heavens, Chris. That seems a lot.”
“I have a lot of bills to pay,” he said. “And soon I’ll have even more.”
“I guess. Well, your father would be proud.” It was getting dark. Through the lighted windows they passed, she could see people reading, watching television. She saw one man who appeared to be tickling his little son. A feeling of benevolence swept through her; she wished the best for everyone. In fact, saying good night once they got through the door, Olive felt she could have kissed them—her son, Ann, even the children, if she’d had to. But there was a feeling of distraction, and Chris and Ann said only, “Good night, Mom.”
Downstairs she went, into the white basement. Stepping into the little closet of a bathroom, she flicked on the light, and saw in the mirror that across her blue cotton blouse was a long and prominent strip of sticky dark butterscotch sauce. A small feeling of distress took hold. They had seen this and not told her. She had become the old lady her Aunt Ora had been, when years ago she and Henry would take the old lady out for a drive, stopping some nights to get an ice cream, and Olive had watched as Aunt Ora had spilled melted ice cream down her front; she had felt repulsion at the sight of it. In fact, she was glad when Ora died, and Olive didn’t have to continue to witness the pathetic sight.
And now she had become Ora. But she wasn’t Aunt Ora, and her son should