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Dad said, "Thank you," and took the box.
The man looked at me, looked at the ground, walked away.
Dad smoked till the man was out of sight, then he threw his cigarette in the
gutter and opened the box.
"He gave us donuts!" I shouted.
Dad looked at me and started chuckling. "That guy thinks we don't have any
money." He took a donut, laughed again, and blew powdered sugar out of his
mouth.
I ate a glazed, and then a chocolate with sprinkles. Dad ate all the rest,
steadily, devouring them with great relish and no preference for jelly over
oldfashioned
over chocolate or bear clawonly pleasure, and great amusement.
AT HOME I was either left alone, or overwhelmed with attention. Mom and Dad
were either oblivious or hyperaware. They disappeared on a trip for seventeen
days and left me with the maid. On Mom's return I ignored her when she called
my name. She had my ears examined. They were infected. I needed surgery;
tubes installed to drain them. I was four. Mom set herself the task of
increasing
my medical vocabulary, to make the hospital less frightening. (When an orderly
rolled me into the operating room I asked him, "Are you the anesthesiologist?")
I received books to read during my recovery, and became the kind of kid who
spends all his time alone, reading, till Mom noticed my left eye didn't turn all
the
way to the left; then it was back to the doctor.
I HAD a friend down the hill, in the long shadow of our building, whose
mother
cooked us meatloaf. When I discovered meatloaf, and that other mothers regularly
cooked it for their children, I went home and said, "Other mothers cook.
Why don't you cook?"
Without hesitation Mom said, "Other mothers don't write books."
It was the end of that question for me. And thenceforth, as if to compensate
for not cooking the food we were eating, she began reading from her books at
the dinner table.
Mom was a captivating reader. She'd won the all-state elocution award in
Oklahoma, in the forties, and when she told a story, especially a story about
her
childhood, Mom made me love words.
BUT MOM had lots of other people to captivate. The apartment was headquarters
for a salon-cum-luncheoncalled the Roundtablewhere Mom hosted
conversation. The guests were notorious strangers. They always came, if for
no other reason than to see the view. They were: union leaders; unionized
prostitutes; Alex Haley; Native American secessionists; Agnes Moorehead;
radical lesbians; Nobel laureates; Joan Baez; Black Panthers; Dear Abby; an
astronaut; Eldridge Cleaver; Jessica Mitford; Gloria Steinem; a Catholic priest;
a
woman who had murdered her husband; Shirley Temple; a lesbian priest; Betty
Friedan; welfare mothers; Werner Erhard; a Soviet ballerina; Daniel Ellsberg.
And so on.
Jessica Mitford was an old British woman with huge round glasses who
proclaimed,
"When I die I've given instructions that I want to be buried like this,"
and then pulled one corner of her mouth up and dragged the other one down,
and eyed the other guests (the mayor, a plastic surgeon, Agnes Moorehead,
Shirley Temple). "I want to make sure you all check on it. That's the way I want
to look." Eldridge Cleaver brought Dad velvet flower-embroidered shorts that
had a codpiece hanging down the front. Once I came home from school and no
one was in the kitchen. The cook and the housekeeperin French maid's uniforms
had joined the table for lunch with Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem.
(Said Mom, "They were the perfect people to talk with domestic workers about
the difficulty of working in someone else 's home.")
Mom presided over the Roundtable with a silver bell that she rang to get
everyone's attention. After ringing the bell Mom directed the conversation by
asking questions. And as I went about my only-child activitiessearching out a
wire stripper to connect a camera battery to a nail and make a laser gun;
constructing
an orange juice dispenser out of Dad's discarded WaterPik dental hygiene
machine (so I could have breakfast in my room); synthesizing an
alcohol-free imitation wine; using bendable drink straws to siphon and circulate
cold water throughout my bathroom during a heat wavewords found their
way into my newly drained ears:
From Oh The Glory Of It All by Sean Wilsey. Copyright 2005 Sean Wilsey. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, The Penguin Press.
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