mother’s side would visit from England, they would wear formal clothes to fly. My grandmother would wear pearls and a fancy dress, and I once asked my grandfather why they did that and he said, “If we crash and die, we want to die in our best clothes.” Now that’s respect for the system.
Jones Riddell—my father—was sporting a wiry beard that was too long and gray, and the mustache covered his upper lip, which drove my mother crazy—but she never said anything. She never made him change. I knew she let him be all the things she disliked so much so she could continue disliking him. The hair on his head was too long and his face was too tan and was getting wrinkled because he spent so much time outside in the sun working on his boats. My mother didn’t make him wear sunscreen because she had given up. If I walked out to the road to get the newspaper from the box, my mother made me put on sunscreen, but not my dad. She had given up on him altogether.
We stood awkwardly in the kitchen of the empty house. I glanced out the bay window that faced north to the meadow and saw a woman riding a bicycle, looking like she had been plucked from an old-fashioned movie. She rode an antique-style bicycle, with baskets attached to a platform extending over the rear wheel. The baskets were full of groceries overflowing from paper bags. The woman, who was youthful and lithe, wore a long dress that fluttered coquettishly over her tall boots, and somehow—miraculously—never got caught up in the chain. Her long auburn hair was held by a ribbon tied low near the nape of her neck, and she held her face slightly raised toward the sky, as if to greet the sun. I pointed to her and my father noticed.
“There she is,” he said as the woman cruised up the drive.
She spotted our car parked in front of the house and looked to the bay window and must have seen us inside because she smiled and waved. She rode up to the back of the house and disappeared from view; a few seconds later, she entered the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed and she was out of breath. Her eyes were bright and smiling and, I noticed, locked on my father. She rested one hand below her neck and the other on her hip. Her dress was sleeveless, revealing her toned arms, and it fit tight around her waist, showing off her womanly aspect in a way I had only seen in movies and on TV.
I was quite taken with her. When my father said I was going to meet my aunt, who lived with my grandfather, I assumed she’d be wearing mom-jeans and have jowly arms and sagging elbow skin and a couple of chins. I figured she’d be nice and all, but old-lady nice, with a hairdo that ladies get at the salon, fixed in one place and glued to stay that way for a week without moving. I didn’t think my aunt would actually be hot .
“Brother Jones,” she said, luxuriating in the words. She didn’t take notice of me at all. “You’ve come to save us.”
My father was flustered.
“Serena,” he said, trying to snap himself out of it. “You look . . .”
“I look?” Serena prompted playfully.
“You look grown-up.”
“Oh, please. You can do better than that!”
“You look beautiful.”
“That’s better,” she said with a smile.
She stepped to my father and embraced him in a way that made me uncomfortable. I had always thought of hugs in boxing terms. There’s the clinch and then the break. Usually the boxers break on their own, but if they hang on too long, the referee has to separate them. In this case, I realized I would have to be the referee because the clinch was lasting way longer than it should have, so I cleared my throat deliberately. Serena released my father, but as she pulled away, she said, “You really have to shave that awful beard,” which I found amusing, not only because it was true but because it was like when one boxer takes a swipe at the other after the referee separates them. You’re not allowed to sucker punch your opponent on the break; you have
Jones Riddell—my father—was sporting a wiry beard that was too long and gray, and the mustache covered his upper lip, which drove my mother crazy—but she never said anything. She never made him change. I knew she let him be all the things she disliked so much so she could continue disliking him. The hair on his head was too long and his face was too tan and was getting wrinkled because he spent so much time outside in the sun working on his boats. My mother didn’t make him wear sunscreen because she had given up. If I walked out to the road to get the newspaper from the box, my mother made me put on sunscreen, but not my dad. She had given up on him altogether.
We stood awkwardly in the kitchen of the empty house. I glanced out the bay window that faced north to the meadow and saw a woman riding a bicycle, looking like she had been plucked from an old-fashioned movie. She rode an antique-style bicycle, with baskets attached to a platform extending over the rear wheel. The baskets were full of groceries overflowing from paper bags. The woman, who was youthful and lithe, wore a long dress that fluttered coquettishly over her tall boots, and somehow—miraculously—never got caught up in the chain. Her long auburn hair was held by a ribbon tied low near the nape of her neck, and she held her face slightly raised toward the sky, as if to greet the sun. I pointed to her and my father noticed.
“There she is,” he said as the woman cruised up the drive.
She spotted our car parked in front of the house and looked to the bay window and must have seen us inside because she smiled and waved. She rode up to the back of the house and disappeared from view; a few seconds later, she entered the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed and she was out of breath. Her eyes were bright and smiling and, I noticed, locked on my father. She rested one hand below her neck and the other on her hip. Her dress was sleeveless, revealing her toned arms, and it fit tight around her waist, showing off her womanly aspect in a way I had only seen in movies and on TV.
I was quite taken with her. When my father said I was going to meet my aunt, who lived with my grandfather, I assumed she’d be wearing mom-jeans and have jowly arms and sagging elbow skin and a couple of chins. I figured she’d be nice and all, but old-lady nice, with a hairdo that ladies get at the salon, fixed in one place and glued to stay that way for a week without moving. I didn’t think my aunt would actually be hot .
“Brother Jones,” she said, luxuriating in the words. She didn’t take notice of me at all. “You’ve come to save us.”
My father was flustered.
“Serena,” he said, trying to snap himself out of it. “You look . . .”
“I look?” Serena prompted playfully.
“You look grown-up.”
“Oh, please. You can do better than that!”
“You look beautiful.”
“That’s better,” she said with a smile.
She stepped to my father and embraced him in a way that made me uncomfortable. I had always thought of hugs in boxing terms. There’s the clinch and then the break. Usually the boxers break on their own, but if they hang on too long, the referee has to separate them. In this case, I realized I would have to be the referee because the clinch was lasting way longer than it should have, so I cleared my throat deliberately. Serena released my father, but as she pulled away, she said, “You really have to shave that awful beard,” which I found amusing, not only because it was true but because it was like when one boxer takes a swipe at the other after the referee separates them. You’re not allowed to sucker punch your opponent on the break; you have