Oddballs Read Free Page B

a slight edge to her voice. “You know Billy’s not underfed. And he hasn’t missed a day of school all year.”
    She hung up with an expression of disgust. “That poor kid,” she said again. “But I think I convinced her. She’s dropping him off at five-thirty. A little early, but that’s okay.”
    I was excited and happy all day on Saturday, setting up my room, eager for the time to pass quickly. At four-thirty the doorbell rang, I pulled open the front door—and my heart sank. Frank’s mother had not just dropped him off. She was standing there beside him, dressed as though she were going to tea with the queen, obviously expecting to be invited in. Frank did not look very happy.
    â€œHello, Billy,” his mother said, with her tight, artificial smile—I wondered how she could smile even that much, with all the makeup she had on. “I just wanted to come in for a minute and have a little chat with your mom.”
    â€œUh, sure, come in,” I said, wishing I had been warned about this, thinking fast, trying to avert disaster.
    His mother’s high heels clicked across the wooden floors—her house, of course, had wall-to-wall carpeting. I walked ahead of her; Frank trailed behind. I stopped in the living room and turned back. Frank’s mother was looking around at the forest of houseplants, the old Oriental rugs, the dragon-legged library table piled with magazines. “Listen, why don’t you just sit down in here,” I said. “And I’ll go get my mother. She’s, uh, busy in the kitchen.”
    â€œOh, let’s not be formal about this,” Frank’s mother said, though she was the one who was all dressed up. “And I don’t want to interrupt her cooking. I’ll just pop in and say hi.”
    â€œBut …” I tried to protest.
    â€œThe kitchen must be this way,” Frank’s mother said, heading right for it. There was nothing I could do.
    Mom was sitting at the kitchen table feeding the baby, who was two months old. She wore an ancient, faded housedress and was barefoot, her legs unshaven.
    â€œMom, this is Frank’s mother,” I mumbled.
    â€œVery nice to meet you,” Frank’s mother said, her eyes moving between the dirty dishes in the sink and the piles of soil on the kitchen table from the plants Mom had been repotting. Mom was a good housekeeper, and we also had a cleaning woman during the week. But on Saturdays Mom relaxed.
    â€œOh, hello,” Mom said, a little surprised, glancing at me, then at Frank’s mother. “Pull up a chair for her, Billy.”
    Frank’s mother sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, as though protecting her dress from its surface. “Hello there, honey,” she said to the baby in an artificial voice. “And what’s your name?”
    Mom gazed fondly at the baby. “He doesn’t have a name. I suppose we’ll have to come up with one eventually.”
    Frank’s mother looked blank, as though the concept of a baby without a name was beyond her comprehension. She glanced around uncomfortably. “What a big old house you have. It must be very time-consuming, keeping it …” Then she stopped, not wanting to say the wrong thing.
    â€œIt works for us,” Mom said, not too warmly, since she had caught the implication that her house wasn’t clean.
    Frank’s mother tried again. “I hear your husband is a scientist.”
    â€œA physiologist. He does experiments on live human heart muscle,” Mom told her.
    â€œ Live human heart muscle?” Frank’s mother said. “But where does he get live—”
    Vicky and her friend Avis dashed into the kitchen, giggling. They had dyed their hair purple with grape juice; their teeth were colored red, white, and blue with lipstick and eye makeup; and their clothes were smeared with various unidentifiable substances. “Are there any