“Good morning to you, too,” he said disapprovingly.
I must have made some kind of face. But I’m sorry, it’s weird to come down and see your Dad wearing a bra, even if it is for his posture.
Mom came in from the pantry covered with spaghetti pots. “Hello, Buzzy!” She dropped the pots with a huge clang. “Sorry-sorry-sorry. I’m really tired.” Sometimes Mom doesn’t sleep.
Dad tap-tap-tap-tapped across the floor in his bicycle shoes and plugged his heart-rate monitor into his laptop to download his workout.
“Elgie,” Mom said, “when you get a chance, I’ll need you to try on some waterproof boots for the trip. I got you a bunch to choose from.”
“Oh, great!” He tap-tap-tapped into the living room.
My flute was on the counter and I played some scales. “Hey,” I asked Mom, “when you were at Choate, was the Mellon Arts Center there yet?”
“Yes,” Mom said, once more laden with pots. “It was the one and only time I was ever onstage. I played a Hot Box Girl in Guys and Dolls.”
“When Dad and I went to visit, the tour girl said Choate has a student orchestra, and every Friday people from Wallingford actually pay to see the concerts.”
“That’s going to be so great for you,” Mom said.
“If I get in.” I played some more scales, then Mom dropped the pots again.
“Do you have any idea how strong I’m being?” she erupted. “How much my heart is breaking that you’ll be going off to boarding school?”
“You went to boarding school,” I said. “If you didn’t want me to, you shouldn’t have made it sound so fun.”
Dad pushed open the swing door, wearing muck boots with tags hanging off them. “Bernadette,” he said, “it’s amazing, all this stuff you’ve gotten.” He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “What, are you spending every waking hour at REI?”
“Something like that,” Mom said, then turned back to me. “See, I never thought through the actual implication of you applying to boarding schools. I.e., that you’d be leaving us. But really, it’s fine with me if you run off. I’ll still see you every day.”
I glowered at her.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she said. “I’m going to move to Wallingford and rent a house off campus. I already got a job working in the Choate dining hall.”
“Don’t even joke,” I said.
“Nobody will know I’m your mother. You won’t even have to say hi. I just want to look at your gorgeous face every day. But a little wave every now and then would sure warm a mum’s heart.” She did that last part sounding like a leprechaun.
“Mom!” I said.
“You have no choice in it,” she said. “You’re like the Runaway Bunny. There’s no way for you to get away from me. I’ll be lurking behind the sneeze guards with my plastic gloves, serving hamburgers on Wednesdays, fish on Fridays—”
“Dad, make her stop.”
“Bernadette,” he said. “Please.”
“Both of you think I’m joking,” she said. “Fine, think that.”
“What are we doing for dinner tonight anyway?” I asked.
Something flashed on Mom’s face. “Hold on.” She went out the back door.
I grabbed the TV remote. “Aren’t the Seahawks playing Dallas today?”
“It’s on at one,” Dad said. “How about we hit the zoo and come back for the game.”
“Cool! We can see that new baby tree kangaroo.”
“Want to ride bikes?”
“Will you be on your recumbent bike?” I asked.
“I think so.” Dad made his hands into fists and twirled them. “These hills make it tough on my wrists—”
“Let’s drive,” I said quickly.
Mom returned. She wiped both hands on her pants and took a gigantic breath. “Tonight,” she declared, “we are going to Daniel’s Broiler.”
“Daniel’s Broiler?” Dad said.
“Daniel’s Broiler?” I repeated. “You mean that totally random place on Lake Union with the tour buses that always advertises on TV?”
“That’s the one,” Mom said.
There was a silence. It was broken by a huge “Ha!” which was Dad. “In a million years,” he said, “I’d never have thought you’d pick Daniel’s Broiler for Thanksgiving.”
“I like to keep you guessing,” she said.
I used Dad’s phone and texted Kennedy, who was with her mom on Whidbey Island. She was totally jealous we were going to Daniel’s Broiler.
There was a piano player and they gave you free refills on lemonade, and the chocolate cake was a huge slab, they call it Death by Chocolate, and it was even bigger than the colossal slice you get at P. F. Chang’s. When I got to school on Monday, everyone was all “No way, you got to go to Daniel’s Broiler for Thanksgiving? That’s so cool.”
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 29
Note from Tom
Audrey,
I don’t need chard. I need you to pay your bill. Otherwise, I will have to start lien proceedings.
Note from Audrey Griffin
Tom,
I find it rich indeed that you are threatening liens against me. My husband, Warren, who works in the DA’s office, finds it especially amusing because we could take you to small claims court and easily win. Before it gets to that, I donned my thinking cap and came up with a friendlier solution. Please write an estimate for removing my neighbor’s blackberries. If you need to get one of those machines, fine. Whatever it takes, as long as it doesn’t literally involve swine.
Once I have this estimate in hand, I will pay you for your past work in full. But I’m hosting a very important school brunch in less than two weeks and I need my yard back.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1
Note from Tom
Audrey,
For a job this size, you’ll definitely need the Hillside Thrasher. But my guy prefers not to use it until after the rains. The earliest he could start is May. For an estimate, we’d need to gain access to the neighbor’s property. Did you ever talk to them that day? Do you have their phone number?
Note from Audrey Griffin
Tom,
I feel like I am living in cuckooville. In ten days, Seattle’s elite are descending on my home for a momentous school function and will want to enjoy my backyard. I can’t have their clothing shredded by pricker bushes. May is not OK. One month from now is not OK. I don’t care if you need to rent the Hillside Thrasher yourself. I need those blackberries gone by December 11.
As for gaining access to the neighbor’s property for an estimate, she is very prickly, no pun intended. My suggestion is we meet at my house on Monday at 3PM sharp. I know for a fact that’s when she’ll be at school picking up her daughter. We can quickly climb through a hole in the side fence and look at her blackberry bushes.
Excerpt from my report on Sir Ernest Shackleton
The Drake Passage is the body of water between the southern tip of South America at Cape Horn, Chile, and the Antarctic continent. The five-hundred-mile passage is named after the sixteenth-century privateer Sir Francis Drake. There is no significant land at the latitudes of the Drake Passage. This creates the unimpeded circular flow of the Antarctic Circumpolar Current. As a result, the Drake Passage is the roughest and most feared water in the world.