| Itsy Bitsy Spider |
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Page 4 of 8 She went to her kitchen, opened a cupboard and took out a regular-sized cup. It looked like a bucket in her little hand. "I don't suppose you still drink Constant Comment?" His favorite. I had long since switched to rafallo. "That's fine." I remembered when I was a kid my father used to brew cups for the two of us from the same bag because Constant Comment was so expensive. "I thought they went out of business long ago." "I mix my own. I'd be interested to hear how accurate you think the recipe is." "I suppose you know how I like it?" She chuckled. "So does he need the money?" The microwave dinged. "Very few actors get rich," said the bot. I didn't think there had been microwaves in the sixties, but then strict historical accuracy wasn't really the point of Strawberry Fields. "Especially when they have a weakness for Shakespeare." "Then how come he lives here and not in some flop? And how did he afford you?" She pinched sugar between her index finger and thumb, then rubbed them together over the cup. It was something I still did, but only when I was by myself. A nasty habit; Mom used to yell at him for teaching it to me. "I was a gift." She shook a teabag loose from a canister shaped like an acorn and plunged it into the boiling water. "From mother." The bot offered the cup to me; I accepted it nervelessly. "That's not true." I could feel the blood draining from my face. "I can lie if you'd prefer, but I'd rather not." She pulled the booster chair away from the table and turned it to face me. "There are many things about themselves that they never told us, Jen. I've always wondered why that was." I felt logy and a little stupid, as if I had just woken from a thirty year nap. "She just gave you to him?" "And bought him this house, paid all his bills, yes." "But why?" "You knew her," said the bot. "I was hoping you could tell me." I couldn't think of what to say or do. Since there was a cup in my hand, I took a sip. For an instant the scent of tea and dried oranges carried me back to when I was a little girl and I was sitting in Grandma Fanelli's kitchen in a wet bathing suit, drinking Constant Comment that my father had made to keep my teeth from chattering. There were knots like brown eyes in the pine walls and the green linoleum was slick where I had dripped on it. "Well?" "It's good," I said absently and raised the cup to her. "No really, just like I remember." She clapped her hands in excitement. "So," said the bot. "What was mother like?" It was an impossible question, so I tried to let it bounce off me. But then neither of us said anything; we just stared at each other across a yawning gulf of time and experience. In the silence, the question stuck. Mom had died three months ago and this was the first time since the funeral that I'd thought of her as she really had been -- not the papery ghost in the hospital room. I remembered how, after the divorce, she always took my calls when she was at the office, even if it was late, and how she used to step on imaginary brakes whenever I drove her anywhere and how grateful I was that she didn't cry when I told her that Rob and I were getting divorced. I thought about Easter eggs and raspberry Pop Tarts and when she sent me to Antibes for a year when I was fourteen and that perfume she wore on my father's opening nights and the way they used to waltz on the patio at the house in Waltham. "West is walking the ball upcourt, setting his offense with fifteen seconds to go on the shot clock, nineteen in the half ..." The beanbag chair that I was in faced the picture window. Behind me, I could hear the door next to the bookcase open. "Jones and Goodrich are in each other's jerseys down low and now Chamberlin swings over and calls for the ball on the weak side ..." I twisted around to look over my shoulder. The great Peter Fancy was making his entrance.
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