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Show in my father's house/339 involuntarily I reached upAto cover my own nose. My father called our family nose 'aristocratic' and my mother claimed it was 'prominent.' Either way, it was not the button-nose of Joan, the cheerleader. "Why don't you try out for cheerleader next year?" she asked me. "We could practice together." "I'd love to," I gushed. Then I looked down at my wrist, the one that had been broken. A large lump protruded, enclosing the finger tendons so that the entire hand would not move on winter mornings. My father called it a "Bible cyst.' Whatever it was, it was keeping me from the female equivalent of my brothers' athletic prowess. "I can't do anything with this wrist," I explained. "The doctor must have really messed it up when he set it." Then, stricken with my own disloyalty, I added, "Or maybe there just wasn't anything he could do with it." Brian took my hand. "I'll kiss it better," he murmured, pressing his lips to the lump. "Uh-oh," Preson said. "We'd better get out of here. Want a drink of water, Joan?" They started toward the kitchen. I remembered suddenly that my father might come home from his weekend visit to the Montana ranch. "If my father comes in the back way, say 'Hello, Mr. Allred,' really loud so that I can turn the music down, ok?" I didn't want them having any long conversations with my father. They might figure something out. "Right!" said Preston. "We don't want him walking in at the wrong time, do we now?" He grinned and put an imaginary cigar to his mouth as he Groucho-Marxed his way out of the room. |
