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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 17 had cried for two days until Gus got disgusted and told him to grow up and act like a man. That's what Colby did even though he was only nine at the time. Afterwards, Mom had explained, "Colby's like his mom. His heart can't abide the disappointments of life." Mom was right about Colby, but I can't attest to his mom. In twelve years I haven't once heard a soul speak the woman's name. I don't know if she was tall or short or orange or, if instead of being bom, Colby had sprouted like a sycamore tree. Even Colby's dog, Buddy, got more notice when he went missing. Once, I asked mom if Gus l ^ e / e ^ any hum She wrung her hands like there was no way under heaven a soul could explain about that kind of pain. "That's the way these men face their troubles," Mom said. "When they can't do anything about a problem, they just pretend it isn't there. It's like your dad getting his knee kicked by the mule. He knew he couldn't take the time to let it heal proper, so he started walking on it right off." "But Dad doesn't walk good," I answered. Mom stared long and sad. "I didn't say your dad had done right. I said it was the only thing these men know." I don't mind saying that I plan to marry a man who likes to cook. In fact, he'll be a better cook than me because I'll be busy being famous at something or other. And we won't eat fried foods either. We'll have grilled or sauteed-whatever that is. And he'll say more than three words at a time. And when I come home, he'll kiss me so hard my knees will go weak. |