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Show Twisters . . . 12 yellow-haired, freckle-faced types. He's short and fat; I'm not. We could never pass for brothers, let alone twins, because we're different in other ways, too. He's a thinker; I'm a d_oer. He's crazy about books, I go bonkers over bikes. Just the same, we considered ourselves blood relatives and that's what counts. As Arthur stepped to the wall phone and dialed, Mom gave me a sideways look that meant Why don't you clear things with me first? I pretended not to notice, just lifted an extra glass and plate off the shelf and kept on. To tell you the truth, I half-way felt sorry for Mom right then. I remembered how jolly she used to be-before Ryan was born. Last year when she was working, she dressed up every day in her beauty salon uniform, her hair in this shiny brown wedge that Dad liked so much. Now her hair was kind of stringy and her nerves were frazzled. She claimed to be perfectly content staying home with her baby and her sewing machine, but I wasn't convinced. I overheard something she said to Dad one night when they were getting ready for bed. "I miss me_," she'd said, sounding so lonesome for her old self it made me sad. I frowned as I laid out four forks on four napkins. We'd been one small, happy family for eleven great years: John Hatch, Linda Hatch, and me, Dan. As far as I was concerned, we could have gone on that way forever--without Ryan. "What are we having tonight?" Arthur asked into the phone. "Potato salad?" He made a face. "Mrs. Hatch asked if I could eat over here, can I? Yeah . . . honest." (Long pause) His mouth went dismal on one side as he held the phone out toward Mom. "She wants to talk to you." |
