The Constellations

Phyl outdid herself

pHyl ouTdid HErsElF with the accommodations.A knitted quilt covered the pullout bed in the tiny upstairs room Jean had called the study. Two pillows were centered beneath the single small window. Phyl had added a lamp and clock radio to the desk, recognizing that Deb always brought work or—Deb thought sourly—to encourage her to stay in the room. The top two bookshelves along the opposite wall were stacked with Jean’s old textbooks, relics of the college degree she had abandoned six hours short of completion. Deb flipped through one, saw the underlined passages, the dog-eared pages. Why had Jean never finished? Deb failed to recall her own conclusion from the time. At any rate it had been hard to parse out the truth with a woman who at any moment might drop all explanations and tell you to go to hell. The bottom shelf held a mishmash of books Jean had picked up for the kids at Goodwill and garage sales—random Encyclopaedia Britannica volumes, field guides to insects and mammals and nonflowering plants, Betty Crocker’s Cooky Book, a battered Guinness Book of World Records 1971. But someone had removed photos from the third shelf—Jean’s high school picture and a more recent shot with Roy. The kids’ school photos remained, as did one of Roy’s mother and two of the dog. Deb finished unpacking and went downstairs to call her husband . Fergus was attending a department cocktail party that evening , and she’d be long asleep by the time he got home.When she picked up the phone, she heard a man speaking in a 45-recordplayed -at-33 sort of voice. “Doctor says it must be trouble with stones,” he said. The party line, Deb thought, aghast. A younger woman replied,“Are you sure he didn’t say bones?” Kevin Cunningham 23 “Stones. Definitely stones.” “What’d he say next?” “Might have to have surgery,” the man said. “Have to take painkillers.” “You’d want the painkillers,” the woman said. The man made a snorting noise.“So’s I get hooked on the dope?” Deb eased the phone back into the cradle. At that moment Grub staggered up to her and said,“Hungry.” “Roy,” Deb called,“your children are hungry.” “I’m going to grill,” he said from the yard.“There’s hamburger thawing in the sink. Could you pat them out?” “What do you want to serve with it?” “Ask the kids.” She leaned out of the kitchen and asked. “Corn,” Eric said. “Peas,” Grub said. “Is she still living on peas?” Deb said. “And white bread,” Cammy replied. “Aunt Phyl says it’s a miracle she’s alive,” Eric said. Phyl and I agree on something, Deb thought. “What about some peanut butter and bananas, honey?” Deb asked. Grub shook her head, first to the peanut butter and bananas, then to each individually, and then to everything else visible in the kitchen. After Grub returned to the TV with her slice of white bread, Deb went out onto the porch. Roy was lavishing lighter fluid over charcoal. “For your information,” Deb said, “your daughter’s going to starve to death.” “You’d think so,” Roy said,“but she keeps growing.” Shadows fell across the yard. Looking up, Deb said, “Are you sure it won’t rain?” “I’ve got my fingers crossed,” Roy said. The motto these people live by, she thought. ...