Ken’s complaining about the roast.
“Overdone!”
Kiki’s saying, “Next time you can cook it yourself.”
Ken says fine, after work he’ll drive up
the Cross Bronx Expressway.
So what if he left home at 7 A.M.?
He’ll put on an apron
and shove the damn thing into the oven.
Kiki toasts him, says “I love that idea!”
“It will be ready at nine, the earliest,”
he continues.
“You forgot, Ken—I’m a night bird.
Then we can go downtown
and listen to some jazz
at the Village Vanguard.”
ON THE CHEEK
Ken’s laughing, says,
“Can’t win with your mother, kids!”
Then he says, “I love this dish!
Anyway, who needs seasoning?
Not me! No sirree!”
He gets up, walks around the table,
and kisses Kiki on the cheek
as if they were in a Doris Day movie.
Rachel rolls her eyes.
“They do this to embarrass me, Maisie.
It really gets old.”
It’s not old to me.
To me, it’s brand-new
to watch parents argue then kiss and hug
right in front of their kids.
You can tell they’re crazy about each other.
FILL IN THE BLANKS
After dinner Rachel stacks plates,
the brothers wash them,
and then I dry and help put away the dishes.
Kiki puts the leftovers away,
tells me about her days as an art student.
When the kitchen is humming
and clean, she brings out some notebooks
and we talk a little about anatomy.
She gives me a newsprint sketch pad and some charcoal
to keep at their house.
She says drawing just about saved her life.
I want to ask her from what?
But I don’t dare.
I feel as if I’ve always known her.
When we’re falling asleep, I finally decide
to pester Rache about this boy—Gino.
But by the time I do,
there’s light snoring.
IDIOT
Mindlessly riding on the good feelings from Rachel’s,
I walk home in the bright Saturday morning
without suppressing a rare feeling
of naked enthusiasm for simply being alive.
The clouds overhead filter out
the sun and diffuse the light,
which makes everything appear a little gauzy,
painterly, and sublimely benevolent.
But I’m an idiot.
Because bouncing home,
especially bouncing home joyfully,
is a stupid act.
I should know by now there will be hell to pay.
I pass our mailbox.
There’s a note on pink paper from Richie.
I grab it and thrust it into my jacket.
Richie, I ask him silently, what are you doing?
OUTLAW JOY
I run into the house, forgetting to hide
this dumb, outlawed exuberance.
“You had a good time?”
Judith is spraying her red hair into a helmet.
“They were so nice,” I say.
Immediately I regret it, tamp down my voice.
“I mean, it was kind of okay.”
But Judith has already gotten the message
that I prefer them to her.
She stops with her hair.
She’s already dipping down
into that dark mood again.
“Wipe that dumb look off your face!
I’m mad at you, you moronic girl!”
Like a once-damp towel, dried in the sun,
my restraint evaporates from the warmth of
Rachel’s loving tribe.
And I spit out my truth:
“Of course you’re mad.
You’re always mad.
At everyone all the time!”
I can only imagine
the consequences of my outburst.
PRISONERS
The next day Davy and I are on the escalator
in Macy’s department store.
Mother’s prisoners.
I point out the boys’ section to Davy.
“Don’t you want some new clothes?”
“Davy, do not let your sister goad you
into being a nuisance.
One in the family is enough,” says Judith.
But it is my job to goad Davy.
One in the family is not enough.
Because if you’re that one, you’re in for it.
“I need new cords…,” says Davy.
Mother mumbles:
“Davy, Maisie’s only trouble.
Don’t copy her!”
She says my name
as if it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
“Davy.” I nudge him.
“Tell her I’m not that bad.”
Davy ignores me.
I figure one day, inevitably,
the tables will turn.
We’ll see what happens then.
THE SHOE DEPARTMENT OF LIFE
We’re shopping because
clothes are Judith’s passion.
And shoes. She loves shoes.
She doesn’t like salesmen.
Anyway, generally she prefers
inanimate objects to people.
I’ve seen Buddy, Harvey, and Benny,
who’ve worked at Macy’s forever,
flee to the back room when they spot her.
I bet they toss a coin.
Nobody would choose to deal with her
when she’s in one of her moods.
And she always is.
SKINNY KID
This afternoon, Benny turns to Ernest,
the new guy, neat, slim,
skin the color of hot chocolate.
He’s maybe a college kid.
“It’s your turn, E,” Benny says.
Ernest walks up to us with a nervous smile,
glances at me, says in a low, silky, musical voice,
“Hello, what can I get you?”
My mother thrusts out a pointy, high-heeled number
she took from the display.
“In nine and nine and a half, also ten.
I don’t trust your sizes,” she adds,
as if Ernest personally manufactures the shoes
to confound her.
He turns to Davy:
“And hello to you, too, young man.
How’s your day going?”
“Bring it in navy, brown, beige,”
she says in her most pebbly, aggravating voice.
“And for you, little lady?” He winks at me.
With worried eyes, I sing out, “I’m Maisie.”
“Anything for you, Maisie?”
“Mom?” I say, eyebrows high.
Judith clucks. “She doesn’t need a thing.”
But, Ernest, I think, I need lots of things.
THE EXISTENTIAL OBSERVATION
I like his wide, toothy, white smile.
Zombielike, I follow him to the rear of the store.
Through the heavy curtains guarding the stockroom,
I hear the guys in the back room titter.
“Thanks for the help, boys,” Ernest jokes.
With a plastered smile, he reemerges,
balances the piled-up boxes,
which he lays in front of Judith.