Fantods1
11-11-2014, 10:11 PM
Negotiating the inclines of Sampson’s Pole is not a hard thing to do anymore, Linda Lannan realized. She used to sit with Buck and steam in the back seat on the way home from the pier -dreaming out the window as her father stalled out repeatedly just to get godam back home. Now it’s easy, she thought, stopping to let the mailman cross the road.
It was a peculiarly hot day: the quick spray of mist on the cucumbers, lettuce, and broccoli at Stop and Shop was a kindness; the sun shined from all directions. There weren’t many kids out playing. Mostly, she guessed, they were inside forgetting what they had just read or making up a lunch before returning to their neighbour’s.
Why is the mailman walking? The mailman never walks, she thought.
The mailman, Glenn, was very interesting to her. He was working up a hill and his calves bulged and propelled him, though the intrigue was not physical. She slowed down and remembered at the Audi dealership that her car was silent under ten miles an hour. The man seemed to like selling cars too much and the whole place seemed like they liked it all, too.
She trailed close behind him as he walked to the Carter’s house set back from the street in a throng of pines.
She sped off and turned on the radio. Bolero was playing.
She swung the car onto McCullough Road, her road, and slowed down, remembering there are kids always moving about although, of course, none were outside. The road, for the most part, was very nice. A canopy of elms held those underneath. It was very nice, she thought. But the Smith’s had put a pool in their front yard and town ordinance, quite rightly, required fences be put around pools. And so a small prison yard or where vicious dogs are kept blights us because they needed a pool in their front yard, she thought.
The Ravel had started to bounce, coming out of its slumber, as she turned off the car.
There were many bags to be brought in so she had to return twice to get all she had bought.
Finished with the final trip to the kitchen, Linda heard her son’s voice coming from the drawing room and realized she had forgotten him. Her watch told her- yelled at her- that she was late and he had been left alone. Though not alone, but with Mr. Symond, Sean’s piano instructor.
She walked quickly into the drawing room, fixed her hair, and said hello.
“Hello, Ms. Lannern.”
“How was everything? –I’m very sorry to be late this completely slipped my mind,” with a little laugh and motherly regret.
“Oh fine, Ms. Lannern, we did finely. Learned- err went over rather our Symphony Fanstick of course….From my last lessoning. Lesson. Rather. I’m sorry,” he said quite quickly and with a polite cough.
Mr. Symond had very large glasses and was a diminutive man, widowed, wearing a worn tweed jacket; his hair often appeared confused.
“Well that’s good, Mr. Symond,” she said kindly to aid the confused man.
She gestured and Mr. Symond walked with her to the front hall where she paid him his forty-five dollars. Sean called thank you as he tore upstairs quadripedally.
In the kitchen, Linda shut the windows and drew the curtains to prepare for the cooking. She liked ambiance; she liked to feel in an Abruzzi cottage toiling over meals all day for her eccentric and well-meaning family of soft-spoken shepherds and school teachers (her father taught eleventh grade history). Good cooking means your kitchen is transported to another land, she knew, and so she drew the curtains and let her hands take over.
She unpacked her groceries: one chicken, two bottles of Chianti, celery, shallots, capers, tomato paste, and sage. She already had the olives and golden raisins the recipe required.
Her ingredients were set out on the chopping block, bathing in warm light, and she set to work gathering bowls and preheating the oven to 350 degrees.
Quickly, she moved to the bedroom and came back with her radio. Bolero had ended, she was sad to find, and now Waverley (that second rate Shostakovich) was in the middle of a crescendo. She turned it down and returned to work.
Fifty-seven minutes later her Tuscan chicken was complete. She was delighted: her whole house was nestled amidst a bustling village. Outside, washerwomen gossiped, talking over each other, and the day’s tasks were done. The herds were being penned and men splashed water onto their already wet faces.
Five minutes later the table was set and waiting. Linda debated candles: it is hot outside but in here it is not, she concluded.
Twenty-one minutes later the candles had been removed, the food was drifting from ready to cold, and Mr. Lannan was nowhere to be found. Sean and Casey had finished eating and were in their rooms.
Ten minutes later she had cleared everything away, into the trashcan, into the dishwasher.
My husband is running late from Genoa, she thought, She waited still.
It was a peculiarly hot day: the quick spray of mist on the cucumbers, lettuce, and broccoli at Stop and Shop was a kindness; the sun shined from all directions. There weren’t many kids out playing. Mostly, she guessed, they were inside forgetting what they had just read or making up a lunch before returning to their neighbour’s.
Why is the mailman walking? The mailman never walks, she thought.
The mailman, Glenn, was very interesting to her. He was working up a hill and his calves bulged and propelled him, though the intrigue was not physical. She slowed down and remembered at the Audi dealership that her car was silent under ten miles an hour. The man seemed to like selling cars too much and the whole place seemed like they liked it all, too.
She trailed close behind him as he walked to the Carter’s house set back from the street in a throng of pines.
She sped off and turned on the radio. Bolero was playing.
She swung the car onto McCullough Road, her road, and slowed down, remembering there are kids always moving about although, of course, none were outside. The road, for the most part, was very nice. A canopy of elms held those underneath. It was very nice, she thought. But the Smith’s had put a pool in their front yard and town ordinance, quite rightly, required fences be put around pools. And so a small prison yard or where vicious dogs are kept blights us because they needed a pool in their front yard, she thought.
The Ravel had started to bounce, coming out of its slumber, as she turned off the car.
There were many bags to be brought in so she had to return twice to get all she had bought.
Finished with the final trip to the kitchen, Linda heard her son’s voice coming from the drawing room and realized she had forgotten him. Her watch told her- yelled at her- that she was late and he had been left alone. Though not alone, but with Mr. Symond, Sean’s piano instructor.
She walked quickly into the drawing room, fixed her hair, and said hello.
“Hello, Ms. Lannern.”
“How was everything? –I’m very sorry to be late this completely slipped my mind,” with a little laugh and motherly regret.
“Oh fine, Ms. Lannern, we did finely. Learned- err went over rather our Symphony Fanstick of course….From my last lessoning. Lesson. Rather. I’m sorry,” he said quite quickly and with a polite cough.
Mr. Symond had very large glasses and was a diminutive man, widowed, wearing a worn tweed jacket; his hair often appeared confused.
“Well that’s good, Mr. Symond,” she said kindly to aid the confused man.
She gestured and Mr. Symond walked with her to the front hall where she paid him his forty-five dollars. Sean called thank you as he tore upstairs quadripedally.
In the kitchen, Linda shut the windows and drew the curtains to prepare for the cooking. She liked ambiance; she liked to feel in an Abruzzi cottage toiling over meals all day for her eccentric and well-meaning family of soft-spoken shepherds and school teachers (her father taught eleventh grade history). Good cooking means your kitchen is transported to another land, she knew, and so she drew the curtains and let her hands take over.
She unpacked her groceries: one chicken, two bottles of Chianti, celery, shallots, capers, tomato paste, and sage. She already had the olives and golden raisins the recipe required.
Her ingredients were set out on the chopping block, bathing in warm light, and she set to work gathering bowls and preheating the oven to 350 degrees.
Quickly, she moved to the bedroom and came back with her radio. Bolero had ended, she was sad to find, and now Waverley (that second rate Shostakovich) was in the middle of a crescendo. She turned it down and returned to work.
Fifty-seven minutes later her Tuscan chicken was complete. She was delighted: her whole house was nestled amidst a bustling village. Outside, washerwomen gossiped, talking over each other, and the day’s tasks were done. The herds were being penned and men splashed water onto their already wet faces.
Five minutes later the table was set and waiting. Linda debated candles: it is hot outside but in here it is not, she concluded.
Twenty-one minutes later the candles had been removed, the food was drifting from ready to cold, and Mr. Lannan was nowhere to be found. Sean and Casey had finished eating and were in their rooms.
Ten minutes later she had cleared everything away, into the trashcan, into the dishwasher.
My husband is running late from Genoa, she thought, She waited still.