Why Is The Sky Blue?
John Hardoby

 

Lovie received the excruciating news as Emeril watched, finishing off his apricot crepe recipe, Emeril’s Christmas time favorite, Lovie’s too. The call interrupted his nightly TV time, a two-hour span of desirable unwinding while his cheap-socked feet stretched and reclined. Tuesday was the Food Network night and Lovie sat with blue ink and white pads, etching masterful scripts written by the world’s finest chefs intended for us to feebly emulate. The cordless phone lingered its signal strength in the den but often lost service, fading in and out, Lovie’s own personal mayday. Tonight’s call made it all the way through, loud and clear. His ex-wife Rachel was calling to discuss Christmas Day schedules, or rather, to tell him the plan for the 25th day of December. She said Rudy and Gabrielle were coming this year which brightened his mood, allowing him to temporary forget about the next delight Emeril was suppliant to teach after a minor commercial break, deep fried Twinkies. An SAT question would read: ecstasy is to the brain, as deep fried Twinkies are to the heart. Fat kids would get the answer wrong on purpose, and Lovie, Lovie planned on eating an entire batch later that week.

He was aloof, half-heartily listening to the rest of Rachel’s chatter. She mentioned something about downtown, wrapping paper, pecan pie, Armory Park, amazing lights, a frozen ice-skating ring, roasted ham, her mother, a new dog cage, and Robert. Robert. Who the hell is Robert? Lovie wanted to interrupt but according to her that was one vice he possessed that lead to the divorce, so when he heard the name Robert, Lovie focused his attention on Emeril dropping golden cream-filled treats into a splattering sack of olive oil.
“So yeah, Robert is going to come,” she said in unsure tones that contained womanly confidence.
“Who’s Robert?”
“I just told you, he’s the guy I’ve been seeing.”
The only guys Lovie has seen lately were a wealthy Italian chef who tried to teach him how to cook and the loud-spoken local sports man on channel seven’s evening broadcast. He thought it took at least two years for ink to dry on a signed affidavit, but apparently, he was mistaken. Rachel was seeing another man, another man named Robert, who was probably ten years Lovie’s junior, rock hard, and glittery fresh. Robert probably drove a red sports car in the winter and a S.U.V during warm weather. The man who was fucking the mother of Lovie’s children was coming to his house for Christmas.
“So when did you start seeing this fellow Bob?”
“A few months ago, and it’s Robert.”
Lovie thought Bob made more sense since he was going to have to bob out of the path of his knuckle sandwich, the one that sat behind the apricot crepes. He wondered if the kids knew about Bob? He wondered if so, did they like him? Laugh at he’s counterfeit jokes? Complement his precipitously purchased car that sat to close to the road? Emeril pointed at Lovie, laughing, letting him know this weekend was going to be austere.

Lovie Jones was raised in small, poor cities in opposite borders of three northeast states. Before he reached thirteen, four elementary schools had seen his boxy, hardened face come and go. Lovie followed around his fickle father who jumped from ship to ship, even though not a sailor. Lovie’s life of hard slog and adversity started in Portland, Maine, a tiny plot of inhabitable oceanfront high on the Atlantic where he fixed cargo nets and strung sea animals during the wonder years of his life. By seventeen his hands were plump, rough-edged, worn and dry, one could stare into their cusps and recall memories of an old man by the sea, hands of scrape, scratching unsuspecting cheeks of young girls, which sometimes occurred. Lovie worked for his father’s shop on the bay, a set-up that appeared to hold father’s interested, it had been more then a two year stint without familiar boxes and wide-spaced vans knocking on their doorstep.

In 1974 when Lovie met Rachel Farnsworth he was engaged to a lovely gal named Elsa. As a freshman at UNH Lovie found a girl he couldn’t scratch, just love, cherish. The pair of eighteen-year old doves floated down flowered paths at steady tempos, skipping with hands glued and arms flying, bragging their compound trust to anyone who would listen. One spring afternoon in 1974, Elsa and her fiancée skipped down a washboard path behind Dartmouth’s Clemens Hall near Willow Park when Lovie suddenly braced, squeaking his white sneakers. With Elsa’s forward momentum, Lovie nearly pulled her chalky arm from its fragile ball socket. The superglue that held their love dissolved in an instant, literally, as Lovie shoved Elsa to the pebbled ground, scraping her knee, not able to take his eyes off a nearby bench. Their sat Rachel Farnsworth in a sleek black skirt with shades of olive brushed across her chest. Lovie lost the skip and collectively strolled with charm over to his future engagement, leaving a previous one crying on the dusty path, confused and devastated. That was how they met, and three years later Rachel was carrying Lovie’s child in her womb.

After hanging up the phone Lovie decided to perform a mind-clearing task, channel surfing. He was an expert in the field and could write a god damn perfect thesis paper if needed, impress professors who thought his topic of choice was mentally insane. His surfing style was rapid fire. The controller was his machine gun. Lovie would reel off ten, maybe fifteen stations without allowing the tube to bellow once, then would need to reload his weapon so the channel upon stoppage was viewed for the time being. It landed on one of his favorite commercials to abhor. The man’s blubbery face alone was enough to make his teeth grind but it was that irritating, loud, obnoxious voice, and that tired, in-your-face pick up line the man used on blind, mindless customers who thought he was actually catchy and entertaining, that made Lovie want to pluck his thick eyelashes, one by one, and ware his fingernails down to their half-moons after digging at the television like a canine, attempting to scratch off the strident salesman’s head. There, he said it. The worst part was this man is rich, stinking-filthy rich, a cash register that continued to constantly ring. Lovie couldn’t understand it. Have all the rational Americans with values and integrity been brainwashed? Are we so stupid that an overweight balding man with no sense of style and his puny sideshow wearing a crooked smile faker then bottle tans in mid-January, can actually convince us to jump in our cars, drive on down, happy as calms, then within minutes leave with a slightly used brand new Korean car? Nothing made sense anymore. Lovie saw this ad on TV every, single, day, which is something he could not say about his two kids, not even close. He hasn’t seen Gabrielle since early July and Rudy since August. In fact, back in July on the final night Gabrielle and Rudy were in town, they sat in front of the wide screen, hollering at this very same commercial. Gabrielle laughed at the ridiculous car salesman while Rudy pointed out how his automobiles were selling like hotcakes. Lovie just sat there holding his tension, grinding his molars. And now, after talking to his irrational ex-spouse, all he could think of was his two kids visiting Rachel and watching this commercial with her and their new favorite man Bob.

It’s was only a few days away from that special night when young children left warm milk and baked cookies out for their beloved fat man to munch on after dropping off piles of wrapped goodies and stuffed oversized socks. The fat man hasn’t dropped down Lovie’s chimney in a few years, and even if he did, there would be no dairy products laid out on the dining room table. Last Christmas neither Gabrielle nor Rudy came home to the weathered townhouse on Cuspus Ave, and Rachel spend the holidays with her parents. Lovie had to adjust the white lights on the growing spruce out front, a job that was reserved for his wife. The white string of Christmas lights coiled around the spruce was the extent of their holiday spirit. Rachel first wrapped the tree many years back, back when Gabrielle and Rudy were still young, back when the tree was a baby and she could actually reach its peak, swaying the prickly branches into a lit candy-cane pattern. As the tree grew she would tie on more strings of lights. Over the past few winters their decorated tree developed many burnt bulbs, like a once sparkling smile in the early stages of gingivitis. But Lovie still plugged in its power, and let the single piece of Christmas spirit show off.

Lovie was suddenly tense and disturbed, far from his usual TV time mood. Rachel ruined tonight’s hundred and twenty minute body retreat with her talk about the pecan pies her mother was going to bake and what time she wanted to go downtown to view the lights. He powered the TV off and flung his hand-sized machine gun across the room. He needed to clear his head and channel surfing didn’t work, so he tried the only other thing that ever did, a short, perplexing conversation with his aging father. Lovie picked up the phone and dialed.

His father George turned eighty-five last month while sitting next a man named Terry who couldn’t hold his own body’s waste products for more then an hour, and a guy named Bradford, who liked to drink his milk with a spoon while watching old episodes of Matlock. Lovie shipped his father off to the nursing home after he stole his car and drove it into the pond at the end of Cuspus Ave. George tried to tell Lovie he did it on purpose because he hated the car with a passion, but a neighborhood kid saw the event take place and heard George yelling out, “mayday, mayday, unit 16B his been hit, we’re losing control.” The teenager didn’t know what to think so he just continued to shoot hoops as Lovie’s father slowly rolled the 04’ Explorer into the mucky, swallow water. George must have thought the street was German ground and the boy was a Nazi holding a round orange hand bomb, ready to strike his reinforced tank. George drove a tank during World War II; it was one of his favorite things to tell people, so Lovie imagined that was George’s thought process for crawling in his car and softly coasting it down the block. Talking to George was always interesting. The things he said made no sense, so much so that it was beyond comprehension, there was no need to search your brain for conception. Lovie would just sit there and relax, not imagining a thing, and let his father’s words slowly roll over his pizza dough frame.
“Hello?”
“Dad. It’s me.”
“Me? Who calls their self me?
    “It’s your one and only son.”
Lovie couldn’t see George’s face but knew the look that was on it.
“What do you want?”
“Just to talk.”
“Are you sitting in the chair I gave you?”
Lovie looked at the kitchen stool carefully then realized his father never spoke with sense.
“What chair is that dad?”
“You know, I bought it for you on Christmas. The Bills chair.”
Suddenly Lovie knew exactly what he was saying. He couldn’t believe George actually remembered giving him that nearly fifteen years ago.
“Sure dad, I use it all the time.”
Lovie slipped off the wooden stool and headed down cold stairs leading to the basement. George continued to rip off lines of dementia as he headed for the basement’s far corner where a single light bulb covered with dust hung patiently, hoping to be touched. Lovie flicked her switch, lighting up the damp area. There rested his old television set, which still worked, just a little fuzzy at times, placed in front of a massive red and blue chair. Lovie put the phone down while George continued to blab on about newspapers and bandanas, and who the hell knew what that meant. Lovie crouched in front of the faded chair. It was still in great shape considering he only used it a handful of times. He sat down, pressing the small of his back against the enormous Buffalo Bills logo that was sketched on the firm cushion. The gaudy chair came with two-cup holders or beer holders, since it also contained a cubby that could easily hold a six-pack on ice. Lovie bounced up and down on the hard springs for a while then stood up, leaving a fresh indentation. When he picked up the phone George was talking about car wax and Harry Truman.

Lovie finally convinced his father to go to bed. His brain could take the non-sense for only so long before his neurotransmitters tried to understand, and hearing some of George’s unscrupulous lines could cause total meltdown. Lovie decided to clean the house spotless, starting from the attic and working his way down to the basement. He worked through disordered piles of books spread along the attic floor. He dusted Rudy’s old room and washed Gabrielle’s cream-colored carpet. Three solid hours later the house was pristine. Lovie even got the scum hidden behind the washer machine. Then he realized it was too obvious, like he was trying to impress or put on a show, being someone he’s not, just like that crazy car salesman on TV loved to do. So Lovie scampered around the abode littering what he just picked up, slinging magazines everywhere, dragging unknown boxes from the attic and sticking them in hallways, he didn’t even clean the kitchen after attempting to bake his apricot crepes. Although the way they turned out was messy enough. He didn’t want this guy Bob to think he was a wreck about him coming to town; in fact, Lovie didn’t want his family to see that either. He wanted to show them he lived the way single, divorced men should, in total chaos.

It was the 23rd and Lovie hadn’t even begun to ponder gifts. Before, Lovie would have Christmas shopping done by Halloween. Yes, he’s one of those psycho shoppers. But not this Christmas, he didn’t hit the malls despite needing to find only three gifts. After destroying the house Lovie jumped in his brand new Land Cruiser, George killing the Explorer turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for the Land Cruiser was far superior, ten-fold. Lovie land cruised down to his favorite establishment. The Barnes & Noble on Comstock and Specter was the third most productive bookstore in the entire Northeast, so they say. Books became Lovie’s getaway, his Zen, his removal from the American workaholic stigma known as society. He would plant himself in B&N four times a week, slurping café latte’s and chomping cinnamon buns while stressed college students pretended to study at tiny square tables that barely held their paperweight-heavy textbooks. The manager, Tom, would watch him closely; craning his neck around the shelf holding freshly released hardcover novels. Tom knew Lovie’s trick, the one everyone else did himself or herself, only Lovie was the extreme. He was that ardent kid who entered the gym at 5 A.M. with his torn basketball and bottled water and didn’t leave until 8 P.M. when all others were long gone.

Lovie would enter Barnes & Nobles as an eager beaver, rubbing his fuzzy palms like he was about to begin a race, which he sort of was. He would get into a sprinters crouch, locked in blocks, then take off, circling the store grabbing random books from random shelves as checkout clerks watched him while paying no mind to their customers and sometimes scanned their items twice. After piling a stack of knowledge in my arms, he would find a tiny table and begin exploring euphoric adventures, reading until he fell over and banged his skull on the rock wood or knock over cups of cappuccino spilling milky foam across the floor. If Lovie stayed too long Tom the Manager would tap him on the shoulder and ask if he was going to actually purchase the books or if he planned on just mooching. Sometimes Lovie felt guilty enough to purchase, but never a hardcover, their astronomical prices were out of control. The bookstore was packed this day, which made sense being two days before one of the most popular holidays of the year. Lovie had to shove snot-nosed kids out of his way in order to start his journey, seesawing isles filled with paperbacks. But today wasn’t about him. He was there to find presents for his family. Three books, one for each is what Lovie had in mind.

By the time Lovie returned home the sun was sub-horizon and the trees were shadows. He nearly fell climbing the icy stairs and forgot to purchase salt rocks. The weight of a bag full of books was the only thing that saved him, steadying his gawky balance. Lovie forgot about the mayhem inside. Rachel’s tidiness spoiled him and sometimes he would forget she was gone. Lovie bought one of Emeril’s books while fishing around the bookstore. It was called Meat Treats, a title that should have been field-tested before marketed. Hopefully the intern who envisioned the banal slogan was fired by now. Lovie wrenched four lean-cut, fresh-boned pork chops from the sub-zero fridge and began preparations. Emeril’s grinning mug on the book’s cover reminded him that he’s fucked. The pork chops would burn and tomorrow the house would be filled with two ladies and a son, and a stranger named Bob.

When Lovie’s father showed up late to his son’s wedding he arrived with hands streaked of muck and grime. His boss at Brewerton Oyster & Clam only gave him a partial day off. The wedding day was exactly one week after Lovie graduated from the University of New Hampshire in the spring of 1977. It was also the first time Lovie met Rachel’s parents. Rachel’s father, a Harvard grad with a MBA from Columbia, was too busy for his only daughter, and her mother Alex just didn’t care to meet the son of a fisherman, let alone accept him. So the two lovebirds kept to themselves, living off Rachel’s putrid salary while Lovie wrote. Lovie’s father loved Rachel and helped his son and daughter-in-law anyway he could, mostly by dropping sacks of shellfish on their doorstep. As Lovie took his bride’s hand the patriarch Christian spoke and the humble crowd of mostly stone head college buddies looked on, while Rachel’s mother filed her fuchsia-colored nails and Lovie’s father wiped his hands clean, Rachel Farnsworth became Mrs. Rachel Jones. The alluring marriage proceeded on through bumps and bruises, lovemaking and romance, arguments and accommodations. Lovie’s career as a writer blossomed while Rachel once putrid salary turned capacious. They stayed in the northeast but relocated to a small town in the lower end of New York State. Their life together was fresh, elastic with room to grow, which it did, almost as fast as their two children Gabrielle and Rudy.

The east ramp was so clogged up Lovie decided to take his chances and head south then cut back northeast after passing route 12. He was on his way to the airport where his party waited his arrival. It was snowing, hard. Lovie clutched the steering wheel at its peak, two-handed, sweating through his cashmere gloves. Is Bob going to have a trunk-sized suitcase? Does he plan of staying long? Lovie’s nerves were definitely on edge, and his plan backfired, the southern route was even more clogged.

The modest airport was fluttered with family members welcoming family members. Lovie lost his family, and not in the airport lobby. Flight 142 arrived on time. Lovie waited by its wide gate. He approached the door where merry travelers were to spurt out and leaned against the wall, facing the crowd of anxious people bobbing their heads trying to catch a glimpse before their party’s suitcase rolled up the ramp. The door flung open, people flooded out, suitcase rumbled, and Lovie’s family appeared. Lovie watched sincere hugs occur and florescent smiles flash, and he watched his family roll down the terminal, not expecting their husband and father to be there waiting. The back of Gabrielle was more beautiful then her front. Lovie could see her natural curls flopping. Her calves were steady, sharp, like that of long-jumper. Lovie could smell her wet jacket filled with red colors and worn scents of Dolce & Gabbana. Rudy walked with a slight limp, his right leg appeared shorter then his left. His jeans were light and hips narrow as he drooped with timid steps. He looked to be in pain. Then there was Rachel whose looks hadn’t changed since 1974 when Lovie’s eyes got their first look. Her confidence was obvious, not like Gabrielle’s, which was abstruse. Lovie noticed her auburn hair had changed, it grew past her shoulders down to her ribcage, longer then he had ever seen it. Rachel, as fashionable as ever, walked with a pace that quickly separated herself from Lovie, her shoulders supporting a tall man’s arm. Lovie balanced his legs and shimmied forward. He tapped the only uncovered part of Rachel’s shoulder.
“Lovie, how are you?”
Rachel spoke before turning around. She knew Lovie’s callous touch.
“Hey Rach, I’m good, you?”
Both Gabrielle and Rudy were facing him now, one happier then the other.
“Daddy!”
Gabrielle dropped her stuff and wrapped both arms around Lovie, her aroma deepened.
“Hey Gabby, you look amazing!”
“Aw dad, stop.”
Rudy hobbled forward, extending his arms like Frankenstein, reaching for his father’s heart.
“Rudy, when you gonna cut that hair?”
Lovie knuckle-scratched his son’s moppy head.
“Yeah dad.”
“Good to see ya Rudy.”
“Same here.”

Lovie hadn’t noticed the man with his arm blanketed around his ex-wife’s neck until the arm removed itself and extended its hand towards his stomach.
“You must be Lovie, I’ve heard a lot about you, I’m Robert.”
Lovie reached and grabbed.
“How’s it going?” Lovie was no longer shaking Bob’s hand.
“Good. Hey, what’s brown and black and looks good on a lawyer?”
Lovie was puzzled. Was Bob telling a joke? The very second we meet and he is trying to be a comic? Lovie didn’t try to guess or saying anything at all, hoping Bob would forget the punch line.
“A Doberman, get it?”

By the time they got home it was about one in the morning. Small chitchat occurred but nothing heavy was discussed. Lovie had the house all prepared for his guests, but not in an obvious way, he didn’t want to appear desperate. The kids made it back to their rooms, Rachel and her new beau hit the guest room downstairs, and Lovie slept on the couch, not knowing why he did.

The snowing ceased over night but left its palpable affect, reaching the bottom of some mailboxes. Lovie woke early and started to work on his novel, which was seemingly stuck in between something and nowhere. The rest didn’t rise until eleven, all beat from the long night before. After staring at his computer for nearly an hour, Lovie decided to clear his head, and drove over to the Jamestown Nursing Home.

George was watching Matlock with his milk-scoping friend Bradford when Lovie came knocking, the two fogies barely moving, breathing soft. Lovie could see Bradford’s toenails, which were the color of a dull school bus. He nearly gagged.
“Hey Pop.”
“Shhhh.”
“Oh come on dad, you hate Matlock.”
“This is Matlock? Dammit Bradford, you have me watching Matlock?”
Bradford sucked some milk, nodding along with the television’s hum.
“Come on dad, I’m making lunch over at the house.”
“What you making?”
“Does it matter?”
George didn’t have to think long, considering it was lunch at his son’s house or watch a white-haired Andy Griffith charge a man one hundred grand for his defensive prowess. When the Jones Boys entered the kitchen everyone was drinking coffee, almost afraid to help themselves.
“Hey, its Grandpa!”
Both kids went over to hug their senile grandfather.
“I thought I’d make Chicken Marsala for lunch, sound good?”
Lovie pointed around the room, reaching for acknowledgement. The few shakes of heads were good enough for him.

Lovie ran upstairs to get Emeril’s recipe which he copied down three Tuesday’s ago. The recipe called for a few items his kitchen lacked, but he figured a few spices weren’t that important anyway. While the family sat abide, some chatting, others sipping, Lovie whipped up a platter of thick-sliced chicken covered in a mixture of milk, olive oil, and mushrooms. He ordered the group in to the dining room and asked Rudy to place settings. At last, the family was together once again, even George was in attendance, sitting next to a tall man named Bob.
“So Lovie, Rachel tells me you’re a writer.”
Lovie gobbled a pile of shrooms then spoke.
“That’s right.”
“Anything I’d know?”
Lovie looked up and wanted to say what his mind was thinking, but he resisted. Maybe it was because the Chicken Marsala was the first Emeril recipe that he actually cooked well, and he didn’t want a scene to take focus away from that.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Daddy wrote Tim Little.” Gabrielle said while dapping her napkin.
“Really? You wrote that? I’m gonna have to read it.”
Lovie couldn’t take his eyes off the Marsala. He was in heaven. Bob placed his utensils down and wiped his mouth clear of any grit.
“What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?”
No one moved or stopped eating; they just sat and hoped someone else would phantom an answer.
“One is a scum sucking bottom-dweller. And the other is a fish.”
Rachel tried to giggle but it was hard. Rudy shook his head and let out a sigh of annoyance. Bob chuckled hard at his own corny joke. Lovie wasn’t a lawyer but at that moment he wished he were so he would have an excuse to stand, walk over, and knock Bob’s thin frames off his repugnant face. “This man is my complete opposite,” Lovie thought, “It was almost as if I drove Rachel to lesbianism.”
“Why is the sky blue? Every time I look up, I see god damn blue.”
George had let out one of his expected rambles; no one paid it much thought. Suddenly, Bob began to laugh, harder then he did when complementing his own moronic attorney joke.
“That’s a good one George, I thought I knew some whoppers, but that joke tops them all.”
Bob patted George on the shoulder while George looked at him like he was crazy. George sat with his arms folded, expecting an answer.
“I dunno dad. Don’t know if anyone knows.”
Rachel glanced at her ex-husband and Lovie noticed. The two kids were finished with their plates and quickly excused themselves. George sat impatiently. And Bob couldn’t stop laughing.
 
In simple terms, it is due to Rayleigh scattering. As light moves through the atmosphere, most of the longer wavelengths pass straight through while the air affects little of the red, orange and yellow light. However, the gas molecules absorb much of the shorter wavelength light. The absorbed blue light is then radiated in different directions. It gets scattered all around the sky. Whichever direction you look, some of this scattered blue light reaches you. Since you see the blue light from everywhere overhead, the sky looks blue.

That’s what Lovie found while sitting at his favorite table under the glares of Tom the Manager, trying to discover answers to his father’s intriguing question. He went to B&N while the family went to visit old friends. The day before Christmas quickly became Christmas Eve and the snowman high above got back to work. The middle-aged spruce out front was covered in snow but her lights poked through, warming tiny holes where hot bulbs were placed. There was plenty of dry wood stacked like heavy bunkers inside the garage where Rudy made trips, trying to keep the firing going. Lovie sat at his desk, watching his computer breath, trying to cool off its hard-drive.
“Hey Lovie?”
Rachel was standing in the doorway.
“Yeah.”
“We were going to head down to Armory Park, want to come?”
Lovie thought about the last time he went there. It was five years ago, Christmas Eve, where him and his family attempted to skate around the park’s frozen lake. He thought about the smiles on their faces, and the one on his own. He remembered Gabby, talking smack about her ice-skating skills then being the first one to fall on her ass. He thought about how his body had faded since then, and not only the physical part. Then he thought about Bob. He imagined Bob whipping his daughter around the rink while Rachel cheered. He imagined his son out of place, unwilling to open his gene of fun.
“Yeah, I’ll come. But lets open gifts first.”
Rachel looked confused at first but then recalled their old tradition. One present each, the night before Christmas.
“Sure Lovie. ”

The family gathered round the plastic tree covered in Wal-Mart’s finest ornaments (after Rachel left, Lovie’s taste and style left too). Lovie pulled out his three books, each one wrapped to perfection. Gabby went first. She tore into the green and gold paper and removed her prize.
“Aw thanks dad.”
She held a hardcover book on finances. It was called Turn Unwanted Change Into Folding Money.
“You always told me to watch my money.”
“I know Gabby, I hope you like it.”
Rudy was next but a bit afraid now after seeing his sister’s gift. He knew it had something to do with an issue that needed to develop in his closed, inner self. Slowly, Rudy opened the Christmas present. It contained a book, another hardcover. It was titled Motivation, a simple, clear, one-word plea. Rudy tossed it on the couch and thanked his father. By then Rachel had already opened hers. It was a piece of new fiction by Jennie Wilkins about a high-classed woman who had it all then lost everything in an instant. The novel described how life isn’t all about the material things. The three crumbled their wrapping paper and put on their coats.
“No wait. I got you something too.”
Lovie headed for his bedroom and came back with another wrapped gift, this one not as smooth. He handed it to Bob who sported a shocked look, completely caught off guard. Bob was an aggressive opener and chewed through the paper with his shiny teeth. He revealed the book.
“Ahhh, now that’s funny, what a character you are Lovie.”
Bob held the paperback out so everyone could see its title. How To Tell Jokes For Dummies. Lovie creased page 62, where the section on lawyer jokes began. Bob continued to laugh, not sarcastically, he actually thought Lovie did it as a joke.

Gabby drove one car with Rachel and Bob while Rudy rode along with his father. The whirling spruce out front swayed in the winds as the Land Cruiser passed. Rudy sarcastically asked his father if he bought the car from their favorite salesman. Lovie sarcastically replied yes. The pond at the end of the street was frozen over and the roads were clear. A silver mist streamed out of the West, leaving a tail of dissolving mists behind. The S.U.V. smelled of musty sweat and a faint smoothness of suede. When reaching Armory Park the sky lit up. Family’s roamed the area, dressed warm but still chilly. The two cars parked and their occupants stepped out. The Jones Family and a man named Bob headed for the pond that looked more like a hockey rink.
“Who’s gonna come skate with me?” Rachel asked as she laced her skates.
No one seemed too thrilled to go.
“I’ll come honey.”
Bob went over to Rachel and put his arm around her. The two sailed off to the pond’s center, shaking with skating inexperience. The two kids plopped on a bench nearby, one that resembled the bench where Rachel sat in her black skirt some thirty years ago. Lovie walked over and sat in between the two. They watched Rachel and Bob kick their legs in the air, spending more time on the ice then on their feet.
“I wonder what his joke will be for this one,” Rudy said.
Lovie smiled at both children who were now adults, placing his arms around the two people he hardly got to see.

 

 

Copyright © 2005 John Hardoby
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"