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Chapter 7. Gab and Bob

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Our houses loomed at the very end of a cul-de-sac. These fringes of techno-burbs and the old frontier caused irreparable tensions. Every home finished construction the same month some twenty years ago, and their outward differences were the products of those who came before us: mounting picket fences, fashioning a patio for your old age, digging a pool in your backyard, then filling it back up, the new colors of the ages the paint lady promised were timeless. Ours was a maroon bedazzled with red bricks and weathered white accents; follow me inside to see the forced ambiance of lustrous umber and deep red draping the walls in diamonds and pinstripes, illuminated by stained glass lamps.

Once my parents made it home, I pulled out the only question I knew to ask Mom while she flung her wrinkled gingham gowns in the garage washing machine.

"Do you know if the Derricks are taking a trip?"

"The Derricks are going on a trip?" replied Mom, unbothered.

"Charlie said his dad took Scottie to see their grandma."

"...Then why are you asking me about it?"

It was true; I was running out of places to dig lest Johan and Scottie returned right this minute with "I Heart Grenada Trail" shirts. I was getting restless again.

Johan and Alma, Jacob and Judi. Thesis, anthesis. That doesn't mean my folks burned with whatever parental flame the Derricks were missing. They were products of their time, I suppose; would-be peace corps hippie baby boomers turned doctors fleeing the city for this up-and-coming West Coast hotspot—dentist and psychiatrist, respectively. The Derricks would never leave their kids to fend for themselves for two sleeps while they took off to relive the thrill of Kent State by screwing in a quaint bed & breakfast.

Dinner was served by candlelight on the sticky pine table in the homely kitchen. Country-style, one bench of pinstripe upholstery for the weary to rest their backs on red and white checkered tiles, two creaking birch chairs, and a stool for Elijah.

"Your father and I stayed at this lovely bed and breakfast, very bougie, very...white protestant...it was cute!" Mom gabbed. "Ran by this couple, well into their eighties, their names were something like Matt and Pat, or...honey? What were their names?"

"Gab and Bob," Dad informed, smiling over at his children. "They were very nice."

"Oh, they were adorable," Mom chuckled. "I hope we can go back before they're both dead."

Where Judi Hazan slapped flowy gowns over a bird-like willowy frame down which her luscious raven locks trickled, I inherited little but her tan, old country complexion on doughy puppy fat. She denied work on the hooked nose the rest of us wore with scrutiny. Through the candlelight illuminating the dinner table, she was more Romina Power than Madame Rosette. I wouldn't trust my boyfriend to mow my lawn if she were out there drinking gimlets, that's for sure.

"That's nice, Mom," I politely replied as I played with my food, giving off the illusion I was eating and putting her vast office literature on eating disorders to the test. She went on, not caring much for who was listening: the harborside dinner was lovely, the wine was delicious, the country club crowd was snooty, driving home was a nightmare, the maître d was an old hag, but Gab and Bob were stars.

Dad let her do that. He was mellow and quiet, teetering on tranquilized, words escaping him in an alien accent no one could place, merely happy to be there. He loved us; he didn't say it but didn't have to.

Our dear father was born in the old world and bore the scars of having to keep quiet. I was sure Mom could get away with anything. Isaac looked like our father, with the same big brown doe eyes and dark curly hair. I looked like Isaac; I didn't look like my father. I didn't look like my mother, either.

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