I'm packing the car Friday after school. We're heading down to Jake's parents' house for a weekend to work on his aunt and uncle's house building efforts. The car is only so big, though, and both girls have misquoted me, with teary effects.
"But you said we could bring ALL our waldorf dolls," Fiona says, way too emotional for the situation. She's referring to these soft bodied handmade dolls they've gotten for Christmas each year since they were small. They each have 6 or so, including a "heavy baby" which is in fact a heavy baby, in a bunting stuffed with rice or walnut shells or something like that. Lug.
"I know I told you that," I admit, "but I didn't know it would mean all their gear as well." Daisy is standing on the porch clutching a doll stroller in one hand and a backpack full of stuff in the other.
Jake is saying no. Flat no. Put that stuff inside no. Billy is crying while Jake brings tools and boots down to the car. I'm good enough at packing, though, that everything fits without a problem.
"Actually, they can bring the dolls and blankets and a pillow each," I concede. "But none of that hard gear, the strollers and shit."
The girls overhear and start dividing stuff up. The stroller goes back inside but they trot out reasonably happy and get themselves situated in the car. Now I've been packing the car for 10 minutes and a headache is forming over my right eye. I close the hatchback, press Billy into his carseat against his wails of protest, and look across the street.
There, in the Friedmans' house, is their tenant, a young woman, Bruce told me, with a new job in town but nowhere to go and no way to pay a first month's rent. A young lawyer, I think he told me. She's sitting in one of his porch chairs. Just watching us.
"Did you go over and meet the new neighbor?" Jake asks as we pull away from the curb. I look at him with that are you kidding me look that I've been perfecting over 15 years.
"I just don't think we were making the best first impression."
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