Marlene Olin ABBY The serving platters were equitably distributed on the table. The pot roast lay centered, the rustic potatoes to the left, the ratatouille casserole to the right. Each napkin was folded with origami precision. The menu not only reflected the right combination of eye-catching colors but a sufficient number of antioxidants as well. Abby was pleased. She marched into the kitchen, thumbed through her calendar on the wall, and struck off Thursday night dinner. Two hours of television would be followed by a fifteen-minute shower. Then if Clifford were in the mood, the 10:15-10:30 slot would be occupied by lovemaking. Her day was done. A few moments later her family was seated at the table. While they ate and talked, Abby’s head swiveled from side to side. “So here we are in the faculty lounge,” said Clifford, “looking out the window. It’s the middle of February, and wouldn’t you know. The kids are walking to their classes in tee-shirts and shorts. It’s the middle of February in New-fricking-England, and they’re dressed for a day at the beach!”
“It’s climate change,” said Lewis. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Their nightly game was simple. Whatever ball her husband tossed, their son returned. Though Clifford was short and squat, their son was six feet tall and a hundred and thirty pounds. Pale lank hair. Tentacle-like fingers. Everything about him was stringy. She watched the words as they swished overhead, bandying across the table. Greenhouse effect. Ozone layer. Rising waters. Then she sighed and cleared her throat. “By the way, Clifford. Did you speak to your friend in Admissions? What’s her name? Clara or Cassandra or Claudia. You know. The one who said she’d help.” It was a sore subject. Lewis’ SAT scores were embarrassingly low and he refused to retake the test. Clifford was a tenured Professor of Modern Poetry. Though he loved his son, he hated intervening. Lewis’ college application would be an embarrassment. Clifford knew it. Abby knew it. They all knew it. “Perhaps Father could help,” said Abby. “Maybe Father could make a donation...” Clifford shot her a look. Abby knew that look. It was a look that said she was crazy. They lived in the kind of small academic town where the trappings of wealth were frowned upon. Clothes and jewelry didn’t 67
