![]() ![]() Grand-papa always locked the door but Simon knew what he was doing. ![]() The little party trouped across the broad lawns to the warmth of the parlor, and a glass of sherry - hot cocoa for Simon.ĭuty done, Simon and his mother retreated to the morning room to read until dinner, and Grand-papa withdrew to his study. He brought Simon and his mother home to his grand, cold house - back in the frying pan.įinally, mercifully, the last clay pigeon was spat out and destroyed. Then, one day, Grand-papa arrived and ran off the latest uncle with the same shotgun he was using now to deafen them. But, after a few months of blissful peace, a series of uncles picked up where his father had left off. At night as he lay in the dark listening to the grunting, rhythmic pounding of flesh-on-flesh, then raised voices, pummeling fists, and his mother’s sobs, Simon would make up stories, grand adventures of the stamps’ previous owners.Īfter the slam of the front door signaled his father’s departure, his mother would drag herself to his bed and hold him ‘til his shivering stopped. When Simon learned to read, the bald recital of each stamp’s passage from owner to owner became a magic carpet for the lonely little boy. The envelopes were addressed in a spidery, old-fashioned hand to Simon Baker, Esq., and held one or two stamps along with their letters of provenance. The little, colored squares, each in its own glassine envelope, arrived every few weeks in a stiff, expensive-looking envelope. Simon’s parents had their own fish to fry and couldn’t be bothered to wonder why someone would send their son a bunch of old stamps. Thud.Īfter Simon was thrown against the wall a few times, he learned to stay out of the way and play quietly with his bits of paper. ![]() “Don’t you say ‘no’ to me, you stupid bitch.” Smack. Simon’s mother was driven to her knees, hands raised to ward off what she knew was coming. “You idiot, look what you make me do.” Slap. But his extravagant promises weren’t worth much. Oh, Simon’s father swore he loved them when he’d return with flowers and apologies. “From the frying pan, into the fire,” she used to tell Simon through her tears. He’d realized some time ago his beautiful and charming butterfly of a mother just wasn’t up to the task of protecting them from the men in her life, no matter how much he loved her or wished she could. The red lipstick smear on prominent, front teeth.Īt eleven-going-on-forty, Simon was a pragmatist. He examined his mother’s face, the dark shadows under red-rimmed eyes no amount of sleep could erase, the nervous laugh. Simon recognized a bully when he saw one. Simon thought his Grand-papa would be much happier blasting away at real pigeons, but he knew better than to say so. “It would make him so happy if you took an interest.” “You know how much Grand-papa loves shooting skeet.” She bent down, her face close to his, and bared her teeth in a what was meant to be a reassuring smile. “Simon, dearest.” His mother pushed his hands down. Simon winced and stuffed his fingers in his ears. Even better…sorting through the letters in his shoe-box. He wished they were home, sipping hot chocolate in front of a crackling fire, or snuggled together with a favorite book on the comfy, over-stuffed, morning-room sofa. “No.” Simon’s nose was red and runny, and his toes were numb even in wool socks and sturdy, leather boots. She tucked the loose, chestnut strands under her paisley headscarf and pulled her collar close against the brisk, fall day. “Isn’t this nicer than poring over those silly bits of paper?” The chill breeze whipped her hair into her eyes. ![]() Simon’s mother patted his shoulder with a gloved hand. Grand-papa’s bass rumble repeated the single, uninflected word, punctuating it with the relentless shattering of clay pigeons. ![]()
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