Toby

I knew they lived on the other side of the viaduct, around Parnell somewhere, but I didn’t know the address, so I stopped off at home to check the phone book.

Mom was napping, worn out from being scared, I guess. I stood in her bedroom doorway looking at her there, on her back, in her muumuu, slippers off, holding a rosary on her stomach, practicing being dead.

Poor thing.

But you know? I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a tiny part of her that kind of wished she really was dead. She’s been acting all scared and hysterical about these Russian missiles coming to get us, but I think there’s a little tiny part of her that wouldn’t mind. I mean, what would she be leaving? What’s she got down here?

Cake and candy, TV, and me.

And she’d finally be back with my father. Which is all she really wants. She’s always talking about it, how happy they’ll be, how “joyful.” So I don’t know why she doesn’t just paint a great big bull’s-eye on the roof:

Right here, Mr. Khrushchev.

I looked up “Cavaletto” in the phone book, for their address. Nothing. They probably didn’t have a phone, or a toilet, or silverware. I’d have to go looking around for their wagon, that’s all.

I washed up and put some clean clothes on. Then I put together a couple of sandwiches to eat on the way: baloney, lettuce, relish, and lots and lots of mustard.

I love mustard, don’t you?

I’ve never been much of a ketchup fan. I think it’s a boring thing to put on your food. I’ll put it on my french fries, sure, but that’s about it. And mayonnaise. Don’t get me started. I hate that stuff. In potato salad, fine, go ahead. But people who put mayonnaise on a sandwich? On an ordinary sandwich? I don’t want anything to do with those people.

I’ll bet my little gypsy friends put it on their toast in the morning. I’ll bet they spread it on their pancakes.