How about you give me some of that whatchamacallit of yours, Ron says to Doris, pouring himself coffee from the scorched aluminum pot. He sets it back on the tile, and the baby mouths hot and hot again, but no one looks. It's a babka, New York food, she says as she reaches across the baby, the ketchup, the empty cans of last night's Bud that 7-year-old Kenny will recycle into Reese's Peanut Butter Cups at Hiram's store, and sets the babka on a plate, a high-crowned crippled hat that's been punched in the side, gnawed underneath. The children have been at it, lawless as usual on Saturday mornings; the whole place falls to pieces, collapses, like the cake. Ron sleeps late. Kenny slips out of bed before it's light, plays one of his race-car games without the sound. Saturdays he goes to his friend Bealie's house; they're making a secret fort under the porch that no one knows about. Jenny is eating standing up, wearing Sarah's quilted robe. Her cuffs are soaked in milk. A bobcat for breakfast? she says, loud enough for her sister to hear. She's already stolen half for her. Sarah is still in bed, reading one of her historical books, the one with a wicked queen on the cover. Later, she has promised, they will act it out. They brought this thing all the way up from New York? says Ron. No wonder it's dry. He's the only one dressed, the only one wearing real shoes. If the trailer caught fire right now, he's the only one equipped to act. Doris tears a piece off for Phyllis, the baby, who stares at it, then flips it off her tray. Kenny hands it to her, but she makes a face, refusing it. She's holding out for the Cheetos in the crinkly bag on top of the fridge. I'd shoot me a bobcat if I saw it, says Kenny. Jenny, his twin, opens her mouth and silently shows him the food in her teeth. It's Jewish? Ron asks and Doris shrugs. You get it at the store? Doris gives him a look. Where do you think? I didn't find it in the woods. What's Jewish? Kenny asks. Never you mind, says Ron. Doris is wearing her mother-in-law's scuffs; they were left at the bottom of the bag they used to bring the old lady's things to…
How about you give me some of that whatchamacallit of yours, Ron says to Doris, pouring himself coffee from the scorched aluminum pot. He sets it back on the tile, and the baby mouths hot and hot again, but no one looks. It's a babka, New York food, she says as she reaches across the baby, the ketchup, the empty cans of last night's Bud that 7-year-old Kenny will recycle into Reese's Peanut Butter Cups at Hiram's store, and sets the babka on a plate, a high-crowned crippled hat that's been punched in the side, gnawed underneath. The children have been at it, lawless as usual on Saturday mornings; the whole place falls to pieces, collapses, like the cake. Ron sleeps late. Kenny slips out of bed before it's light, plays one of his race-car games without the sound. Saturdays he goes to his friend Bealie's house; they're making a secret fort under the porch that no one knows about. Jenny is eating standing up, wearing Sarah's quilted robe. Her cuffs are soaked in milk. A bobcat for breakfast? she says, loud enough for her sister to hear. She's already stolen half for her. Sarah is still in bed, reading one of her historical books, the one with a wicked queen on the cover. Later, she has promised, they will act it out. They brought this thing all the way up from New York? says Ron. No wonder it's dry. He's the only one dressed, the only one wearing real shoes. If the trailer caught fire right now, he's the only one equipped to act. Doris tears a piece off for Phyllis, the baby, who stares at it, then flips it off her tray. Kenny hands it to her, but she makes a face, refusing it. She's holding out for the Cheetos in the crinkly bag on top of the fridge. I'd shoot me a bobcat if I saw it, says Kenny. Jenny, his twin, opens her mouth and silently shows him the food in her teeth. It's Jewish? Ron asks and Doris shrugs. You get it at the store? Doris gives him a look. Where do you think? I didn't find it in the woods. What's Jewish? Kenny asks. Never you mind, says Ron. Doris is wearing her mother-in-law's scuffs; they were left at the bottom of the bag they used to bring the old lady's things to…