Beat the Turtle Drum Read Online Free Page A

glass. That was some big martini.
    â€œI was thirteen when my mother died. I remember it as if it were yesterday.” Her eyes looked through me, past me, at something I couldn’t see. “I made up my mind I would keep house for my father, make him forget, make him happy again.
    â€œI tried very hard to make him happy. He got married less than a year after my mother died. He married a woman he’d known a short while. They shut me out. They forgot I was there. He always called my mother ‘Dearest.’ Now he called this woman, his new wife, he called her ‘Darling.’”
    â€œMy father usually calls my mother ‘Honey,’” I said. I sat down on the edge of a chair covered in a hairy brown fabric that scratched my legs. I didn’t want to sit down, I just did. But then, I didn’t want to feel sorry for Miss Pemberthy either, and I did. I wished she’d stop talking, stop telling me these things.
    â€œWhen he teases her, he calls her ‘the little woman.’ She really hates to be called that. She gets mad.” I laughed as if I’d said something terribly funny. “She jumps up and down and says, ‘Stop that!’” Which wasn’t true, but I said it anyway. I put my glass very carefully down on a table.
    â€œHe called her ‘Darling’ every time he turned around.” Miss Pemberthy went on as if she hadn’t heard me. “They kissed right in front of me. I felt I was in the way. It’s a terrible thing, to feel in the way in your own house. My stepmother was kind to me. She wasn’t wicked. He gave me money for books and clothes, but he didn’t really know I was around.” Miss Pemberthy emptied the pitcher into her glass. I got up and inched toward the door.
    â€œI hear my mother calling,” I said. “Goodbye,” I said and ran.
    The night was there, waiting for me. How glad I was to be out in it! I threw open my arms and ran, ran as fast as I could toward my own house. The lights were on, and in the dusk I could see my father coming up from the garage, his newspaper tucked under his arm.
    I hurled myself at him.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he asked in surprise.
    â€œNothing, Dad,” I said. I hugged him until he grunted.
    â€œTo what do I owe this display of affection?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I just felt like it.”

“Joss,” I said, “remember Jean- Pierre?” Last night she’d had another of her bad dreams. I wanted to see if she’d remember the next morning. Sometimes she didn’t. When she woke, her brain was washed clean of any memory.
    â€œSort of,” Joss said. “I loved him a lot.”
    When Joss was small, around four or five, she’d had an imaginary friend named Jean-Pierre. Nobody knew where she got the name. We don’t have any French ancestors. Jean-Pierre came everywhere with us—to the tree fort we built in the old apple tree in our back yard, to the bathroom where Joss had a terrible time making him brush his teeth, and even out to restaurants.
    My father took us out for spaghetti Sunday nights to the Arrow Restaurant in Westport. You could eat at the Arrow until you burst and it hardly cost anything. The Arrow was my father’s favorite restaurant. Not only was it cheap but you didn’t have to dress up.
    The first time we went, Joss told the waiter that Jean-Pierre needed a high chair. “He’s not as big as me,” she said.
    The waiters at the Arrow are family men with experience. Nothing fazes them. This one brought a high chair and stood with his hands on his hips while Joss fitted Jean-Pierre inside. Then he handed Joss a big paper napkin.
    â€œBetter tuck this in good,” he told her. “At that age they’re awfully messy.”
    Joss said, “You are a very, very nice man.”
    People were looking at us and smiling.
    â€œDon’t slurp,