The Bubble Reputation Read Online Free

on alone, without William there for balance. As a group, they were like a big wallowing mutt, an Old English sheepdog, its head and paws too large for a small room, uncontrollable in its leaps and bounds. Things could easily get broken. But William had loved her family, studied them, rejoiced in them, painted them. “Van Gogh would’ve adored those yellow ringlets,” he had said of Mother’s curls. “They look just like the stars in Starry Night . I’ve never met people so proud to be crazy.”
    â€œWhen is Father getting here?” Mother asked. Rosemary passed the book of matches to Miriam and found a seat on the sofa next to Uncle Bishop. Robbie flopped into the recliner and dangled a leg over the side. He had cut his short hair even shorter, and now the white of his scalp gleamed along the hairline. Good, clean-cut looks, back in style now. He was twenty-six, well muscled from the weights he lifted, a runner who logged thirty miles a week. The new breed.
    â€œI said when is Father getting here?” Mother slapped the arm of her rocker. No one answered, hoping she would forget she had asked the question and eventually go on, into one of the other disheveled rooms of her mind. But Mother had stuck to the thought, had caught it by the wings as though it were a bug, and held on. “I want to know!” she shouted.
    â€œIn twenty minutes,” said Rosemary. “He just called.”
    â€œThat’s more like it,” Mother said. She rubbed her nose, getting a little of the lipstick on her sweater sleeve.
    â€œDoesn’t she look like the cutest little doll?” Uncle Bishop asked lovingly. “What do you suppose she thinks of all day long?” He had propped both woolly feet up on Rosemary’s coffee table and was staring at Mother the way one stares at an interesting pet.
    â€œWhy don’t you bleach those socks, Bishop?” asked Miriam. She had not yet recovered, or so she whispered to Rosemary, from the hair-raising ride over in the Datsun. “That pickup is deranged. It’s like one of those cars on The Twilight Zone . He rarely bothers to steer.”
    â€œI don’t bleach my socks, Miriam,” said Uncle Bishop, “because I assume that all of the bleach in the free world has gone onto your hair.”
    â€œPlease,” said Rosemary. “Don’t the two of you start.” Years before, Miriam had developed a mental block about the true color of her hair.
    â€œI do not bleach my hair!” Miriam shouted.
    â€œYou were a brunette at your high school graduation,” said Uncle Bishop, and then loosened the drawstring on his pants. Rosemary smiled. No matter how childish, how petty, how crazy the family was, it was wonderful to see them all again, all under one roof.
    â€œI’m glad we’re together again,” she said.
    â€œI don’t have the gums for hard chocolates,” Mother announced.
    Uncle Bishop went off into the kitchen to put his sauce on to simmer. Rosemary had the dining room table ready with her best china and silver. All the linen napkins were fluffed in their rings. The tapered candles were a rose color, to match the roses in the centerpiece. Robbie had picked up the flowers at Bixley’s only floral shop. Rosemary hated buying them. In less than a month, her backyard would be ablaze with blooms of all kinds.
    Uncle Bishop stood in the kitchen doorway and banged a wooden spoon against the casing to rally the diners before him.
    â€œAnd Julia Child has the audacity to call that slop she serves food ? Come, children. Tomorrow the headlines will read: Bishop Makes Julia Weep .” Uncle Bishop loved sputtering about with a messy spoon, in some ghastly apron splattered with colorful blotches, some of which had nothing at all to do with food. Rosemary was thankful that the sauce had been prepared on his own stove and not hers. She imagined the little daisies on his kitchen wallpaper