The Bubble Reputation Read Online Free Page A

bespattered that very minute with tomato puree.
    They gathered around the big rectangular table in the dining room, another auction treasure. It was the first time Rosemary had eaten in the huge room, upon the shiny oak table, since the news of William. It was just too immense. She felt as though she were a child , trying to pull a heavy chair up to a giant’s table. On the wall hung a painting William had done a few years before. It was a work Rosemary loved, a reproduction of The Chinese Horse , a cave painting found deep in the Lascaux caves in France. During dinners with William the candlelight had touched upon the delicate, simple horse, and it wavered across the canvas, causing those primitive muscles to ripple.
    â€œI’ll say it again,” said Miriam, as the family took their places around the table. “That’s the worst horse I’ve ever seen. A child could do better than that.” Uncle Bishop spooned sauce over the plates of spaghetti, which Robbie placed before them.
    â€œMiriam prefers paint-by-number things,” he explained, as Rosemary brought the garlic bread to the table. “She understands composition better when dealing with clowns and the enlarged heads of cocker spaniels.”
    â€œAt least I don’t throw shoes at members of the same sex,” said Miriam. She squashed her cigarette into the ashtray.
    â€œShoes?” asked Robbie. Rosemary gave him a fast look.
    â€œHas your wine breathed enough, Robbie?” she asked. He forgot about shoes and went out to the kitchen for the wine.
    â€œIf I know Robbie,” said Uncle Bishop, “once his wine has breathed, it will want to eat.”
    â€œWhere’s Father?” Mother shouted. Like an unhappy prisoner, she banged her fork on the table.
    â€œI can’t believe she’s back to Father,” Rosemary said, taking the fork before any damage was done to the oak. “She’s getting better and better at retaining a thought.” She placed the fork in Mother’s spaghetti, encouraged her to hold it, hoping something new would take possession of her mind, a different swarm of bugs. It worked. Mother smiled and said, “I’m very hungry.”
    â€œShe’s brilliant all right,” said Miriam. Robbie poured the wine.
    â€œHere’s to the family,” he said, and raised his glass for a toast. The others did the same, all except for Mother. Robbie put the wineglass in her hand and closed her fingers around the stem.
    â€œHere’s to the family,” said Rosemary.
    â€œThe family,” said Uncle Bishop. Miriam drank along with the toasts, but did not propose one herself. The family was a society she rejoiced in only if she needed it. In the candlelight, her hair gleamed as red as Mother’s did yellow.
    â€œThey look like pansies, don’t they?” Uncle Bishop leaned over and whispered to Rosemary.
    â€œI just don’t like hard chocolates,” Mother said. She had already finished her glass of wine. She smiled at Rosemary, a stranger sitting next to her at the table.
    Rosemary felt the panic rising up again, that urge to wish Mother normal. She stared instead at The Chinese Horse , fought the panic off. If she didn’t, when the panic went away, it would leave remorse behind. Rosemary had lived through it all many times before.
    The problem with Mother began long ago. Nine years. Ten years. She’d been cleaning the outside kitchen window and had fallen from the stepladder. What was lost when she came to, days later, was her ability to retain new memory. And she remembered only hit-and-miss sketches of the past. All life became new to her, over and over again. New happiness. New loss. Perpetually. To tell her that Father, her husband, had died twenty-some years earlier was to no advantage. She merely resuffered the pain and then, a short time later, could no longer remember he was dead. Miriam had much less patience with her than