That Summer by Jennifer Weiner (read more books .txt) 📕

lox to take home before heading to the Pick-a-Bagel across the street. Philadelphia’s bagels were just as good as the ones in New York, but there was no telling Vernon Shoemaker that, and woe betide her if she ever came back from the city without his everything bagels. She bought a dozen for Danny and Jesse, another dozen for her father-in-law.

Vernon still lived in the apartment in a retirement community in Bryn Mawr where he’d resided back when Daisy had first met him. Hal had called her, desperate for help, and the following afternoon, Daisy cut her last literature class of the year and drove two and a half hours to Bryn Mawr. Her client had turned out to be a scowling gentleman with pale, watery eyes and the most ridiculously elaborate comb-over she’d ever seen.

“Mr. Shoemaker?” Daisy had said, hand extended. “I’m Diana Rosen.” Back then, she’d still been Diana.

Instead of returning her greeting, he’d said, in a querulous tone, “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Your son hired me,” Daisy said.

“Well, I didn’t ask him to,” Vernon pronounced. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

“How about you show me your kitchen?” Daisy suggested. She’d had half a dozen students by then, and was used to being greeted with everything from cheerful enthusiasm to naked desperation, depending on the circumstances. Meanwhile, her new student just looked stubborn and aggrieved.

“Fine,” he grumbled, and stepped aside to let her enter.

The condo smelled of furniture polish and, faintly, of unwashed male body, and its rooms were crammed with a Tetris puzzle of furniture, coffee tables and armchairs and love seats and couches and highboys occupying almost every inch of space. An enormous television set was the single new addition to what had clearly been the contents of a Main Line mansion.

The condo had wall-to-wall carpeting, raked with vacuum-cleaner tracks, but Daisy could discern two paths branching away from the recliner. She could picture Vernon Shoemaker sitting in his chair like a king on his throne, leaving only to go to the left, to the kitchen, or to the right, where she guessed there was a bathroom.

In the kitchen, the sink was full of dirty dishes, and the trash can was overflowing, spilling empty cans, packets of soy sauce and mustard, plastic silverware, and more takeout containers onto the sticky-looking floor. “The girl comes Wednesdays,” Vernon said with a negligent wave. The dining-room table was piled high with newspapers, magazines, and stacks of what looked like children’s clothing. Daisy saw dozens of pairs of pants, shirts, shoes, and sweaters. Vernon saw her looking.

“Gifts,” he said. “For my grandchildren.” He went to the table and showed her a pile of boys’ T-shirts. “I buy ’em on Senior Day at JC Penney. I get the twenty percent coupons from the paper, and then I go to the clearance racks, and by the time I’m done…” He cackled and pushed the T-shirts toward her. “You see all these? Guess how much. Guess how much I paid?”

“Hmm. Thirty dollars?”

“Twelve dollars and thirty-six cents,” Vernon crowed. “They’re practically paying me to take the stuff off their hands!”

“That’s impressive,” Daisy had said, remembering how her own father liked to say that no people were as cheap as rich people.

“See, I get it in all the sizes,” Vernon said. “Newborn, and toddler, and…” He paused, appearing stumped about what stage of a child’s growth might come next. “… and what have you.” He waved his hand at one stack. “There’s birthdays.” He pointed at another pile. “That’s Christmas.”

“How many grandchildren do you have?”

“Two. A boy and a girl. From my older boy.” He frowned. “None from Hal yet. He’s thirty-two years old and he’s still not married.” He looked at Daisy, who’d been studying his comb-over in helpless fascination. The man appeared to have exactly one lock of gray hair, which had to be long enough to hang down past his shoulders when it was wet. He’d somehow combed it forward and coaxed it sideways, looping it around, pleating it, origami-style, and managing to cover—more or less—the entirety of his scalp. It was like a geometry problem. Is it possible for Elderly Man X with Y amount of hair to cover Z amount of surface area?

“So?”

Clearly, she’d missed something. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Impatiently, Vernon said, “I asked if you think he’s a queer. He signed me up for cooking classes. In my day, you know what they called this? Home ec. And you know who did it? Girls.” He glared at her indignantly.

Daisy thought of her brother Danny, whom she suspected was gay, even though he’d never said a word to her; Danny, who was charming and funny and ever so slightly wistful. She returned to the kitchen, which beneath layers of trash, had granite counters and a granite breakfast bar, stainless-steel appliances and glass-fronted cabinets. The ample counter space and deep sink were cluttered with empty cartons and bags and more dirty dishes. Daisy went to the sink to wash her hands, hoping to lead by example. “I think the first thing we need to do is get this kitchen up to code.”

She expected Vernon to argue with her, or tell her that cleaning, like cooking, was women’s work. Instead, he said, “Police this area.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s what they would tell us. In the army. ‘Police this area!’ your lieutenant would say, and woe to you if that area was not spotless. You ever heard of the white glove test? Your commanding officer would come and put on a pair of white gloves and run his finger along a shelf or a doorframe or what have you. You’d be on KP duty if he found any dust.” Vernon bent down to pull a box of trash bags out from underneath the sink. He was wearing nylon track pants and a plain white T-shirt that hung loosely over his narrow chest and stretched to cover the protuberant curve of his belly. “See, back then, sending a man to work in the kitchen was