GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

off the bat Isabelle was nonplussed. Even the word delectable sounded wrong. Grumpy people find nothing in the world delectable. Judging by their previous meeting, Beth Haden was 101 percent grump.

“What are you doing here, Isabelle? Are you looking for Simon? He’s coming to lunch today. Why don’t you come too? I’m making my lima bean soup which is his favorite meal on this planet. Lima bean soup for lunch, chocolate pudding for dessert.” Mrs. Haden laughed. It was a delightful laugh—light and full of happiness.

Isabelle became even more bewildered. She felt the urge to step closer to this woman to see if she was an imposter, a fake Beth Haden who now laughed freely like a cheerful girl and remembered tasting another’s “delectable” cake years later.

“Come on, you can help me make the soup. Have you ever tasted lima bean soup, Isabelle? It’s really very good.”

They didn’t have far to walk. Four blocks down, a left and a right and they were standing in front of a nice split-level house on a large plot of land.

Curious, Isabelle asked, “Is this where Simon grew up?” She remembered hearing that Mrs. Haden had sold the house and moved to a retirement condo in North Carolina.

Beth shifted her purse from one hand to the other so that she could unlock the front door. “Yes, it is. Would you like to see his room?”

Simon did not come for lunch that day but it didn’t appear to bother his mother very much. She rolled her eyes and said she was used to it—no big deal. The two women made the soup together, set the table, then sat down and talked while they waited for him.

Unlike the first time they’d met when she’d only reeled off that cranky harangue about Europe and then fallen silent, today Beth Haden was a charming chatterbox. She talked about her life, her acupuncture treatments, her garden, and the new grocer at the market she was convinced was making eyes at her. She spoke nonstop, in striking contrast to the last time they had met. Most of what she said was entertaining even if 99 percent of it was about herself. Now and then Isabelle threw in a question or comment, but it wasn’t necessary because Simon’s mother had so much to say and a willing listener.

Eventually she got around to asking, “Why are you here, Isabelle? Don’t you live in Vienna?”

“I do, but I’m looking for your son. I need to talk to him.”

Beth glanced at her wristwatch and shook her head. “I don’t think he’s coming. And I was sure we’d fixed it for today. But this isn’t the first time Simon has skipped one of our dates. You know kids; sometimes they forget or have other things to do…” It was a rebuke but much more love and forgiveness were in her voice than scold. She adored her son—that was very evident.

Something was wrong here but only after Beth had spoken did Isabelle grasp what it was. In Vienna that day at the café after having finished every last crumb of his cake, Simon had pointedly said to Beth, “Look, Ma, I cleaned my plate.”

Crabby Mrs. Haden glanced at it, gave a small humph, and lifted one shoulder in dismissal. Simon smirked and said to Isabelle, “Its an in-joke between us. When I was a kid there were two absolute laws in our house that could not be broken: I had to come for a meal as soon as I was called, and I had to eat everything on my plate or else I was slapped.”

“Slapped?” Isabelle had never heard of any parent doing such a thing to a child.

“That is correct. My mother gave me exactly seven minutes to get to the table. She would even time it. I could be playing ball a mile away, but if I wasn’t at the table in seven minutes—wham-o. Then I had to eat everything that was on my plate and there were no exceptions. Even if it was Brussels sprouts in hot vinegar, if I didn’t eat it all—”

Mrs. Haden smiled slightly and said, “You were slapped.”

“That’s right, Ma, and it happened more than once, remember? You guys were pretty tough on your son.” He patted her arm.

Irate, Isabelle snapped, “That’s nuts!”

“No, that’s the way to teach a child respect.”

“No, Mrs. Haden, that’s nuts. You should be ashamed of yourself. Will you excuse me?” Isabelle got up and marched off to the toilet without being excused.

Today this same child-slapping, disagreeable woman was as sweet and fluffy as cotton candy and sounded only wistful that her son had once again been rude enough to stand her up for lunch. Something was too wrong with this picture. Yet Isabelle knew from her previous visits that there were no rules in this place and looking for them or any logic at all was useless.

Lacking for something to say, she thoughtlessly scratched with her index finger at a black spot on the white kitchen table. It looked like a bit of old food. The black came away easily, as if she were scratching away a makeup smudge. Beneath it was a grass-green color. As she kept scratching, more of that green appeared. What was this? Why did the paint come off so easily?

Slightly more curious, Isabelle scraped a larger and larger area, first with her index finger and then growing more industrious, with her thumb. Green.

Flattening her hand on the table, she vigorously rubbed her palm in a large circle. In seconds the white was gone and there was only that green beneath it. Looking over at Beth for an explanation, she was startled to see tears glistening on the other’s cheeks.

“Green was the real color of this table, not white. It was never white. This kitchen was never white. Simon changed almost the whole house. There’s so little left of what it was really like when we lived here. It’s almost unrecognizable.”

“I don’t understand.” Isabelle sat back.

“Me, his father, even