Day Three:
Captive in Connecticut
“You must be
so bored,” my husband observed over the phone as I excitedly caught him up on
the major plot-points of the old Baywatch re-run that I was currently
absorbed in. “One of the lifeguards got a cramp,” I reported, horror-stricken, “and
the Baywatch staff were on vigilant alert for a pair of rowdy teen-agers going too
fast on their little jet-ski devices.”
It had been
an eventful week here in Connecticut. I had made the bed practically every day,
ruined a cookie dough recipe by using an overly old egg, and traipsed, unencumbered,
up to the library in the stifling heat and humidity to hover over their antiquated
air-conditioned floor vents. I huddled over the air-flow like a turkey vulture
drying the morning dew from its fluid-soaked feathers. “Mom…tell me that you
did not go OUT like that,” Savannah said, shocked. “Look,” I said flatly, “my
dainties needed to be washed…I had on layered tank-tops so stay out of my B’s-ness.”
“Dad, we
have got to get Mom home,” Savannah told her father. “I’m her only friend in
Connecticut…me and the transient parking lot cat. During our walk yesterday,
she insisted on returning to the boardwalk in time to see Steve, the beach
magician perform. She’s solely subsiding on blackberry yogurt, string cheese,
and Hostess cupcakes. It’s like she’s in a walking coma.”
“Savannah’s
being ridiculous,” I reassured my concerned husband. “First of all, Steve the
beach magician was lovely…he seemed more surprised than us when any of his
tricks worked. I think the boardwalk is a nice stepping stone to launch his
career and I just wanted to lend my support. And no…I am not flaunting my wares
conspicuously about Connecticut. Just the library. They’re very supportive
there. Savannah needs to know that it feels good to let loose now and then.”
I'm not sure what I said, but arrangements have been made to transport me home to New York on Saturday.
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