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After lunch, Stucky, the physically imposing English teacher, offered to go to the movies the next day. They were discussing who was going to bring popcorn and a soda and were puzzled when I said I couldn't be left alone with that many things left for me to do. "You're not alone," he said, "and we'll be a big group." I made him promise, though, that a neighbor would be leaving a spare key under the mat after school. And then I said that I thought I might go for a walk instead. I had tried so hard to please Toni. My mother and father, no longer young themselves, were in their element. My mother was the practical one, running accounts and planning for the house. My father was a writer, chafing about bad weather. Everybody called him Mayor because he liked to talk at great length about things that interested him. He organized the family trips and talked for hours about the places we were going. My mother, with a strong country taste, was more interested in what other people thought about things than in what she thought about things. At our home, dishes were put away in a bucket. Tidy and vegetarian, my mother saw people as victims of their own greed. She expected fairness. My father, who bent toward an unstructured lifestyle, enjoyed convincing, arguing, and convincing again. He hated the world-for-the-sake-of-the-world people of my mother and her friends but loved the idea of being in politics. I remember the night of the 1968 Presidential election, when, after a long silence, my father announced, "I've joined the Communist Party."
Together they liked to play gin rummy for hours, to play Trivial Pursuit during dinner, to read the paper in bed even when they were too warm. They liked the presence of neighbors, who shot quail and stood in rows in the neighbors' yard and took their children home for snacks and swimming. They liked talking to neighbors at the telephone pole and singing along with the car radios. When I ran out of friends, I would go to Foster or to Terry, or sometimes to a boy named Hector who lived across the street. On walks I would see Cy and his older sister, Dorothy, and we would pass our lives in the sun with no words required. d2c66b5586