WHEN WE SAT DOWN to eat, my mother wrinkled her nose, leaned over her plate, sniffed at her food, gave it a puzzled look, and asked, “What is that smell?”
“You’re right,” said my father. “There is something. Was this steak fresh?”
“I thought so,” said my mother.
My father raised his plate to his nose and sniffed it. “It’s not the meat,” he said.
They turned toward me.
“Peter,” said my mother, “it’s you. What have you gotten into?”
I sniffed my sleeve.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s coobyon. Redfish coobyon. But Mrs. Jones makes it with flounder, because you can’t get redfish around here. It’s bun soup.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, especially since I hadn’t seen any buns in it, but it was what Mrs. Jones had called it, and from tasting it I had gotten the idea that bun meant something like “spicy.” I’d already added it to my string of favorites: bun soup, windflowers, court bouillon, Zwischenraum, shandy, ontology, epistemology, bills of lading, splines—and when I got to splines I always thought of changing the combinations of the locks, and, like the look that Flo and Freddie exchanged, that always made me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” asked my father.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. It was too much to explain, and there were too many parts that were unsuitable for them to hear.
My parents exchanged a look, and we all began eating. I hadn’t taken more than a few bites when an impression from my visit to Marvin’s struck me so unexpectedly that I blurted it out without thinking about the effect it might have.
“Marvin’s house is the same as ours,” I said. I was amazed to realize that this was true: the layout of the Jones’s house was exactly the same as ours had been when we moved in.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Peter,” said my father.
I was matching the rooms in my mind. They all fit. The Joneses’ house was probably built by the same developer who had built ours and all the others like it on our block, and many others just like it on other blocks in Babbington, using the same set of plans, all of them just alike.
“It’s true,” I said. “It’s true. Their house is exactly like ours.”
“It can’t be,” said my father.
“But it is,” I said.
“Do they have a dining room here, where we’re sitting?”
“No,” I said. “That’s not what I meant. I meant the house—”
“And do they have your mother’s little room?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You see, Peter? Their house is not the same as ours, is it?”
“What I mean is—”
“It’s not exactly the same, is it?”
“Look. What I mean is—”
“It’s not exactly the same, is it?”
“No,” I said.
My father laughed and bent to his food. My mother gave a little laugh of agreement, since she had to live with him, but the frown she wore told me that she didn’t mean it. I finished eating in silence, and when dinner was done, I went up to my room.
[to be continued]
Have you missed an episode or two or several?
You can begin reading at the beginning or you can catch up by visiting the archive or consulting the index to the Topical Guide. The Substack serialization of Little Follies begins here; Herb ’n’ Lorna begins here; Reservations Recommended begins here; Where Do You Stop? begins here.
You can listen to the episodes on the Personal History podcast. Begin at the beginning or scroll through the episodes to find what you’ve missed. The Substack podcast reading of Little Follies begins here; Herb ’n’ Lorna begins here; Reservations Recommended begins here; Where Do You Stop? begins here.
You can listen to “My Mother Takes a Tumble” and “Do Clams Bite?” complete and uninterrupted as audiobooks through YouTube.
You can ensure that you never miss a future issue by getting a free subscription. (You can help support the work by choosing a paid subscription instead.)
At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of Little Follies, Herb ’n’ Lorna, and Reservations Recommended.
You’ll find overviews of the entire work in An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy (a pdf document) and at Encyclopedia.com.
🎧 608: When we sat . . .