"Wrong team, Mom," says Therese, and her mother says "Oops," and turns around. She repeats the famous person stance.
"Famous person," says Ray encouragingly. Therese's mother nods. She pauses for a bit to think. Then she spins around, throws her arms up into the air, collapses forward onto the floor, then backward, hitting her head on the stereo.
"Marjorie, what are you doing?" asks Therese's father. Her mother is lying there on the floor, laughing.
"Are you okay?" Therese asks. Her mother nods, still laughing quietly.
"Fall," says Ray. "Dizziness. Dizzy Gillespie."
Therese's mother shakes her head.
"Epilepsy," says Therese.
"Explode," says her father, and her mother nods. "Explosion. Bomb. Robert Oppenheimer!"
"That's it." Her mother sighs. She has a little trouble getting back up. She is seventy and her knees are jammed with arthritis.
"You need help, Mom?" Therese asks.
"Yeah, Mom, you need help?" asks Ann, who has risen and walked toward the center of the room, to take charge.
"I'm okay." Therese's mother sighs, with a quiet, slightly faked giggle, and walks stiffly back to her seat.
"That was great, Ma," says Therese.
Her mother smiles proudly. "Well, thank you!"
After that, there are many rounds, and every time Therese's mother gets anything like Dom De Luise or Tom Jones, she does her bomb imitation again, whipping herself into a spastic frenzy and falling, then rising stiffly again to great applause. Pam brings Winnie in from her nap and everyone oohs and aahs at the child's sweet sleep-streaked face. "There she is," coos Aunt Therese. "You want to come see Grandma be a bomb?"
"It's your turn," says Andrew impatiently.
"Mine?" asks Therese.
"I think that's right," says her father.
She gets up, digs into the bowl, unfolds the scrap of wrapping paper. It says "Jekylls Street." "I need a consultation here. Andrew, I think this is your writing."
"Okay," he says, rising, and together they step into the foyer.
"Is this a TV show?" whispers Therese. "I don't watch much TV."
"No," says Andrew with a vague smile.
"What is it?"
He shifts his weight, reluctant to tell her. Perhaps it is because he is married to a detective. Or, more likely, it is because he himself works with Top Secret documents from the Defense Department; he was recently promoted from the just plain Secret ones. As an engineer, he consults, reviews, approves. His eyes are suppressed, annoyed. "It's the name of a street two blocks from here." There's a surly and defensive curve to his mouth.
"But that's not the title of anything famous."
"It's a place. I thought we could do names of places."
"It's not a famous place."
"I mean, we all could write down the names of streets in our neighborhoods, near where we work, a road we walked down once on the way to a store--"
"You're the one who said we could do places."
"I did? Well, all right, then, what did I say was the sign for a place? We don't have a sign for places."
"I don't know. You figure it out," he says. A saucy rage is all over him now. Is this from childhood? Is this from hair loss? Once, she and Andrew were close. But now, as with Ann, she has no idea who he is anymore. She has only a theory: an electrical engineer worked over years ago by high school guidance counselors paid by the Pentagon to recruit, train, and militarize all the boys with high math SAT scores. "From M.I.T. to MIA," Andrew once put it himself. "A military-industrial asshole." But she can't find that satirical place in him anymore. Last year, at least, they had joked about their upbringing. "I scarcely remember Dad reading to us," she'd said.
Use of this excerpt from Birds of America may be made only for purposes of promoting the book, with no changes, editing, or additions whatsoever, and must be accompanied by the following copyright notice: Copyright © 1998 by Lorrie Moore. All rights reserved.
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