"Ernie and Margaret"
Ernie pours a stiff brandy for himself, a smaller one for Margaret. As he sets the decanter down, his gaze lingers on the photograph of Donna and Ernie Junior hanging above the bar. The photo was taken thirty years ago, on Junior’s tenth birthday, capturing him intent on blowing out every candle, capturing Donna's delight at being his mother.
Ernie still aches when he sees the photo. He remembers the first kiss he stole from Donna, picnics, vacations, the day they brought Junior home. All those wonderful days were chopped off thirty years ago, without warning or preparation. The memories pain as much as warm him. Some nights, he can still feel Donna in bed beside him, smell her fragrance. He's never even thought of finding someone else. He’s had his chances. Women he’s worked with, women coming into the Rite Aid he manages, widows, divorcees, never-marrieds, they’d flirted, shown they were not just available but interested, made clear those extra pounds he’d found and hair he’d lost didn’t matter that much as he, and they, had moved through middle age toward sixty. But no, his romantic vision has never been distracted from the past he adores.
“A person could die of thirst, bartender, once you start staring at that picture,” Margaret calls. “Time to rejoin the living, dear.”
Three years younger than her brother. Margaret is plump and gray. She never diets would never dye her hair. She isn't the least bit uncomfortable with aging and isn't about to rearrange herself because of what anyone else thinks. She never married, never came close, even though she was admired for her periwinkle blue eyes, raven hair, and trim figure when younger and was—still is—fun to be with. She'd been too motherly for the young bucks seeking something flashy, and her being a school teacher scared them off. Young men in a small town don't want to be reminded of school, once they've escaped it, and they sure don't want to marry someone smarter than they are, someone whose job reminds them she’s smarter. Unwilling to play dumb for a man, Margaret made school children her kids, kept cats for company.
Then Donna and Junior were killed on their way to Disneyland. They'd gone on ahead, Ernie to follow after finishing with a client. He'd just been promoted, given some major accounts to manage. He had to show he was top-floor material. If it weren't for that promotion, he'd have been driving, been killed with them, squashed when that logging truck, driver asleep at the wheel, veered across the road. But he wasn’t. He's never forgiven himself for that.
Margaret started coming over daily, to make sure he was all right, didn't do anything stupid. Three months later, she said she might as well move in. He didn’t object. So, here she is, nearly thirty years later, still teaching kids and keeping cats, still taking care of Ernie. She feels life has been good to her
“Yes, ma’am. Good help's hard to find these days. You have to keep us on our toes,” Ernie says, bringing her brandy over to where she’s sitting in the rocking chair facing the fireplace. He settles into the Lazy Boy next to her. “Christian Brothers’ finest. Nothing but the best for the lady.”
Margaret raises her glass in salute. “The help makes a mighty fine fire, knows what pleases.”
Ernie returns her salute. “Thank you kindly, ma'am, but it's you who knows how to please. That pot roast took talent. All I had to do was light a match and open a bottle.”
Margaret smiles, drops her eyes to acknowledge the compliment. She knows she’s a good cook. They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the fire, savoring the brandy. Comfortable with each other, they don’t need to talk just to fill the silence. Each knows the other will come to him, or her, with what they want to say—each in his own time, or hers.
“Remember the time we played pirates?” Ernie says. “Mom got us those great costumes for Halloween. We were all dressed up with capes and swords. I had a hat with a skull and crossbones.”
“I had an eye patch and a bright red bandana.”
“Right, and Mom drew a mustache on me, blacked out a couple of your teeth.”
“Fake beard, too. She stuck a fake beard on me, black as my hair.”
“Right again.”
“Mom and dad were taking us to the P.T.A. party. We were playing swashbucklers while they got into their costumes. Hansel and Gretel.”
“Yeah,” Ernie responds, recapturing the image. “Hansel and Gretel. Dad found a pair of Alpine shorts somewhere, the leather kind, with suspenders.”
“Those were his, silly. Mom bought them on their honeymoon, in Austria. He wore them then but wouldn't ever wear them again . . . until that night.”
“He would've looked pretty silly wearing that get-up here,” Ernie laughs, imagining his father walking down Main Street in leather shorts.
“There's more to it than that,” Margaret responds with a sly smile.
"What more?"
Margaaret looks down to hide her expanding smile and the twinkle in her eyes.
“You keeping secrets from me, Marge? Your own flesh and blood.”
“Mom told me about those shorts once, when she was reminiscing. She told me because I was her daughter—and I wouldn't tattle.”
“Tattle'? Is this . . . a dark secret?”
“Mom thought so. That's why she loved it so.”
“Since I'm head of this family now, I should know this dark secret. I don't want any family skeletons jumping out to bite me.”
“Nothing to worry about. I have this skeleton securely locked away.” Margaret is smiling openly now.
“So tell me anyway. I can see you're dying to. Mom probably had the same cat-that-ate-the-canary look on her face when she had to tell you, or explode.” Ernie hopes his warm smile will entice her out.
“Maybe she did, maybe not,” Margaret banters, childlike. “She told me . . . and told me to keep it our secret.”
“C’mon, Marge. You can't go this far, then stop.”
“Why, big brother, aren't you the one who told me I could go just so far, but never all the way?”
“Whoa, now.” Ernie stares quizzically at Margaret. “Is that the sort of secret mom told you? Something . . . sexual?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Then I might as well put your glass away. You can't drink a second brandy through sealed lips.” Ernie picks up Margaret's glass.
“Oh yes I can. Just fill it; I'll show you.”
“I don't want to be shown; I want to be told. I'll fill the glass if you'll tell me our family secret. If not, this’ll be a one-brandy night.”
Margaret stares at him, trying for a haughty glare, but she's having too much trouble suppressing a laugh. “Okay, I'll tell you, but only after my glass is filled and in my hand.”
“You promise?” Ernie moves to fill their glasses. “No tricks now.”
“Would I ever trick you, brother dear?”
“In the wink of an eye, dear sister.”
They both have a good laugh as Ernie returns from the bar, hands Margaret her glass, settles into his chair.
“So, out with it. Fair's fair.”
“‘Fair’s fair,’ I haven't heard that in a long time. I don't think kids say that anymore.”
“Kids today think fair is something for chumps.”
“Probably, but I don’t think they say ‘chumps,’ either.” Margaret leisurely sips her brandy.
“I’m still waiting.”
Margaret looks around the room, as if trying to see what he's waiting for. “I don't see anything.”
“Marge, tell me the damn story. Enough’s enough.”
“Kids don't say that, either, ‘enough’s enough’.”
“I don’t give a damn what they say. I want to hear what mom told you about dad's shorts.”
“Shorts?”
“Arrrrggh,” Ernie explodes dramatically, trying to sound like a pirate.
Margaret laughs so hard she has to set her glass down not to spill the brandy. “Okay, okay. I quit. . . . God, you're funny. . . . What mom told me is that, well, they—she and dad—they played some games, on their honeymoon.”
“Games? What games?”
“She got one of those peasant dresses, the kind with a full flowered skirt and a forest green top that's cut under the bust. You wear a white, puffy blouse underneath that covers your chest and shoulder's.” While saying this, Margaret moves her hands around her torso to show Ernie what she's trying to describe.
“Wasn't that her Gretel outfit?”
“Right. And—remember?—dad had an embroidered shirt and mountain hat, with a really cute feather in it.”
“And long socks with some kind of design at the top.”
“Exactly. Well, as I said, mom got both outfits when they were on their honeymoon.” Margaret settles back, as if finished.
Ernie waits, then says, “So where’s the secret?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“Margaret!”
“Okay, okay. . . . Remember dad the way he was that night--Hansel, the sweet little Alpine boy. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Now, imagine he doesn’t have any shoes on.”
“Got it.”
“No long socks, either.”
“Not a pretty picture. Dad had skinny legs. Remember?”
“I remember, but as they say, ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning mom liked his legs just fine.”
“Okay, but I still don't see any dark secret. ‘Wife Likes Husband’s Skinny Legs’—that isn't a headline for the Enquirer.”
“You just wait. Now, imagine dad doesn't have that embroidered shirt on—no shirt at all. Got it?”
“That’s okay; his torso wasn’t that bad.”
“Yeah, dad looked okay,” Margaret says with a fond, shy smile.
“Not a hunk, though.”
Margaret stares at Ernie. “You jealous of dad? After all these years.”
“Of course not,” Ernie grunts, looks down, swallows some brandy. “Just go on with the story.”
Margaret shrugs, continues. “So there he is, wearing those cute little shorts,
suspenders, and that hat with the feather in it. Nothing else.”
“I can see dad wouldn't have wanted a photo taken right then, but what's the big deal?”
“That's still coming. Now, remember mom in her Gretel outfit?”
“Got it.”.
“But no shoes for her, either.”
“Got it.” The awkward feelings a son gets picturing his mother removing articles of clothing start sneaking into Ernie's voice.
“Sure you're up to this?”
“Can't stop now.”
“This part is easier for a daughter than a son.”
“I can take it. We men are tough.”
“About some things. Awfully squeamish about others.”
“Let’s save the male vs. female superiority stuff for another night—okay?”
“Okay. Mom has no shoes on—right?”
“Already covered that.”
“No stockings, either. In fact, she has nothing on under that flouncy skirt.”
“I get the idea,” Ernie says, reddening again.
“Still with me?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You remember that peasant blouse that goes underneath the low-cut bodice?”
“Yeah,” Ernie says, wary.
“She isn't wearing that, either.”
“You mean . . .?”
“Exactly. . . . And you remember I said dad has nothing on besides his shorts and hat?”
“I remember,” Ernie says, apprehensive, guessing what Margaret is about to say.
“Actually, he does have something else . . . ‘on’ . . . with those shorts not being, y'know, buttoned up. You get what I’m saying here?”
“I think I get the picture, Marge. I just hope nobody has a real picture of this.” Now, it's Ernie's turn to try to keep from laughing. “But there were times when dad was all over me that I could've used that picture.”
“Ernie! They were on their honeymoon, far away from home. Mom said it was the best fun she ever had. They made up stories about . . . mum . . . naughty Alpine boys and girls, and, well, they acted them out. Mom called it their Pinocchio game.”
“Pinocchio?”
“The further the story got from real life, the longer you know what got.”
“You're kidding. Mom said that?”
“I kid you not.”
“The same mom who let us have it for playing doctor?”
“The very same.”
“Did she tell you the stories?” Ernie asks, trying to sound casual.
“'Why, Ernest Oswald Nielsen, shame on you.”
“Did she?”
“'That, I shall never tell, even if brandy never passes my lips again.”
“Humph,” Ernie grunts. “What I don't understand is how they could wear those outfits to a kids Halloween party. I would've been real uncomfortable—if I was dad—remembering when I'd worn that outfit before—uncomfortable wearing it out in public, I mean.”
“It was mom's idea. They were rekindling their romance. She reminded him how much fun they had on their honeymoon, and she promised they could play some of those games again. But first, they had to wear the outfits to the party.”
“You're telling me she . . . uhhh . . . fired him up, then made him wait before letting him do with her what she wanted him to?”
“You've got it.”
“But why? Why did she have him wear that silly outfit in public before letting him . . . y’know . . . wear just part of it in private?”
“Because he didn't want to. He was embarrassed—just the way you said.”
“That's all? No other reason?”
“She didn’t need another reason.”
Ernie studies Margaret. “Women are weird.”
“Oh, I don't know about that. . . . Anyway, why did you bring up that story of our playing pirates?”
“Doesn't matter now. I'm trying to cope with our parents playing naughty games on their honeymoon. And not only then, either, but right here—in this house—with their kids sleeping down the hall. Then you tell me mom played mind games, too.”
“She made it sound like that's a big part of marriage. Didn't you and Donna . . . y’know . . . fool around and try to get each other to do what you wanted?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“When I wanted Donna to wear some outfit, it was because she looked great in it. I wasn't trying to get her to wear it so I could feel I got her to do something she didn't want to do.”
Margaret appraises Ernie, glances at Donna’s picture, can't keep a wry smile from her face. “Right. What you two had was special. Now, it’s off to bed with me. Don’t forget to put the cats in the garage.” She kisses Ernie on the head as she leaves.
“Night, Marge. You're special, too.”
After a moment, Ernie goes to the bar, pours himself another brandy. Jesus! he thinks, looking at Donna's picture. That's only supposed to happen in porno flics. A story unfit for TV playing in our own home, sweet home. Starring mom and dad. Who would’ve believed it? He gulps down his brandy, heads for the garage, mumbling, “How come I always get stuck with the cats? They’re her cats.”
Ernie still aches when he sees the photo. He remembers the first kiss he stole from Donna, picnics, vacations, the day they brought Junior home. All those wonderful days were chopped off thirty years ago, without warning or preparation. The memories pain as much as warm him. Some nights, he can still feel Donna in bed beside him, smell her fragrance. He's never even thought of finding someone else. He’s had his chances. Women he’s worked with, women coming into the Rite Aid he manages, widows, divorcees, never-marrieds, they’d flirted, shown they were not just available but interested, made clear those extra pounds he’d found and hair he’d lost didn’t matter that much as he, and they, had moved through middle age toward sixty. But no, his romantic vision has never been distracted from the past he adores.
“A person could die of thirst, bartender, once you start staring at that picture,” Margaret calls. “Time to rejoin the living, dear.”
Three years younger than her brother. Margaret is plump and gray. She never diets would never dye her hair. She isn't the least bit uncomfortable with aging and isn't about to rearrange herself because of what anyone else thinks. She never married, never came close, even though she was admired for her periwinkle blue eyes, raven hair, and trim figure when younger and was—still is—fun to be with. She'd been too motherly for the young bucks seeking something flashy, and her being a school teacher scared them off. Young men in a small town don't want to be reminded of school, once they've escaped it, and they sure don't want to marry someone smarter than they are, someone whose job reminds them she’s smarter. Unwilling to play dumb for a man, Margaret made school children her kids, kept cats for company.
Then Donna and Junior were killed on their way to Disneyland. They'd gone on ahead, Ernie to follow after finishing with a client. He'd just been promoted, given some major accounts to manage. He had to show he was top-floor material. If it weren't for that promotion, he'd have been driving, been killed with them, squashed when that logging truck, driver asleep at the wheel, veered across the road. But he wasn’t. He's never forgiven himself for that.
Margaret started coming over daily, to make sure he was all right, didn't do anything stupid. Three months later, she said she might as well move in. He didn’t object. So, here she is, nearly thirty years later, still teaching kids and keeping cats, still taking care of Ernie. She feels life has been good to her
“Yes, ma’am. Good help's hard to find these days. You have to keep us on our toes,” Ernie says, bringing her brandy over to where she’s sitting in the rocking chair facing the fireplace. He settles into the Lazy Boy next to her. “Christian Brothers’ finest. Nothing but the best for the lady.”
Margaret raises her glass in salute. “The help makes a mighty fine fire, knows what pleases.”
Ernie returns her salute. “Thank you kindly, ma'am, but it's you who knows how to please. That pot roast took talent. All I had to do was light a match and open a bottle.”
Margaret smiles, drops her eyes to acknowledge the compliment. She knows she’s a good cook. They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the fire, savoring the brandy. Comfortable with each other, they don’t need to talk just to fill the silence. Each knows the other will come to him, or her, with what they want to say—each in his own time, or hers.
“Remember the time we played pirates?” Ernie says. “Mom got us those great costumes for Halloween. We were all dressed up with capes and swords. I had a hat with a skull and crossbones.”
“I had an eye patch and a bright red bandana.”
“Right, and Mom drew a mustache on me, blacked out a couple of your teeth.”
“Fake beard, too. She stuck a fake beard on me, black as my hair.”
“Right again.”
“Mom and dad were taking us to the P.T.A. party. We were playing swashbucklers while they got into their costumes. Hansel and Gretel.”
“Yeah,” Ernie responds, recapturing the image. “Hansel and Gretel. Dad found a pair of Alpine shorts somewhere, the leather kind, with suspenders.”
“Those were his, silly. Mom bought them on their honeymoon, in Austria. He wore them then but wouldn't ever wear them again . . . until that night.”
“He would've looked pretty silly wearing that get-up here,” Ernie laughs, imagining his father walking down Main Street in leather shorts.
“There's more to it than that,” Margaret responds with a sly smile.
"What more?"
Margaaret looks down to hide her expanding smile and the twinkle in her eyes.
“You keeping secrets from me, Marge? Your own flesh and blood.”
“Mom told me about those shorts once, when she was reminiscing. She told me because I was her daughter—and I wouldn't tattle.”
“Tattle'? Is this . . . a dark secret?”
“Mom thought so. That's why she loved it so.”
“Since I'm head of this family now, I should know this dark secret. I don't want any family skeletons jumping out to bite me.”
“Nothing to worry about. I have this skeleton securely locked away.” Margaret is smiling openly now.
“So tell me anyway. I can see you're dying to. Mom probably had the same cat-that-ate-the-canary look on her face when she had to tell you, or explode.” Ernie hopes his warm smile will entice her out.
“Maybe she did, maybe not,” Margaret banters, childlike. “She told me . . . and told me to keep it our secret.”
“C’mon, Marge. You can't go this far, then stop.”
“Why, big brother, aren't you the one who told me I could go just so far, but never all the way?”
“Whoa, now.” Ernie stares quizzically at Margaret. “Is that the sort of secret mom told you? Something . . . sexual?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Then I might as well put your glass away. You can't drink a second brandy through sealed lips.” Ernie picks up Margaret's glass.
“Oh yes I can. Just fill it; I'll show you.”
“I don't want to be shown; I want to be told. I'll fill the glass if you'll tell me our family secret. If not, this’ll be a one-brandy night.”
Margaret stares at him, trying for a haughty glare, but she's having too much trouble suppressing a laugh. “Okay, I'll tell you, but only after my glass is filled and in my hand.”
“You promise?” Ernie moves to fill their glasses. “No tricks now.”
“Would I ever trick you, brother dear?”
“In the wink of an eye, dear sister.”
They both have a good laugh as Ernie returns from the bar, hands Margaret her glass, settles into his chair.
“So, out with it. Fair's fair.”
“‘Fair’s fair,’ I haven't heard that in a long time. I don't think kids say that anymore.”
“Kids today think fair is something for chumps.”
“Probably, but I don’t think they say ‘chumps,’ either.” Margaret leisurely sips her brandy.
“I’m still waiting.”
Margaret looks around the room, as if trying to see what he's waiting for. “I don't see anything.”
“Marge, tell me the damn story. Enough’s enough.”
“Kids don't say that, either, ‘enough’s enough’.”
“I don’t give a damn what they say. I want to hear what mom told you about dad's shorts.”
“Shorts?”
“Arrrrggh,” Ernie explodes dramatically, trying to sound like a pirate.
Margaret laughs so hard she has to set her glass down not to spill the brandy. “Okay, okay. I quit. . . . God, you're funny. . . . What mom told me is that, well, they—she and dad—they played some games, on their honeymoon.”
“Games? What games?”
“She got one of those peasant dresses, the kind with a full flowered skirt and a forest green top that's cut under the bust. You wear a white, puffy blouse underneath that covers your chest and shoulder's.” While saying this, Margaret moves her hands around her torso to show Ernie what she's trying to describe.
“Wasn't that her Gretel outfit?”
“Right. And—remember?—dad had an embroidered shirt and mountain hat, with a really cute feather in it.”
“And long socks with some kind of design at the top.”
“Exactly. Well, as I said, mom got both outfits when they were on their honeymoon.” Margaret settles back, as if finished.
Ernie waits, then says, “So where’s the secret?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“Margaret!”
“Okay, okay. . . . Remember dad the way he was that night--Hansel, the sweet little Alpine boy. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Now, imagine he doesn’t have any shoes on.”
“Got it.”
“No long socks, either.”
“Not a pretty picture. Dad had skinny legs. Remember?”
“I remember, but as they say, ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning mom liked his legs just fine.”
“Okay, but I still don't see any dark secret. ‘Wife Likes Husband’s Skinny Legs’—that isn't a headline for the Enquirer.”
“You just wait. Now, imagine dad doesn't have that embroidered shirt on—no shirt at all. Got it?”
“That’s okay; his torso wasn’t that bad.”
“Yeah, dad looked okay,” Margaret says with a fond, shy smile.
“Not a hunk, though.”
Margaret stares at Ernie. “You jealous of dad? After all these years.”
“Of course not,” Ernie grunts, looks down, swallows some brandy. “Just go on with the story.”
Margaret shrugs, continues. “So there he is, wearing those cute little shorts,
suspenders, and that hat with the feather in it. Nothing else.”
“I can see dad wouldn't have wanted a photo taken right then, but what's the big deal?”
“That's still coming. Now, remember mom in her Gretel outfit?”
“Got it.”.
“But no shoes for her, either.”
“Got it.” The awkward feelings a son gets picturing his mother removing articles of clothing start sneaking into Ernie's voice.
“Sure you're up to this?”
“Can't stop now.”
“This part is easier for a daughter than a son.”
“I can take it. We men are tough.”
“About some things. Awfully squeamish about others.”
“Let’s save the male vs. female superiority stuff for another night—okay?”
“Okay. Mom has no shoes on—right?”
“Already covered that.”
“No stockings, either. In fact, she has nothing on under that flouncy skirt.”
“I get the idea,” Ernie says, reddening again.
“Still with me?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You remember that peasant blouse that goes underneath the low-cut bodice?”
“Yeah,” Ernie says, wary.
“She isn't wearing that, either.”
“You mean . . .?”
“Exactly. . . . And you remember I said dad has nothing on besides his shorts and hat?”
“I remember,” Ernie says, apprehensive, guessing what Margaret is about to say.
“Actually, he does have something else . . . ‘on’ . . . with those shorts not being, y'know, buttoned up. You get what I’m saying here?”
“I think I get the picture, Marge. I just hope nobody has a real picture of this.” Now, it's Ernie's turn to try to keep from laughing. “But there were times when dad was all over me that I could've used that picture.”
“Ernie! They were on their honeymoon, far away from home. Mom said it was the best fun she ever had. They made up stories about . . . mum . . . naughty Alpine boys and girls, and, well, they acted them out. Mom called it their Pinocchio game.”
“Pinocchio?”
“The further the story got from real life, the longer you know what got.”
“You're kidding. Mom said that?”
“I kid you not.”
“The same mom who let us have it for playing doctor?”
“The very same.”
“Did she tell you the stories?” Ernie asks, trying to sound casual.
“'Why, Ernest Oswald Nielsen, shame on you.”
“Did she?”
“'That, I shall never tell, even if brandy never passes my lips again.”
“Humph,” Ernie grunts. “What I don't understand is how they could wear those outfits to a kids Halloween party. I would've been real uncomfortable—if I was dad—remembering when I'd worn that outfit before—uncomfortable wearing it out in public, I mean.”
“It was mom's idea. They were rekindling their romance. She reminded him how much fun they had on their honeymoon, and she promised they could play some of those games again. But first, they had to wear the outfits to the party.”
“You're telling me she . . . uhhh . . . fired him up, then made him wait before letting him do with her what she wanted him to?”
“You've got it.”
“But why? Why did she have him wear that silly outfit in public before letting him . . . y’know . . . wear just part of it in private?”
“Because he didn't want to. He was embarrassed—just the way you said.”
“That's all? No other reason?”
“She didn’t need another reason.”
Ernie studies Margaret. “Women are weird.”
“Oh, I don't know about that. . . . Anyway, why did you bring up that story of our playing pirates?”
“Doesn't matter now. I'm trying to cope with our parents playing naughty games on their honeymoon. And not only then, either, but right here—in this house—with their kids sleeping down the hall. Then you tell me mom played mind games, too.”
“She made it sound like that's a big part of marriage. Didn't you and Donna . . . y’know . . . fool around and try to get each other to do what you wanted?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“When I wanted Donna to wear some outfit, it was because she looked great in it. I wasn't trying to get her to wear it so I could feel I got her to do something she didn't want to do.”
Margaret appraises Ernie, glances at Donna’s picture, can't keep a wry smile from her face. “Right. What you two had was special. Now, it’s off to bed with me. Don’t forget to put the cats in the garage.” She kisses Ernie on the head as she leaves.
“Night, Marge. You're special, too.”
After a moment, Ernie goes to the bar, pours himself another brandy. Jesus! he thinks, looking at Donna's picture. That's only supposed to happen in porno flics. A story unfit for TV playing in our own home, sweet home. Starring mom and dad. Who would’ve believed it? He gulps down his brandy, heads for the garage, mumbling, “How come I always get stuck with the cats? They’re her cats.”