The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig Read Free Book Online Page A

Father."
    He sent me a warning frown, but too late. "It's right in here," Toby said as he charged to the doorway and eagerly looked back over his shoulder for Rose. She said, "Then let's have a look," as if we were all going to the zoo.
    Functional clutter is perhaps the best description of how Father managed in the kitchen. Provisions such as bags of flour and sugar and an arsenal of canned goods stood on the counter so he would always know where things were. Likewise certain frequently used pots, pans, butcher knives, large spoons, and dishes. The table showed only a passing acquaintance with meals; one entire end of it was permanently stacked with Toby's crayon drawings, Father's archive of newspapers except for the ones Damon had eviscerated for his baseball and football and boxing scrapbooks, even more of my books, and the like. As a person looked around, it was clear that culinary skills were not our strongest point as a family. In point of fact, the main ingredient of our mealtimes was disarray. Father had many knacks, but when by necessity he turned his hand to the cookstove, always running late, never versed in preparations, his results almost invariably came out boiled, soupy, lumpy, or tough as
shoe leather. We truly dined only on those Sundays at Rae's table; otherwise we subsisted. Surely Rose would read our condition and be moved to say "I can fry up some eggs and bacon and hotcakes in a jiffy," wouldn't she? Damon and I waited tensely and Toby plopped down at his place at the table as if the issue was already resolved. Hopes soared as Rose hesitated in the middle of the room, then stepped toward the cookstove.
    "Does the reservoir hold good hot water?" she inquired of Father, and, studiously not looking our way, he said he guessed so.
    Hot water! We were capable of that ourselves. Rose glided on past every foodstuff and utensil we possessed with no more than a glance, seeming to be an absolute tourist in this part of the house. The one item she did pause over lay stretched beside the kitchen stove.
    "Houdini, if I recall. Whose claim to fame is—?"
    Turning in that direction, Father asked in a confidential tone, "Houdini, what do you think of William Howard Taft as president?"
    The dog's ears went up. He pushed himself up by his front legs, let out a howl, then rolled over and played dead.
    "Quite the performance," Rose had to admit, though still eyeing him with the professional housekeeper's suspicion of a sizable hair-shedding animal.
    "Wait till you see him catch a jackrabbit," Toby told her.
    "Father?" By now the clock was in my favor, and I used it ruthlessly. "Look at the time. Hadn't we better think about something to eat?"
    "Ah." Plainly he had not anticipated dealing with this issue this soon. But even more plainly, the rest of us were voting with our stomachs. Taking a deep breath, he squared around to Rose and began: "We haven't had breakfast yet and wondered if—"
    "Oh, I never touch it, thanks very much anyway" With that she disappeared out to the roughed-in front porch known as the mud room to continue her assessment of the household.
    Damon called despairingly to her departing back, "Around here, it's always mush."
    Father gave us a defensive look and turned to the cookstove. He fired up his coffee first, then began boiling up oatmeal as we glumly watched. Rose soon was back in from whatever she had been in search of. "Wash day," she said decisively, donning an apron as deftly as a magician wielding a cape. "That would be a start."
    "Paul's your man when it comes to water," Father informed her, not without a glint of retribution as he set aside my oatmeal bowl and nodded me toward the pump in the yard. Indeed I was in charge of the water bucket, doing the dishes, and Saturday-night baths. With a groan, I got up from the table to help Rose with the wash water.
    I showed her the trick of operating the pump by wetting the leather piston with a couple of quick half strokes, then the long