“Do you want to go to the Beethoven thing at the university with Aunt Polly and me?” asked Phil’s mom as she edged backwards through the door of his new trailer, carrying a heavy box of books.
“Hey, let me get that,” Phil tried to grab the box, but his mother fended him off with an elbow.
“I have to unpack,” he explained as she hefted it onto an old wooden ironing board that served as his kitchen table. “Also, I am sticking with my pact never to attend a public event with Aunt Polly again.”
“Oh, Phil, she’s not that bad,” said his mother, reaching into the book box and examining a copy of “Being and Nothingness.” “Have you actually read this, or are you just carrying it around to look intellectual?”
“I’ve read about four pages,” Phil confessed, “It’s one of my holocaust books. In case I have to hole up in here for a really long time.” He took the book from her and opened it to a random passage.
“Jesus, if I were going to hole up, I’d want to read something a little more uplifting. Do you read Michener?” his mom asked, poking half-heartedly through his book box.
“No, I do not read Michener,” he replied.
“A bit testy?” his mother accused, poking him playfully in the chest, as if picking a fight.
Phil smiled wryly.
“Well I’m meeting Aunt Polly at four,” his mom said, grabbing her purse to leave. “Maybe this time you should unpack.”
“Maybe,” said Phil.
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