Free Eggs by Jerry Spinelli

movie stars,” she said. She waited at the door, her expression saying,
I like you talking to me.
Please ask me more
.
    As she watched her favorite TV show that night, he thrust the picture at her. “Know who this is?”
    She hesitated, then dared to take it from his hand. She lowered the volume with the remote control. She nodded, smiling. “This is Clark Gable. He was a movie star many years ago.”
    He took the picture back. It bugged him that he could not annoy her. “How old is he?”
    “Oh, he died some time ago. If he were living, I guess he’d be in his nineties, maybe older.”
    “His name’s not Bob?
    “Bob?” She stared at the picture. “No, I’m sure it’s Clark Gable. He was known as the ‘King of the Movies.’ ”
And not Primrose’s father,
David had fully realized in bed that night.
Primrose thinks he’s her father — but he’s not. She’s wrong.
    It took them most of the day to lay a primer and final coat. Nothing on the outside showed that wasn’t white: wheel stumps, windows, fenders, everything.
    “Looks dumb,” said David.
    “It won’t,” said Primrose. “It’s nowhere near . . . uh-oh.” She was looking toward the street. A long, chromey car was pulling up to the house. A lady in black skintight pants got out, followed by a small, yipping, long-haired brown-and-yellow dog. The lady pointed to the front yard, which was indistinguishable from the dirt and gravel driveway. “Poop here, Mimi,” she said. Mimi pooped, and the two of them went to the front door. The dog looked at Primrose and David, the lady did not. The dog yipped. They entered the house.
    Primrose picked up a paint stirrer, walked over to Mimi’s warm sculpture, lifted it carefully from the dirt, and deposited it on the backseat floor of the long car. “C’mon,” she said. “Wait’ll you see this.”
    She led him (by the hand, to David’s surprise) around the house — “Shhh . . . tiptoe” — and in the back door. At the drapery wall to the reading room, she knelt and pulled him down. She drew the drape aside an inch or two.
    Madame Dufee, Mimi the dog, and the black-legged lady were sitting on the rug. Madame Dufee had one of Mimi’s paws in her hand. She appeared to be intently studying the paw. She began to nod. “Yes . . . yes . . . I see wonderful things. A long and happy life.” The dog yipped.
    Primrose got up, no longer trying to be quiet, said aloud, “You believe it?” and went out the back door.
    They sat in the van, the doors left open as they had been all during the painting. “I don’t know who’s worse,” said Primrose, “my mother or that weasel lady.”
    “She came before?” said David.
    “Yeah. She comes a couple times a year. First time she came she had a different dog. Guess it didn’t have such a long and happy life after all.” Primrose lay back and stared at the ceiling. She balled her fists and pounded the floor. “Damn!” She jumped up. She swatted her
House Beautiful
s and sent them flying like paper ducks. “Why can’t I just have a nice, normal mother like everybody else?” She stared at David, yet seemed unaware of the irony of her question. “A mother that cooks dinner. That takes me places. That buys me stuff. Hah!” Her laugh was cold.
    “Those rings on her feet you saw? Know where she got them? From
me
. I found them. I was going to sell them at the flea market. It’s everything. Clothes. Combs. Hah — the stupid
teddy
bear?” She rammed her thumb into her chest. “Mine!” She flung herself outside, ranting. “
She
takes
my
stuff. My mother. Who’s the
daughter
around here anyway?
I’m
supposed to take
her
stuff!”
    She stomped twice around the van, then came back in. “You know what’s funny? You know what’s
really
funny?”
    David, wide-eyed, shook his head. “I’ll tell you what’s really funny. She” — she pointed out the door — “she tells everybody the same thing. ‘I see a long and happy life.’ Doesn’t matter