Free Trail of the Spellmans by Lisa Lutz

like.”
    “I’ll think it over,” I replied.
    “I have to decide between inviting David and Rae. Do you have a preference?”
    “Why is it either/or?”
    “David won’t come if Rae is here.”
    “Seriously?”
    “It’s worse than I thought,” my mother said.
    “It’s worse than I thought,” I said.
    “Do you know what happened?” Mom asked.
    “No idea. You?”
    “Well, obviously, it has nothing to do with the liquor cabinet. I’m not in the mood to play Sophie’s Choice yet again, so you tell me who to invite.”
    “David,” I quickly replied. “Get him sloshed and maybe he’ll talk.”
    “I like the way you think,” Mom said. “Well, I’d love to stay and explore the many angles of my children’s dysfunction, but I’m late for my class,”Mom said as she slipped her arm through the straps of a canvas bag and made her way to the door.
    “What’s in the bag, Mom?”
    “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern,” she said, waving a cheery good-bye.
    I promptly entered the office and got to the bottom of at least one matter. Well, not quite the bottom. Somewhere in the middle, I suppose.
    “Dad, I’ll keep that cookie secret, even the next one, if you tell me what ‘class’ 2 Mom is heading to right now.”
    Dad pulled a calendar from his desk and said, “Let me check her schedule. What day is it?”
    “Monday,” D answered.
    “Monday is sculpting,” Dad said. “And book club once a month.”
    “Give me that,” I said, approaching his desk.
    Dad reluctantly handed me the calendar. I don’t believe he was under any directive not to provide this intelligence, but he was under a directive not to eat baked goods.
    I was shocked to discover a traffic jam of “leisure” activities on the calendar, all in blue ink, blanketing the page like a tidal wave. There was virtually no time unaccounted for beyond work hours. I made a photocopy of the page and returned it to my father. I provide for you now my mother’s hobby schedule for the month of September.
     
Monday, 6–9 P.M. , Beginning Pottery; 8:00 P.M. , book club (second Monday of month)
Tuesday, 5–6 P.M. , yoga; 7–10 P.M. , Russian 101
Wednesday, 6:30–8 P.M. , crochet 3
Thursday, 7:30–10:30 P.M. , Tarting It Up [fret not; it was a cooking class]
Friday, 7:30–9 P.M. , Music Appreciation
Saturday, 9–10 A.M. , yoga; 11 A.M. –1 P.M. , decoupage
Sunday, 9 A.M. –12 P.M. , volunteer work; 2–3 P.M. , tennis; 5–6 P.M. , prep for family dinner
    I had so many questions that it was impossible to unite them in any semblance of logic or order. I simply chose them at random like scraps of paper tossed in a hat.
    “What the fuck is decoupage?” was the first to surface.
    “Some kind of craft thing,” Dad replied.
    “It’s the technique of decorating with cutouts from a newspaper or magazine on a flat surface and coating with a layer of finish,” D explained.
    “I’m confused. Why would somebody do that?”
    “I did it in prison once or twice in art class. It was kind of relaxing.”
    “In prison, the point is to kill time. I wouldn’t be surprised if you took a knitting class as well.”
    “Knitting would have been very popular,” D replied. “And dangerous.”
    “Since when does Mom volunteer?” was the next question that fought through the competing interrogatives.
    “She’s worked at the food bank on a few occasions.”
    “Dad, what’s going on?” I asked. “It isn’t like Mom to have outside interests.”
    “She’s been taking yoga with me for the last few years,” Dad replied.
    “That’s to make you go to yoga.”
    “What’s the harm in your mother having a hobby or two?”
    “She’s booked solid.”
    “She promised me she’d drop a few after the first couple of weeks.”
    “You don’t think she’s up to something?” I said.
    “She’s taking some classes to broaden her horizons.”
    “Russian!”
    “Spanish was at a bad time,” my father nonchalantly replied.
    “You know