- 4 -
- 4 -George was lucky. He had a pottery show that Saturday morning, which allowed him to vanish. When I awoke, only the faint smell of his cologne wafted from the bathroom. Mother and I sat bleary-eyed over our coffee and our giant home-fried, gut-bomb donuts from the Silver River Tavern. My stomach gurgled a little, trying to deal with the artery-clogging grease that accompanied each donut. (I’d had two.) Mother sipped her coffee and studied me. This always made me uncomfortable.
“Um, so was the futon ok?” I asked. When George and I had converted the loft into his studio, we had put a futon bed up there, which we had to cover with a drop cloth to protect it from splatters from George’s pottery wheel. When it was determined that Mother would be best off sleeping in the loft, George
