Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
The kitchen inside Maribel’s brick cottage on Elm Street was warm, but a half-empty cup of cold English breakfast tea, the kind that cost two dollars a box at the corner market, sat on the counter.
Maribel was sitting in her usual armchair in the living room, her bright blue silk scarf tied tightly under her chin. She was folding her laundry, her trembling fingers smoothing out the hem of a white pillowcase.
“Well, you two look very serious for a Saturday afternoon,” Maribel said, her breath short between her words.
Mason sat on the edge of the wooden piano stool, his hands flat on his knees.
“We just came from Mr. Vance’s studio on Third Street, Grandma,” Mason said.
Maribel’s hands paused over the pillowcase, her fingers tightening on the cotton.
“He is a busy man,” Maribel said, her voice dropping. “I told him to focus on the young people.”
“Why did you cancel your portrait, Maribel?” I asked, sitting on the sofa near her.
