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His Talk Her Teeth Analysis

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The Nuclear Family: His Talk, Her Teeth When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,” Papa would say, “she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing. ‘Spread your lips, sweet Lil,’ they’d cluck, ‘and show us your choppers!’ ” This same Crystal Lil, our star-haired mama, sitting snug on the built-in sofa that was Arty’s bed at night, would chuckle at the sewing in her lap and shake her head. “Don’t piffle to the children, Al. Those hens ran like whiteheads.” Nights on the road this would be, between shows and towns in some campground or pull-off, with the other vans and trucks and trailers of Binewski’s Carnival Fabulon ranged up around us, …show more content…

But if it rained the story mood would sneak up on Papa. The hiss and tick on the metal of our big living van distracted him from his papers. Rain on a show night was catastrophe. Rain on the road meant talk, which, for Papa, was pure pleasure. “It’s a shame and a pity, Lil,” he’d say, “that these offspring of yours should only know the slumming summer geeks from Yale.” “Princeton, dear,” Mama would correct him mildly. “Randall will be a sophomore this fall. I believe he’s our first Princeton boy.” We children would sense our story slipping away to trivia. Arty would nudge me and I’d pipe up with, “Tell about the time when Mama was the geek!” and Arty and Elly and Iphy and Chick would all slide into line with me on the floor between Papa’s chair and Mama. Mama would pretend to be fascinated by her sewing and Papa would tweak his swooping mustache and vibrate his tangled eyebrows, pretending reluctance. “Welllll …” he’d begin, “it was a long time ago …show more content…

“And with your mama, Miss Hinchcliff, standing there like three scoops of vanilla I can’t even cuss! What am I gonna do? The geek posters are all over town!” “It was during a war, darlings,” explains Mama. “I forget which one precisely. Your father had difficulty getting help at that time or he never would have hired me, even to make costumes, as inexperienced as I was.” “So I’m standing there fuddled from breathing Miss Hinchcliff’s Midnight Marzipan perfume and cross-eyed with figuring. I couldn’t climb into the pit myself because I was doing twenty jobs already. I couldn’t ask Horst the Cat Man because he was a vegetarian to begin with, and his dentures would disintegrate the first time he hit a chicken neck anyhow. Suddenly your mama pops up for all the world like she was offering me sherry and biscuits. ‘I’ll do it, Mr. Binewski,’ she says, and I just about sent a present to my laundryman.” Mama smiled sweetly into her sewing and nodded. “I was anxious to prove myself useful to the show. I’d been with Binewski’s Fabulon only two weeks

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