The Bible of Dirty Jokes by Eileen Pollack

Author:Eileen Pollack
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Four Way Books

Where, oh where, do children come from? My niece looked nothing like my brother. Or anyone else in Vegas. If Morty and I had had a child, would he or she have been anything like either one of us? This is a question I suspect bothered Morty, too. But watching my niece lavish her affection on a flock of dogs begging for food and love, all I could do was curse. Damn you, Morty Tittelman! Why didn’t I argue until you got tired of all my nagging and agreed to have a child? And if you refused, why didn’t I find someone else who would?

I wanted to tell my niece how much I admired her for writing that flier and having the courage to hand it out, but I was afraid she would think I was corny. Instead, I sank down with her on the floor, wrapped my arms around her, and let that pack of skinny dogs wash over us both with their sloppy, loving tongues.

That’s when Ebby came in, walking so softly not even the dogs seemed upset by a strange man’s presence. Then again, if a real Mafia hit man had managed to get inside, these poor creatures would have tiptoed away and hidden.

Ebby motioned me out of earshot. My niece and I would be perfectly fine alone, he said. But to be on the safe side, he proceeded to show me how to use the alarms and monitors. First thing next morning, after Meryl had left for school, he would come back and examine the house for clues. A private investigator didn’t need a warrant to search a house, as long as someone with legal access let him in. Then he said goodbye, and I let him out.

At which I found myself responsible for another person’s life, not to mention five canine victims of posttraumatic stress. What was I supposed to say to make conversation with someone who wasn’t studying the latest cycle of dead-baby jokes going around the playgrounds of Manhattan? And what was I supposed to cook to nourish a growing but health-conscious teenage girl?

The latter question seemed easier to answer than the former. Scrounging through the beautifully crafted cabinets and up-to-date refrigerator in my sister-in-law’s kitchen, I found a loaf of bread, of which all but the innermost pieces were blue with mold, a plate of cheese with colored toothpicks protruding from the cubes, and a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. I did what I could with these sad ingredients.

“Meryl?” I called. “Honey? Do you want to come in and eat?”

When my niece shuffled in with the dogs behind her, I felt the panic I used to feel when a horde of tourists showed up at the deli and we were three waitresses and a line cook short. The dogs whined and sniffed expectantly.

Meryl rubbed their snouts. “Were you worried no one was going to come back and take care of you?” I watched her fill each of five bowls with water and shovel kibble from a vat beneath the sink.

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