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a thing the matter with your mother’s cooking, Mary Rose. I’m sure she doesn’t like it one bit having your father do the cooking. I for one just hate to see a man in the kitchen.”
    “Why, Grandma?”
    “Because it’s not natural.”
    “Why isn’t it natural? I mean if he’s a better cook than my mother, isn’t it better for him to do the cooking?”
    “No,” said my grandmother. “It’s better for him to be out making money, and for your mother to be home cooking.”
    “But she doesn’t want to be home cooking, and she’s a terrible cook.”
    “It’s better for the children, Mary Rose.”
    “But none of us want her home cooking, Grandma. I mean, we like it when she’s home, but not cooking. As a matter of fact, we’re all worried that once Daddy starts teaching he won’t be able to do the cooking. I guess if that happens, I’ll have to do it, or Manny. But, Grandma, when can I start looking for Mary Rose’s box?”
    “Whenever you like, darling, but first get your father to move those boxes of curtains. I’m almost positive I put it behind them along with some boxes of pictures and letters.”
    My dad moved the boxes of curtains for me that night. Mary Rose’s shoe box wasn’t up there. But my grandmother had been right about the boxes of letters and pictures. It seemed as if she saved everything after the fire. School notebooks that belonged to Uncle Stanley and my mother, reports that they made, pictures of them in the years that followed—lots and lots of pictures. But none of Mary Rose.
    My mother spent a whole day with me in the attic. She kept saying how silly it was for Grandma to have saved all those old school reports and letters. Some of the letters were from her to Grandma from Lincoln. But lots of them were letters to her from friends when she was living at home. Some of them were from boyfriends. There was a whole stack from somebody named Bill Stover.
    My mother kept showing me different pictures of Uncle Stanley or herself or friends of theirs.
    “Look, Mary Rose, this is a picture of a girl named Lorraine Jacobs. She was just about the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. And nice as can be. She married a boy named Frank Scacalossi. Let me see if I can find a picture of him. Oh, look, here’s one of Peter Wedemeyer. He was such a good friend of mine. We had so much fun together. We roller skated all over the city. I told you about him, didn’t I, Mary Rose?”
    “Maybe. I don’t remember.”
    My mother was really happy with all those old pictures. She stayed up there when I went downstairs to watch TV with Grandma.
    “Who’s Bill Stover?” I asked my grandmother before “The Newlyweds” started.
    “A wonderful boy your mother was going to marry —if she hadn’t met your father. Now he’s a lawyer, and he lives out on the island, and I understand he’s worth a fortune.”
    “That’s all right, Grandma,” I told her. “If she married Bill Stover, then you wouldn’t have me.”
    “I guess that’s so,” said my grandmother. “It’s like they say—’Every cloud has a silver lining.’ " And she hugged me and kissed me, and we watched the program and laughed out loud, and we didn’t have to whisper since my mother was all the way upstairs.
     
Chapter 5
     
    Every Thursday night Uncle Stanley telephoned. He called to find out how everybody was, and to say that he would be by Friday night after work. Not to stay for dinner, but just to say hello and to visit for a little while. Aunt Claudia didn’t like him to stay for dinner.
    After he finished talking, he would generally put Pam on the phone, and she and I would make our plans for the weekend.
    “What did she say?”
    “No!”
    “But Pam, you just have to come this weekend. Grandma says there’s a box that belonged to Mary Rose up in the attic. I’ve been hunting all week, and if you come, the two of us can look for it together.”
    “That would be great, but she says no.”
    “Can you get your