U: the Read-Along, Chapter Two

[nepenthe]

Welcome back! We are continuing with my read-along. It’s a stream-of-consciousness reading of U, U is for Undertow, by Sue Grafton. Today’s reading will be

chapter 2.

 

Because Sue, her editor, and the layout team are totes all about continuity, they skip the diary header altogether. As Kinsey, our main character, is showing the Michael-Plot-Puppet out the door, she notices that erstwhile, her mail was delivered. Among the envelopes is a swanky posh letter with lots of swoopy letters and *gasp* embossing. Oooo-kay. So. Apparently this letter is from “Kinsey family members” whose existence Kinsey discovered four years ago—and yes that is the Kinsey family; Kinsey’s first name was her mother’s maiden surname if I’m working this out right. Her RICH long-lost family which she never knew existed.

 My five Readers? I think we’ve have uncovered the source of Kinsey’s Rich Relatives issue.

I find it interesting that both Kinsey and the Michael-Plot-Puppet both go by their rich family’s surnames—Kinsey’s “Kinsey” and Michael goes by “Sutton”.

She tossed the letter in the trash. Who wants to bet me $5 she’s gonna fish it out again? Any takers?

She’s called over to the police station—talks to the cop who referred the Michael-Plot-Puppet to Kinsey. Neither Kinsey or myself get ANYTHING out of that conversation. It’s, like, a whole page of pointlessness.

Dramatic two-paragraph scene of getting the trash out to the garbage men before the truck leaves!

She goes back to her swivel chair and *drumroll* the envelope missed the can and is now on the floor! I call foul on my bet—the books says she threw it in the trash which  would necessitate it being fished out to retrieve it—I don’t see that any of U guessed it’d miss, so I’m keeping my damn $5.

“I’m not superstitious in nature, but the envelope. . .”

Bullshit.

Ah. We are now getting the low-down on the Kinsey family estrangement. Standby . . .

Okay, the trend of richies going by their last name is getting out of hand: Kinsey’s grandparents were/are Burton Kinsey (Grandpa) and Cornelia Straith (SURNAMEAZANZA) LaGrand, the later of the pair going by “Grand” post-matrimony. No, srsly. Everyone totes called her Grand because that is, like, sooo posh. Kinsey’s mother was the oldest of five children and at 18 eloped with a postman and the rest of the family pretended they didn’t exist. Awesome. The happy couple made a Kinsey and were subsequently killed in a—and I’d just like to say that when I learned Kinsey was an orphan, I totes guessed right on how the parents died. Readers, say it with me: car crash. She was raised by the one Kinsey member who sided with Kinsey’s mother, her Aunt Gin. Huh. So. Kinsey doesn’t blame the aunts-es and uncles-es who never got in touch with her or her Aunt Gin, just la grande Grand as the reason why she never knew had any other family. Which seems a bit odd to me as, you know, the person who could’ve at least MENTIONED the rest of her family was Aunt Gin. Who conveniently failed to mention them for 29 years or so.

The Michael-Plot-Puppet returns with cash and I’m relieved Kinsey writes him a receipt. No dialogue or niceties, he’s in and out.

Cute mention of her semi-legal parking space, but other authors have done it better.

June gloom has come early to Santa Teresa. Fuck you, imaginary California coastal town!

Srsly, guys, last sentence at the page break is:

                “I inhaled the salty essence—”

                *Page*

so yes, I giggled.

We meet her landlord, Henry. 88 years of age. Solid as a horse. As to the job she’s recently accepted from the Michael-Plot-Puppet, she tells Henry,

“He gave me five hundred dollars in cash and what can I say? I was seduced.”

He offered, huh? Methinks ye may have subconsciously coerced the boy.

Sturdy Henry has many a sturdy siblings. No idea if others will feature, but I’m calling Henry’s sister, Nell, who was named especial, although I’m guessing she will be featured in a totes superficial way.

Kinsey—hell, damnit, okay, I’m sorry. That name! It doesn’t fit! I have this totally irrational urge to put Sue to water torture and demand the real name of her protagonist. Maybe it’s Betty. Or Bette. Bette would be a perfect name for her and would make her about 10x more badass. Sorry, it’s out of my system. I had to let it out—Kinsey lives in Henry’s renovated car garage. In some previous book this abode was torched. It is rebuilt. Better. Stronger.

It’s time for U Fun Facts! Info about cleaning tarnished silver—everyone knows the process of silver oxidizing leaves the tarnish on your good flatware and you’re removing a layer every time you clean. I passed ninth grade chem.

Ah. Henry reveals that a Sutton—possibly, maybe—the Michael-Plot-Puppet’s grandfather was on the city council.

Maybe.

Only line I’ve liked so far:

                “It’s like being nibbled to death by ducklings.”

O. Should mention the letter turned out to be an invite to a richie house warming.

Shit, lady; take a date, eat their free food and drink their booze. This is not the sort of thing that calls for an existential crisis. What’s the worst that could happen? They not invite you back? You keep claiming you don’t want them to, but this is all starting to sound like methinks the lady doth, man.

End of chapter 2