She washed her hands and then reached for a large, blue porcelain bowl filled with oyster stuffing. Spreading out the turkey skin-side down, she spooned gray stuffing blobs onto the dark, pink flesh. ―I said, that teacher of yours . . . Anderson? Your mother says he‘s taken an interest. He does seem to go above and beyond. First, the night of your mom‘s party and then driving you home after the meet last week.... Not many teachers I know would be willing to get that involved.‖
A little warning ding in my brain. Another thing therapy teaches you, Bob, is how to read between the lines and then feed people answers they‘ll accept. It‘s like makeup, Bob; there‘s an art to smoothing on enough truth so those ugly zits don‘t show. Or scars, for that matter.
So I shrugged. ―Well, I like him a lot. Most everybody does. But I kind of worry that I‘m imposing too much, you know? It‘s really embarrassing having to cover for Mom and Dad all the time. I feel like I‘m taking advantage of him, except Dad‘s been all over me to get close to my teachers for recommendations. What‘s worse is, I think some of the other kids think I‘m a teacher‘s pet and I don‘t want that either and . . .‖ I sighed. ―Meryl, I just don‘t know what to do.‖
And score one for counterintuitive responses. While I dumped brown sugar and butter into the yam mash, Meryl threaded a trussing needle and then gave me pointers on how to not look like a suck-up as she sewed that turkey back together again. By the time Mom and Dad stumbled down for coffee and warmed-up apple pancakes, we were onto my visiting her on the island during Easter break in time for spring lambing, and all talk of me and Mitch was over, covered, and done.
Everything that happened after that? I blame Green Bay.
The Packers played the early game and got their collective heads handed to them on a platter by Chicago. By halftime, when the score was 31 to 14 and Dad came storming into the kitchen to trade his beer for Scotch, we knew it was going to be a rocky afternoon. The turkey was out of the oven by the time Green Bay finished cratering. Twenty minutes later, Dad was grimly carving the turkey like it was brain surgery and spoiling for a fight. I think that‘s why he gave me white meat. He probably hoped I‘d complain and then he could yell and blow off steam and maybe stab the giblets, and we could get on with the meal.
The dining room was silent except for the sounds of people chewing and the click-click-tick of silver on good china. My father gnawed morosely on a drumstick. He looked like Og.
Even not having run for the last week, I was still starving and white meat just doesn‘t do it for me. So I reached for the other drumstick and said, just for form‘s sake,
―Does anyone mind if I—?‖
―Not so fast,‖ Psycho-Dad snarled. ―You‘ve still got food on your plate, young lady.
You finish that first, then we can talk about seconds.‖
My jaw unhinged. Mom and Meryl stared. Mom said, reasonably, ―Honey, you know she doesn‘t like white me—‖
―Stay out of this, Emily.‖ Psycho-Dad thrust out his jaw. ―I am sick and tired of the way you coddle her. She‘s over all that ....‖ He gestured with his half-gnawed drumstick.
Bits of flesh bobbed on strings of tendon and ligaments. ―That psychiatric bullshit. She‘s not going to break. She gets everything she wants. Didn‘t we get her that damn phone? And a car?‖
Mom stupidly, stupidly tried again. ―Elliot, dear. Please. Lower your voice.‖
―Mom, it‘s fine,‖ I said. ―I‘m not hungry.‖
Meryl put her hand on Mom‘s arm. ―Emily, I think . . .‖
Mom ignored us both. ―She‘s sixteen, Elliot. You‘re treating her like a four-year-old. You need to stop bullying people.‖
―I am not a bully,‖ Psycho-Dad seethed. He threw his drumstick onto his plate and swiped a heavy cut-glass tumbler, still a third full of Scotch. He drained the liquor in a swallow. ―I‘m her father,‖ he said, sucking air through his teeth, his voice thin and strangled with the alcohol burn. ―I pay the bills around here. I pay for the food on this table and the clothes on your back and that store. You‘re just lucky I‘ve done that for as long as I have.‖
If only he had stopped there, we might still have been all right. I do remember that he paused, just for a moment, as if thinking about what he wanted to say next. Maybe he even considered that silence would be kinder, although I doubt it.
Instead, Psycho-Dad gave this small, very satisfied nod and pushed on. ―But I‘m sick of it. It‘s time things changed around here.‖
―What‘s that supposed to mean?‖ asked Mom.
I scraped back my chair. ―I‘ll start clear—‖
―Sit,‖ said Psycho-Dad. He didn‘t say stay, but he might as well have. I sat.
Mom‘s eyes narrowed. ―Elliot? What did you mean change?‖
Dad‘s face was ruddy. He reached for a bottle, splashed wine into his glass and drank. Maybe he‘d pass out before he did more damage.
―Elliot?‖
Dad came up for air. His upper lip was wet. Red wine dribbled from the corner of his mouth like blood. ―I mean that I‘m pulling my collateral for your line of credit. That store is finished and I‘m done, Emily. I‘m done.‖
f
Mom went absolutely still. Meryl froze, and so did I. I knew that Mom had come to depend, more and more heavily, on credit to meet her bills every month. For the last half year, that was the only thing standing between her and no store at all. The only reason the bank let her keep it was because Dad put up some of his assets as collateral. Without my father, my mother would have no credit at all. Without that, she couldn‘t pay Evan or her rent or keep up a full inventory. She‘d ordered massive amounts of books, hoping this Christmas season her business would turn around. Now, she was nearly at the end of the month, the day before what she hoped would be a huge shopping day but hadn‘t been for years—and now, if Psycho-Dad meant what he said, no way to pay down her debt.
―My God,‖ my mother said, finally. ―This is like when we pulled Jenna out of the hospital. You didn‘t just decide this. You already knew you were going to do this when we had the party, didn‘t you? A month ago! You knew then.‖
Psycho-Dad took another swallow. ―What if I did?‖
―Then this whole last month, our trip, everything you said, that we did ... ‖ Mom‘s lips compressed to a gash. ―What did you think, Elliot? Did you think screwing me again would make it easier to fuck me over?‖ Coming out of her mouth, the words were so much uglier. ―That I wouldn‘t mind?‖
―Of course not.‖ Psycho-Dad managed a look of indignation. ―I‘m thinking of us, of protecting our position. That store is a money pit, you‘ve said it yourself. You should be relieved. I‘m only thinking of you.‖ But the way his eyes slid from my mother‘s, I knew he was lying.
―Thinking of me? This is about you and your precious money. You son of a . . .‖
She choked back the rest and then stood, slowly, as regally as a queen. ―You do what you need to do, Elliot, but don‘t sneak around. Be a man for once.‖
My father blustered. ―You can‘t talk to me like th—‖
―Fuck. You. Elliot.‖ She waited a moment, but my father had clamped his jaws so tight I‘d heard the click. She said, ―Do what you want. I don‘t give a damn.‖ She swept out.
He didn‘t go after her. Neither did Meryl. Maybe I should have, Bob. Matt wasn‘t her only kid. If I‘d reminded her that I was here, too....
I wish I‘d been braver, but I was paralyzed. And afraid.
Because what if I wasn‘t enough either? What if I had never been?
I didn‘t want to know, Bob. I didn‘t. Everyone breaks. Some wounds will never heal, and I just couldn‘t, I couldn‘t.
So, instead, I only sat and listened to her cursing and rummaging in the hall closet.
When she slammed out of the house, the windows chattered. A moment later, the garage door grumbled; her car roared; and then she was gone.
42: a
After Mom left, Dad and his Scotch stormed off to his study. Meryl and I cleared the table. I scrubbed pots and pans and cleaned counters. I might have gotten down on my hands and knees to scour the tile if Meryl hadn‘t stopped me.
―I‘m going after your mom.‖ She‘d already shrugged into her coat and was knotting a scarf around her throat. ―Thank God, the roads are clear or she‘d have gone off a bridge.
She‘s probably at the store. You want to come with?‖
I didn‘t. After Meryl left, I snagged a cinnamon roll and went to my room. I picked up Lasker‘s book on Alexis, then put it back down without cracking the spine. The book reminded me of how much I missed Mitch, and I ached to hear his voice. Normally, I‘d have been able to talk to him, either in school or on the phone or a text. In person, if we were running—or after: showering, toweling off. Making love.
But Mitch was in Madison until Sunday night and while I probably could call or text, he wouldn‘t be able to talk. He might not even answer. After all, there were limits to what you could explain away.
I needed to get out of that house. Go someplace I could breathe. Incredibly, my car was still down at school. I‘d missed school the day after the meet; and then it was break.
We kept meaning to retrieve my car, but Mom got busy with the store and we just hadn‘t gotten around to it.
But there was Dad‘s Lexus.
After tucking the Lasker book, my wallet, and cell into my knapsack, I tiptoed into my parents‘ bedroom. Dad‘s keys were on the bureau, along with his wallet and pager. I worked the key off the ring and then crept down the stairs to stand outside his study. I heard the television and what sounded like another game, but Dad was talking to someone, too, probably his nursie-mistress or some moral equivalent because I caught a couple words: inconsiderate bitch...want to...miss you, too...
I honestly didn‘t care. What with Nate Bartholomew and Mistress Nursie, I think I‘d decided my parents deserved each other.
Lucky for me, the Lexus was all-the-time four-wheel drive and had good tires. I took it slow as I drove to Mitch‘s house. I worried about how to explain away my dad‘s car in his driveway—but the hike from the park was a good eight miles. My ankle wasn‘t that bad, but I didn‘t want to push it. Anyway, Mitch‘s house wasn‘t visible from the road and his nearest neighbor was miles away. I should be okay.
