hands curled under her chin.
“Mom will kill me if she wakes up,” Patrick says behind me, so I shut the door.
It is afternoon in somebody else’s house. I don’t know what to do now.
“We’re not living here,” he says. “I mean, not really.”
We just stand there in the dark hallway.
“We thought you were coming back next week. School doesn’t start until a week from Wednesday, you know. Why are you shaking?”
I hold my hand out flat. I’m shaking like I have a disease. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s get out in the sun.”
We go down the back stairs and out onto the porch.
“He’s back,” Patrick says, pointing.
My father is in his chair at the pool in his bathing trunks. He’s sitting sideways to us, talking to Mrs. Tabor. She glances over but he doesn’t. I walk all the way across the grass to the concrete squares around the pool before he looks up. He fakes surprise. “Well, hello there!” He fakes friendliness. I know it’s fake because I’ve heard that voice when he talks to the neighbors he hates. He hates Mr. Seeley for building his garage so close to our property line, and he hates the Fitzpatricks for having so many children. He hates the old Vancesisters down the hill for feeding our dogs and Mr. Pratt across the street for playing taps at sunset. He grumbles about them, swears about them, and makes fun of the way they walk or talk or laugh. But whenever he sees one of them, at the post office or the gas station, he always says, “Well, hello there!” in that same fake friendly voice.
I hug him tight but his arms are loose around me.
“You come up for a swim? The pool’s nice today.” He reaches for his drink and I notice his hand is shaking like mine.
“No, I didn’t bring a suit. I just—”
“Why not? The pool’s nice today,” he says again, just before sipping.
“I don’t know. I haven’t unpacked yet,” I say, then regret mentioning anything about being away. At the same time I want him to know that I came up here first thing. “We just got back an hour ago.” I realize this isn’t true. It’s been more like three hours by now.
“Oh, really? I thought I saw the convertible downtown this morning.”
Now
he’s
lying. We drove in well past noon. I shake my head, but I don’t have it in me to fight.
He’s glaring at Mrs. Tabor. I know that look, too. It means,
Can you believe this little shit?
Sweat has popped out on his nose.
“I missed you,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Gardiner,” Mrs. Tabor says.
“I missed you, too.”
Our eyes catch briefly. His are a yellowy green. My throat aches from not crying.
“Why don’t you go help your dad finish unloading the car?” Mrs. Tabor says.
We walk across the stiff healthy grass together. He lights a cigarette with his lighter, a heavy silver rectangle that makes a wonderful
shlink
when he flips it closed. The familiarity of that sound, of everything about him, hurts. The driveway is hot, the way-back of the station wagon hotter. I have to get on my knees inside to reach the last two bags. The smell of the dogs reminds me that I haven’t seen the puppy.
“Where’s the puppy?”
“What?” my father says over his shoulder. I hurry to catch up.
“Scratch. Where is he?”
“Ran away.”
“Ran away?”
“Summer for running away.”
“Have you looked for him?”
“I know where he is.”
“Where?”
“He’s with the old biddies. They’ve been trying to steal my dogs for years. I decided to let them have this one. You didn’t want it.”
“I couldn’t take him. I asked, but I couldn’t.”
He flicks a look of raw disgust at me. He’s putting it together, my refusal of the Newfoundland, my secret with my mother. “Ugliest goddamned dog I ever saw.”
I help him put away the batteries and the rest of his purchases. He leaves a pack of lightbulbs out, saying there are some that need replacing, and when he leaves the room to do that I follow him. I have the idea that if I stay
“Mom will kill me if she wakes up,” Patrick says behind me, so I shut the door.
It is afternoon in somebody else’s house. I don’t know what to do now.
“We’re not living here,” he says. “I mean, not really.”
We just stand there in the dark hallway.
“We thought you were coming back next week. School doesn’t start until a week from Wednesday, you know. Why are you shaking?”
I hold my hand out flat. I’m shaking like I have a disease. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s get out in the sun.”
We go down the back stairs and out onto the porch.
“He’s back,” Patrick says, pointing.
My father is in his chair at the pool in his bathing trunks. He’s sitting sideways to us, talking to Mrs. Tabor. She glances over but he doesn’t. I walk all the way across the grass to the concrete squares around the pool before he looks up. He fakes surprise. “Well, hello there!” He fakes friendliness. I know it’s fake because I’ve heard that voice when he talks to the neighbors he hates. He hates Mr. Seeley for building his garage so close to our property line, and he hates the Fitzpatricks for having so many children. He hates the old Vancesisters down the hill for feeding our dogs and Mr. Pratt across the street for playing taps at sunset. He grumbles about them, swears about them, and makes fun of the way they walk or talk or laugh. But whenever he sees one of them, at the post office or the gas station, he always says, “Well, hello there!” in that same fake friendly voice.
I hug him tight but his arms are loose around me.
“You come up for a swim? The pool’s nice today.” He reaches for his drink and I notice his hand is shaking like mine.
“No, I didn’t bring a suit. I just—”
“Why not? The pool’s nice today,” he says again, just before sipping.
“I don’t know. I haven’t unpacked yet,” I say, then regret mentioning anything about being away. At the same time I want him to know that I came up here first thing. “We just got back an hour ago.” I realize this isn’t true. It’s been more like three hours by now.
“Oh, really? I thought I saw the convertible downtown this morning.”
Now
he’s
lying. We drove in well past noon. I shake my head, but I don’t have it in me to fight.
He’s glaring at Mrs. Tabor. I know that look, too. It means,
Can you believe this little shit?
Sweat has popped out on his nose.
“I missed you,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Gardiner,” Mrs. Tabor says.
“I missed you, too.”
Our eyes catch briefly. His are a yellowy green. My throat aches from not crying.
“Why don’t you go help your dad finish unloading the car?” Mrs. Tabor says.
We walk across the stiff healthy grass together. He lights a cigarette with his lighter, a heavy silver rectangle that makes a wonderful
shlink
when he flips it closed. The familiarity of that sound, of everything about him, hurts. The driveway is hot, the way-back of the station wagon hotter. I have to get on my knees inside to reach the last two bags. The smell of the dogs reminds me that I haven’t seen the puppy.
“Where’s the puppy?”
“What?” my father says over his shoulder. I hurry to catch up.
“Scratch. Where is he?”
“Ran away.”
“Ran away?”
“Summer for running away.”
“Have you looked for him?”
“I know where he is.”
“Where?”
“He’s with the old biddies. They’ve been trying to steal my dogs for years. I decided to let them have this one. You didn’t want it.”
“I couldn’t take him. I asked, but I couldn’t.”
He flicks a look of raw disgust at me. He’s putting it together, my refusal of the Newfoundland, my secret with my mother. “Ugliest goddamned dog I ever saw.”
I help him put away the batteries and the rest of his purchases. He leaves a pack of lightbulbs out, saying there are some that need replacing, and when he leaves the room to do that I follow him. I have the idea that if I stay
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