Off Keck Road by Mona Simpson

teacher in June’s school had done it—put in a rinse at home—and June had been against it and told her so, but well, now she had to admit it looked great. And so natural that you wouldn’t really know. They discussed how you would do a thing like that here, though. Unless you moved.
    Hazel continued shaking her head. “I wouldn’t do it. Somebody’s going to let the cat out of the bag, and then where will you be?”
    â€œThey say if you change the cut, too—not just the color—and if you start wearing new makeup at the same time . . .”
    â€œBut what if you get involved with somebody? Would you tell
him
?”
    They both agreed they probably wouldn’t.
    â€œWell, but then what if he’s in a bar some night and some schlub turns to him and says, What do you think about June Umberhum’s
new
hair?”
    â€œTry and get out of that one,” Hazel said. “That I’d like to see.”
    â€œNow curls—even a permanent—that’s different,” June said. “It’s fun.”
    â€œLike in ‘Which twin has the Toni?’ ” Bea added. “You sort of laugh with the one who gets caught in the rain.”
    Hearing her mother and Bea Maxwell go on like this, Peggy ran from the dining room and flung herself on a guest bed, belly-down, to lose herself in
Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Double Doors,
a story with a soothing, orderly formula and a crime to solve. The households in these books ran ticking in the background with a calm, even regularity. They were only what they were: background. That’s what she wanted hers to be, but it wouldn’t recede. Her mother was now talking about them rooming with this Bea. Peggy hated her.
    June sighed. “Maybe blondes really do have more fun.”
    Dr. Maxwell had already retired to the bedroom, where he read the paper and waited for the nightly news. He followed the Vietnam casualties the way he’d once turned on the television to get the polio tallies every night.
    At nine o’clock, Bea took her mother upstairs to her room while June tucked Peggy under the guest-bed covers (she’d fallen asleep, the book in her hands) so their conversation could continue. Their favorite thing to talk about alone was family, although they saved the subject, taking it out only after a long warm-up on people who were not central, more amusing and less dangerous. When they did talk about Bea’s sister or June’s brother, their voices hushed. Their siblings were each guilty of the worst crime: they were each, unfairly, their mother’s favorites.
    They did nothing to help. Bea’s popular sister rarely even phoned her parents, and June’s brother did precious little, even living right next door, but they had all the props Green Bay mothers wanted: Marriage. Children. And houses.
    When Bea’s sister called and Bea mentioned how glad she was because it had been so long since they’d heard from her (she kept a running count: four weeks one time, six another; the longest so far was nine), her mother quickly mentioned how busy Elaine was. And when Elaine did phone, it was usually to talk about home decoration. Her last phone call, Bea remembered, had been forty minutes all about lamps. The day Elaine and her brood drove in from Minnesota for the holidays, Bea worked late and met June at Kaap’s for supper to remind herself there was another world. Her nieces, naturally, had been given her own bedroom in the house and were probably right then sifting through her belongings. Breaking them.
    Near the end of their late-night discussion, Bea and June meandered to the big dry-sinked kitchen, where Bea concocted hot-fudge sundaes.
    â€œNo matter what I do or how many considerations—I mean, to the doctor, the physical therapist for the hip, I’m driving across town every week to get the rolls she likes—all I hear is the kids this and Elaine that. And