of horseshoes and tennis rackets like the other girls in Spring Green.
“Or worse,” Twiss said. “A dress.”
“ I wear dresses,” Milly said.
“But you don’t act like you do.”
At night, they’d talk until the shadow of their mother’s feet appeared under the door, which meant Not another word . Their mother let their whispering go on longer than usual because she was eager to have another pair of hands around the house for the summer; a pair, she told Twiss, that wasn’t as lazy as hers.
Mine? Twiss said, pretending to be outraged.
Their mother planned on repairing the damage living on a farm had done to her. She said that wives deserved a little mindless time and mothers deserved much, much more. Her sister, Gertrude, was sending their cousin with the understanding that if the three of them got on well together, Milly and Twiss would go up north next summer to help out. If was their mother’s way of saying when . Each morning, she crossed a day off the calendar with a black X.
The day before Cousin Bettie arrived, Twiss flipped ahead three hundred sixty-five days to a Wednesday in early June, the day their mother decided they would depart for Aunt Gertrude’s house in Deadwater, a day that would have been unremarkable if it weren’t for the smiling sun their mother had drawn in the square with a yellow crayon.
Milly’s father didn’t notice the bath salts or the calendar.
After the Accident, which had taken on the weight of a proper noun somewhere between his coming home from the hospital and the appearance of the June bugs, he spent his time in the barn when he wasn’t working. He’d even started sleeping up in the hayloft because he said their mother’s snoring woke him, though a thick plaster wall separated their bedrooms and she didn’t snore. Their parents had always kept separate bedrooms, but they hadn’t always slept separately. When Milly and Twiss were little, their father had used his bedroom to store golf equipment, but would sleep in their mother’s room. One day, though, for no reason the girls understood, a mattress appeared on the floor in their father’s room and he started sleeping on it, now and then at first, then more and more regularly. Milly and Twiss would still occasionally catch him sneaking out of their mother’s bedroom in the morning, which would hearten them. Other times, they’d find him asleep on his bed in all of his clothes, and their mother’s eyes would be puffy, which would still hearten them because their parents were trying to work out whatever ugly thing had come between them.
Milly and Twiss couldn’t find anything heartening about their father sleeping in the barn or him handing them notes scrawled on leftover scoring paper from the golf course when he had something to say to their mother. You must be very happy, Margaret , he’d written on the last piece of scoring paper. You finally got exactly what you wanted .
Like always, her father was talking about golf, with one significant difference: after he drove the car off the bridge over the Wisconsin River, and had recovered from his slight injuries, his swing had altered imperceptibly to everyone including him, though the outcome was clear; overnight, he’d become a player who duffed the same shots he used to sneer at for their elementariness. Overnight, he’d become average.
“We might have to face the facts,” their mother said one evening when the pantry was empty but should have been full. Despite the sorry state of his swing, once again their father had spent most of his paycheck (which wasn’t big to begin with since being a golf pro was more about prestige than money) buying rounds of drinks and cigars for members at the clubhouse. You don’t understand , he’d said, when their mother handed him a stack of bills, the mortgage slip on top. It’s the only way to really be one of them .
That afternoon, their mother had asked Milly and Twiss to go out to the pond to catch frogs,
“Or worse,” Twiss said. “A dress.”
“ I wear dresses,” Milly said.
“But you don’t act like you do.”
At night, they’d talk until the shadow of their mother’s feet appeared under the door, which meant Not another word . Their mother let their whispering go on longer than usual because she was eager to have another pair of hands around the house for the summer; a pair, she told Twiss, that wasn’t as lazy as hers.
Mine? Twiss said, pretending to be outraged.
Their mother planned on repairing the damage living on a farm had done to her. She said that wives deserved a little mindless time and mothers deserved much, much more. Her sister, Gertrude, was sending their cousin with the understanding that if the three of them got on well together, Milly and Twiss would go up north next summer to help out. If was their mother’s way of saying when . Each morning, she crossed a day off the calendar with a black X.
The day before Cousin Bettie arrived, Twiss flipped ahead three hundred sixty-five days to a Wednesday in early June, the day their mother decided they would depart for Aunt Gertrude’s house in Deadwater, a day that would have been unremarkable if it weren’t for the smiling sun their mother had drawn in the square with a yellow crayon.
Milly’s father didn’t notice the bath salts or the calendar.
After the Accident, which had taken on the weight of a proper noun somewhere between his coming home from the hospital and the appearance of the June bugs, he spent his time in the barn when he wasn’t working. He’d even started sleeping up in the hayloft because he said their mother’s snoring woke him, though a thick plaster wall separated their bedrooms and she didn’t snore. Their parents had always kept separate bedrooms, but they hadn’t always slept separately. When Milly and Twiss were little, their father had used his bedroom to store golf equipment, but would sleep in their mother’s room. One day, though, for no reason the girls understood, a mattress appeared on the floor in their father’s room and he started sleeping on it, now and then at first, then more and more regularly. Milly and Twiss would still occasionally catch him sneaking out of their mother’s bedroom in the morning, which would hearten them. Other times, they’d find him asleep on his bed in all of his clothes, and their mother’s eyes would be puffy, which would still hearten them because their parents were trying to work out whatever ugly thing had come between them.
Milly and Twiss couldn’t find anything heartening about their father sleeping in the barn or him handing them notes scrawled on leftover scoring paper from the golf course when he had something to say to their mother. You must be very happy, Margaret , he’d written on the last piece of scoring paper. You finally got exactly what you wanted .
Like always, her father was talking about golf, with one significant difference: after he drove the car off the bridge over the Wisconsin River, and had recovered from his slight injuries, his swing had altered imperceptibly to everyone including him, though the outcome was clear; overnight, he’d become a player who duffed the same shots he used to sneer at for their elementariness. Overnight, he’d become average.
“We might have to face the facts,” their mother said one evening when the pantry was empty but should have been full. Despite the sorry state of his swing, once again their father had spent most of his paycheck (which wasn’t big to begin with since being a golf pro was more about prestige than money) buying rounds of drinks and cigars for members at the clubhouse. You don’t understand , he’d said, when their mother handed him a stack of bills, the mortgage slip on top. It’s the only way to really be one of them .
That afternoon, their mother had asked Milly and Twiss to go out to the pond to catch frogs,
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