up.”
“So my piece-of-shit house isn’t good enough for you.” His eyes dart down. “You stupid slut, you’re getting paint on the carpet. Ain’t you heard of a drop cloth?”
“I’m going to tear up the carpet, so it is the drop cloth, yeah? There’s hardwood underneath.”
“And what if I say no? It’s my goddamn house and if I want carpet, I want carpet. And what if I tell you you’ve gotta get down on your knees and scrub off every little paint splotch? Whaddya say to that?”
“I say fuck you to that.”
As he swings, I only have time enough to close my eyes, so it isn’t until I hear the smack of his hand into the wall that I know he didn’t hit me. When I look, he’s grinning at a black, greasy handprint he’s left on the wet primer, and smeared straight down a good three feet. He wipes his hand on his overalls.
“I’m going out. With Sherry. And you know what? She’ll sleep here if I want her to and she’ll stay as late as she feels like. And if you lay a hand on her again, I’ll call the cops and have your ungrateful ass thrown in jail for assault. Don’t think they won’t do it, neither. Betcha your fancy tutoring people wouldn’t take kindly to a teacher with a criminal record.”
After he storms down the hall, I hear something hit the floor and shatter. And something else, six or eight of them. Beer bottles, is my guess. The beer bottles leftover from last night’s partying with Sherry. He’s wearing his same heavy boots he always wears to the shop and he’ll crunch right over it.
I’m barefoot, though. And my shoes are by the front door.
I lower the roller into the primer again and roll a swath over his handprint, again and again, until it finally fades from view.
Chapter 11
Anna
W hen I was twelve, walking in here made me gasp in awe. I stared at the fine woodwork, fingered the linen napkins, and stole furtive peeks at the other diners, making up elaborate stories in my head about what they did when they went home. They went to their mansions and played pool in their downstairs rec rooms, I figured, the grown-ups holding cocktails at the bar and watching their children play. And in my fantasies of other people’s lives, even the rich ones never got out of the fancy clothes they wore to dinner. I imagined they kept those clothes on because they knew how beautiful they looked and wanted to stay that way.
Now, standing in the purposefully dim Portobello Ristorante, I’m wearing nice clothes myself. I know that the people in pretty dresses go home and sit in their pajamas and watch TV, same as anyone.
Well, they probably watch a nicer TV.
Beck is a little late. I imagine his wife grilling him about where he’s going, and with whom, although it’s probably nothing more than a work delay. I know how those things go.
Mom took me here after Dad left, as a treat for getting straight A’s. I believe the real reason was to distract me from his absence. I wore my mother’s jewelry and some cloying perfume she bought from the Avon lady. I tried very hard to pretend that we were going to keep our pretty dresses on all evening.
I wasn’t the only one pretending.
I was holding the giant leather-bound menu, and it was so tall it blocked my mother’s face. I insisted on ordering from the adult menu, and Mom was talking about school and how I joined the swim team. Then she said something about how “Your father will be so excited to see you swim. Do you know he’s quite a good swimmer himself—”
“He’s never going to see me swim. He’s never coming back. For all we know he’s dead.”
I slammed the menu shut, and when I flopped it down on the table, it caught the basket of rolls by the edge. They spilled out across the tablecloth. Mom and I hurriedly shoved them back in the basket, lest it look like we were going to cram the rolls in our purses or something.
Mom’s hand was shaking. I folded my hands over my menu so I wouldn’t fidget. When the waitress
“So my piece-of-shit house isn’t good enough for you.” His eyes dart down. “You stupid slut, you’re getting paint on the carpet. Ain’t you heard of a drop cloth?”
“I’m going to tear up the carpet, so it is the drop cloth, yeah? There’s hardwood underneath.”
“And what if I say no? It’s my goddamn house and if I want carpet, I want carpet. And what if I tell you you’ve gotta get down on your knees and scrub off every little paint splotch? Whaddya say to that?”
“I say fuck you to that.”
As he swings, I only have time enough to close my eyes, so it isn’t until I hear the smack of his hand into the wall that I know he didn’t hit me. When I look, he’s grinning at a black, greasy handprint he’s left on the wet primer, and smeared straight down a good three feet. He wipes his hand on his overalls.
“I’m going out. With Sherry. And you know what? She’ll sleep here if I want her to and she’ll stay as late as she feels like. And if you lay a hand on her again, I’ll call the cops and have your ungrateful ass thrown in jail for assault. Don’t think they won’t do it, neither. Betcha your fancy tutoring people wouldn’t take kindly to a teacher with a criminal record.”
After he storms down the hall, I hear something hit the floor and shatter. And something else, six or eight of them. Beer bottles, is my guess. The beer bottles leftover from last night’s partying with Sherry. He’s wearing his same heavy boots he always wears to the shop and he’ll crunch right over it.
I’m barefoot, though. And my shoes are by the front door.
I lower the roller into the primer again and roll a swath over his handprint, again and again, until it finally fades from view.
Chapter 11
Anna
W hen I was twelve, walking in here made me gasp in awe. I stared at the fine woodwork, fingered the linen napkins, and stole furtive peeks at the other diners, making up elaborate stories in my head about what they did when they went home. They went to their mansions and played pool in their downstairs rec rooms, I figured, the grown-ups holding cocktails at the bar and watching their children play. And in my fantasies of other people’s lives, even the rich ones never got out of the fancy clothes they wore to dinner. I imagined they kept those clothes on because they knew how beautiful they looked and wanted to stay that way.
Now, standing in the purposefully dim Portobello Ristorante, I’m wearing nice clothes myself. I know that the people in pretty dresses go home and sit in their pajamas and watch TV, same as anyone.
Well, they probably watch a nicer TV.
Beck is a little late. I imagine his wife grilling him about where he’s going, and with whom, although it’s probably nothing more than a work delay. I know how those things go.
Mom took me here after Dad left, as a treat for getting straight A’s. I believe the real reason was to distract me from his absence. I wore my mother’s jewelry and some cloying perfume she bought from the Avon lady. I tried very hard to pretend that we were going to keep our pretty dresses on all evening.
I wasn’t the only one pretending.
I was holding the giant leather-bound menu, and it was so tall it blocked my mother’s face. I insisted on ordering from the adult menu, and Mom was talking about school and how I joined the swim team. Then she said something about how “Your father will be so excited to see you swim. Do you know he’s quite a good swimmer himself—”
“He’s never going to see me swim. He’s never coming back. For all we know he’s dead.”
I slammed the menu shut, and when I flopped it down on the table, it caught the basket of rolls by the edge. They spilled out across the tablecloth. Mom and I hurriedly shoved them back in the basket, lest it look like we were going to cram the rolls in our purses or something.
Mom’s hand was shaking. I folded my hands over my menu so I wouldn’t fidget. When the waitress
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