her fingers through her hair. Her youngest, Benjamin, ran into the kitchen holding out an empty plate.
“Dad wants more!” he announced.
“I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “Go take a shower, Jane. I can take over in here.”
“Ha!” said Jane, wresting the plate from my hands.
When Benjamin had run back outside, Jane sank to the kitchen floor.
“Jane!” I said, alarmed.
“Just let me sit,” she said. “I’ve been standing since five.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to help?” I said.
“I don’t want to have to ask ,” spat Jane.
I filled a mug with coffee and cream, the way she liked it. I handed Jane the mug and sat next to her. The linoleumfloor was dusted with crumbs and muddy footprints. “Three is too many kids,” said Jane dully.
“Give me one,” I said.
We both started to laugh. “Which one?” said Jane.
“Any one,” I said, suddenly sad. “I just want one.”
Jane pulled me close.
“Is everything okay with you guys?” I said.
“Not really,” said Jane.
“What is it?”
“Not today,” said Jane, standing up.
“Is it Dennis?” I asked. “Is it Dad?”
“I am going to take a shower,” said Jane. She set her mug on the counter. “And I don’t use cream anymore,” she said. “I’m trying to be on a goddamn diet.”
“Mom said ‘goddamn’!” cried Gilmer, appearing in striped pajamas.
“Gilmer!” I said, trying to sound like a mother.
“Well, she did say ‘goddamn,’ Aunt Alice,” explained Gilmer earnestly. “We’re not allowed to use swear words in this house.”
“I think I see the Tickle Monster,” I said.
“No!” shrieked Gilmer, running outside.
“Oh, yes,” I said, starting the chase.
Fifteen minutes later, I collapsed in a deck chair by the barbecue pit. My father was snoring in the hammock, and Dennis and Jake looked grizzled, half drunk, and very happy. I put my hand on my husband’s knee and he covered it with his own. “How’s that brisket?” I asked.
“Looking good,” said Jake. “Looking very, very good.”
“That’s true,” said Dennis, nodding.
“More Tickle Monster!” called Benjamin, running toward me. I held up my hands.
“No more,” I said, shaking my head.
“More, more, more!” yelled Gilmer, his voice going thin, as if he was about to start crying.
“Sorry, honey,” I said.
“You can’t start them up and quit,” said Dennis evenly.
“Oh,” I said, chagrined. I was sweaty and annoyed, sick of running across the lawn in my tight-fitting boots. I wanted more coffee and some scrambled eggs. “Can you do it?” I asked Jake.
“Nope,” said Jake, sliding down in his lawn chair and pulling his baseball cap over his eyes.
“Get up,” said Dennis in a nasty tone.
I got up.
“Yay! Tickle Monster!” said Benjamin.
“Try to catch me now!” said Gilmer, pulling his pajama pants down and peeing in the yard. The parade-goers were assembling a block away, and a firefighter in full gear pointed to Gilmer and whooped.
“Somebody’s naked!” cried fourteen-year-old Rick, turning on the garden hose.
It was 7:55 a.m.
11
Carla
I N THE MIDDLE of the night, Junior stirred. I had been dreaming of playing with him in the mud, tossing the Frisbee an aid worker had given us. In the dream, Junior’s belly was round, his legs fat. My grandmother cooked red bean soup in the metal pot that had been stolen years ago. It was a shock to open my eyes and see my skeletal brother staring at me. “What is it?” I said.
“I’m hungry.”
I sighed. There was nothing left of the money my mother had sent. I had eaten a rotten piece of chicken at the dump and had vomited for days, so I had been wary of bringing Junior scraps of food. In the kitchen we had only empty space, but I stood. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll make you something very delicious.”
His gaze was blank.
“Are you sniffing Resistol?” I asked.
He shook his head, but would not meet my eyes.
“It will hurt
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