Read Online A Good House by Bonnie Burnard - Free Book Online Page B

a concrete bunker. Although she did not ever ask, Could they please just shut up and go home.
    Occasionally they would forget themselves and talk just to each other, for which she was occasionally grateful. The most astute among them watched her closely as they talked, recognized for what they were the small, jerking movements of her hands, the slight ducking of her head as if to avoid something flying too low above her.
    Daphne decided it would be nice to use the silver tray from the buffet to serve the cookies or squares the women always brought, and Bill’s father, a heavy, large-boned man who spoke slowly and loudly, made a huge fuss over her as she circled the room with the tray, said she was coming along so nicely. Sylvia’s father, thin and wiry and wheezing with emphysema, paid no heed to the conventions expected of him. He cried openly and said awful heartfelt things like “You were always the strongest,” and “Half a life,” and “Why can’t I be taken instead,” and always when he started the others took a deep, collective breath and prepared themselves to put an end to it.
    The third or fourth time this happened Paul had to turn his suddenly streaming face to the living-room wall and, recognizing himself in his grandson, Sylvia’s father left his armchair to go to Paul, making it worse. Patrick, who in just these few short months had learned to carry love as an unspeakable pressure inside himself, got up from his chair so fast he knocked it over. He took the stairs in five great leaps and slammed the bedroom door and after that night he wouldn’t sit with them, would not even say hello when his grandfather came in the kitchen door.
    Sylvia’s mother remained stoic. A born coordinator, she discussed practical matters with Margaret to reassure herself that everything was well in hand. She took the laundry home with her because she had a new clothes dryer in her basement and she wrote the letters that had to be written to tell the news that had to be told, attempted to supervise the homework at the dining-room table. And privately but firmly she scolded Paul. “I can’t abide this crying, Paul,” she said. “Not now. And trust me, there will be plenty of time for it after.”
    One evening in the middle of a week when Sylvia appeared to have a resurgence of strength, she called Daphne to come into the living room alone. When the door was shut and Daphne was comfortable on the bed, Sylvia said she wanted to tell her how much she regretted that she wouldn’t be around to help later, with her marriage and her babies. She lifted her hand when Daphne tried to speak, tried to say, Don’t say that, Mom. Don’t say that. Sylvia wanted badly to be frank, to be truthful. She wanted to say, Take your time when you think you’re ready for a husband, don’t just go by looks, make him talk, find out how he thinks. Or, Don’t let your heart outshout your head. Or, Whatever happens to you, don’t just settle. But she said what she had rehearsed.
    â€œIt seems to me that smart women look for comfort and loyalty when they’re deciding on a husband and I think men want more or less the same thing. And it never hurts to have a bit of laughter thrown in.” She didn’t mention the long-ago break in Daphne’s jaw, or her apprehension about men whose interest might be queered by the malformed face, who might, instinctively, turn away.
    â€œChildbirth,” she said, “isn’t nearly as bad as some women will happily lead you to believe. A young body can be trusted.” She put her hands on her own distended stomach. “There are specialized muscles in there with a job to do and one job only.” She didn’t say anything specific or descriptive about sex, except that Daphne shouldn’t be afraid of it. “Sex is mostly just for comfort and fun,” she said. “And meant to be.”
    Listening now