Read Online Desire Lines by Christina Baker Kline - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christina Baker Kline
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they sat sunning by the pool. “Still practicing on the parallel bars?”
“She’s okay,” Kathryn said. “How come you smoke so much, if you’re so into vitamins and stuff?”
Margaret would look at her over the rim of her mirrored sunglasses. “It’s an addiction, Katy. I’m trying to stop.”
“Don’t call me Katy, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Doesn’t your father call you that?”
“Yeah, but no one else.”
“Well, okay, Kathryn,” Margaret said, stubbing the butt into an ashtray. “Anyway, smoking keeps me thin. Your father likes me that way.” She smiled conspiratorially.
Kathryn frowned. “Huh. He’s really going to like you in twenty years, with a tube sticking out of your throat so you can talk.”
“God,” Margaret said, settling back into her chair, “you’re a load of fun to have around.”
When Kathryn returned home after these visits, her mother would circle her warily, sniffing for clues. Kathryn tried to ignore her, answering her probing questions with simple, vague responses: Yes, urn hmm, I don’t think so, I don’t know. More and more often, she found herself retreating into a world where her parents couldn’t go. She didn’t want to be complicit in their small digs and jabs; she hated feeling as if she had to explain or defend one to the other when they were both so invested in their own versions of what happened. If she let herself, she could be swallowed up in her mother’s unhappiness or lulled by her father’s denial. She didn’t want to be bitter, but she also didn’t want to pretend that everything was all right. It was safer to keep her distance.
Later, Josh would corner her in her bedroom to get the dirt. “Did Margaret look like a bimbo? Was Dad a total lech?”
“There was douche in the bathroom under the sink. All kinds of it,” she reported.
“What’s douche?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, find out for yourself,” she said. “I’m not going to explain it to you.”
“What’s this about douche under the sink?” their mother asked Kathryn a few days later as they sat in the kitchen doing homework.
Josh winced, and Kathryn looked at him with disgust. “Moron.”
“I still don’t know what it means,” he shouted.
“It’s a feminine wash,” their mother said. “That’s all you need to know right now.”
“A feminine what?”
“I was snooping,” Kathryn said.
“What else did you find?”
“Nothing really. Fancy underwear. That’s about it.”
“Umm. So—does your father seem happy?”
“I don’t know.” She danced as far away from the question as she could. “It seems like it. But …”
“But what?”
Kathryn looked into her mother’s steady, anxious eyes, knowing that the truth was too diffuse to convey. Her father seemed to think he was happy; he held up his acquisitions like trophies; he acted as if his life now was all he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever wished for. “I don’t think he knows what it means to be happy,” she said suddenly, and she realized that it was true.
AFTER PARKING HER mother’s car in the driveway beside the Miata, Kathryn crunches up the fine gravel walkway to the front door. She rings the bell and hears chimes echoing in the cavernous house, but no one answers. She turns the knob; the door is locked. Finally she ventures around to the back, where she finds her father and Margaret, wearing shorts and T-shirts, trimming hedges.
They look at her as if she’s an apparition.
“Katy!” her father says, and carefully lays down his shears. “I’m all sweaty, but …” He reaches out and circles her shoulders in a stiff mime of intimacy. “Did we know you were coming?”
“No, sorry,” she says. “I just got in a couple of days ago. Hi, Margaret.”
Margaret stands holding the Weed Whacker as if she isn’t sure what to do. “Well, this is a surprise.”
“I can leave and come back another time.”
“No, no,” she says, without much conviction.
“You’re looking good. Isn’t she
“She’s okay,” Kathryn said. “How come you smoke so much, if you’re so into vitamins and stuff?”
Margaret would look at her over the rim of her mirrored sunglasses. “It’s an addiction, Katy. I’m trying to stop.”
“Don’t call me Katy, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Doesn’t your father call you that?”
“Yeah, but no one else.”
“Well, okay, Kathryn,” Margaret said, stubbing the butt into an ashtray. “Anyway, smoking keeps me thin. Your father likes me that way.” She smiled conspiratorially.
Kathryn frowned. “Huh. He’s really going to like you in twenty years, with a tube sticking out of your throat so you can talk.”
“God,” Margaret said, settling back into her chair, “you’re a load of fun to have around.”
When Kathryn returned home after these visits, her mother would circle her warily, sniffing for clues. Kathryn tried to ignore her, answering her probing questions with simple, vague responses: Yes, urn hmm, I don’t think so, I don’t know. More and more often, she found herself retreating into a world where her parents couldn’t go. She didn’t want to be complicit in their small digs and jabs; she hated feeling as if she had to explain or defend one to the other when they were both so invested in their own versions of what happened. If she let herself, she could be swallowed up in her mother’s unhappiness or lulled by her father’s denial. She didn’t want to be bitter, but she also didn’t want to pretend that everything was all right. It was safer to keep her distance.
Later, Josh would corner her in her bedroom to get the dirt. “Did Margaret look like a bimbo? Was Dad a total lech?”
“There was douche in the bathroom under the sink. All kinds of it,” she reported.
“What’s douche?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, find out for yourself,” she said. “I’m not going to explain it to you.”
“What’s this about douche under the sink?” their mother asked Kathryn a few days later as they sat in the kitchen doing homework.
Josh winced, and Kathryn looked at him with disgust. “Moron.”
“I still don’t know what it means,” he shouted.
“It’s a feminine wash,” their mother said. “That’s all you need to know right now.”
“A feminine what?”
“I was snooping,” Kathryn said.
“What else did you find?”
“Nothing really. Fancy underwear. That’s about it.”
“Umm. So—does your father seem happy?”
“I don’t know.” She danced as far away from the question as she could. “It seems like it. But …”
“But what?”
Kathryn looked into her mother’s steady, anxious eyes, knowing that the truth was too diffuse to convey. Her father seemed to think he was happy; he held up his acquisitions like trophies; he acted as if his life now was all he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever wished for. “I don’t think he knows what it means to be happy,” she said suddenly, and she realized that it was true.
AFTER PARKING HER mother’s car in the driveway beside the Miata, Kathryn crunches up the fine gravel walkway to the front door. She rings the bell and hears chimes echoing in the cavernous house, but no one answers. She turns the knob; the door is locked. Finally she ventures around to the back, where she finds her father and Margaret, wearing shorts and T-shirts, trimming hedges.
They look at her as if she’s an apparition.
“Katy!” her father says, and carefully lays down his shears. “I’m all sweaty, but …” He reaches out and circles her shoulders in a stiff mime of intimacy. “Did we know you were coming?”
“No, sorry,” she says. “I just got in a couple of days ago. Hi, Margaret.”
Margaret stands holding the Weed Whacker as if she isn’t sure what to do. “Well, this is a surprise.”
“I can leave and come back another time.”
“No, no,” she says, without much conviction.
“You’re looking good. Isn’t she
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