seat, a few paperbacks spilling out.
Inside, I’m greeted by Hank and Allie together.
“Hi, Daddy!” she yells over all the barking. She’s holding her artwork for the day on three pieces of construction paper. I kiss the crown of her head and swipe at the leaping animal, telling him to shut up.
Her first picture is a nature shot—a barn, a big green tree, and a horse. Her sense of perspective is still shaky, and so the horse is comparatively the size of a basketball arena. The next picture is a bicycle, I think, and it’s not one of her best efforts. Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m supposed to criticize her work, or if I’m just supposed to continue telling her how wonderful it is. When I was nine, I wrote a story about a turkey that escapes the day before Thanksgiving. When I gave it to Curtis, he told me it was charming but too overly sentimental to be anything better than emotionally manipulative. Allie’s third picture is far and away her best. In silver crayon she’s drawn the Porsche and a little Crayola version of Curtis Violet in a green sweater.
“It’s Grandpa,” she says.
“Heck, yeah it is. I think this one might be fridge-worthy. Well done, my friend.”
“Really?”
I make her give me a high five, and then she runs away with the dog.
Anna’s in the kitchen boiling pasta and reading the mail. She’s dressed in her running shorts and a gray tank top. An oval of sweat marks the spot between her breasts, and I feel fat and lumbering by comparison.
“Your mother called a few minutes ago.” she says. “She sounded weird.”
“Well, she’s a weird lady,” I say.
“Oh, and we also got a delightful call from your stepmother.”
“Oh Jesus.” This is inevitable, but still not good. “What did she want?”
She nods to the answering machine. “Listen for yourself. It’s quite a performance. Allie, cover your ears again, honey.”
Allie, who’s hanging her picture on the fridge with fruit magnets, covers her ears without comment as I push the little button. There’s a throat clearing, and then it’s Ashley in all her glory. “I know he’s there,” she says, her voice boozy and sharp. “Hell, you’re probably all there, listening to me right now, you fucking chickens. Why are you hiding from me, Curtis? You can’t just keep hiding. I love you . . . well, I loved you. Doesn’t that even fucking count for anything? Why are you so awful to me? I don’t deserve it. And you don’t deserve me . I hate you now. Hate, hate, hate you. So fuck you, I’m going to New York. Come get your shit before I burn it all in the street.” As she hangs up, I can hear the venom betrayed by a sniffle, like a high school girl in tears.
“Well, she seems to be doing well,” I say.
“She sounded drunk.”
“That’s probably a safe bet.”
Anna sips from an orange-colored vitamin water. “What do you think the odds are of her killing us all in our sleep?” she asks.
“Nah, even if she tried, she’d never make it past our liquor cabinet.”
I take in Anna’s body as she stirs pasta. Tight, lean little muscles seem to be appearing daily in new places, like above her knees and the backs of her arms. I guess those are called triceps. I touch one of them with my index finger, poking it with mild fascination.
“Have you been smoking?” she asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “Doug wanted to talk after work. Doom and gloom stuff.”
“Really? What’d he say?”
“Smoking kills, Daddy,” says Allie. “It makes your lungs all black and yucky, like two big sponges all covered in oil.”
“I know, honey. That’s crooked. A little higher on the right.”
Technically, I’ve just lied to my wife. I’ve used Doug as a diversion to distract Anna from the fact that I’ve smoked, and now I’m not sure what to say. I decide to spare her the tsunami metaphor, at least for the time being.
“Is this better, Daddy?”
“Perfect,” I say. “He’s just worried, that’s all.
Inside, I’m greeted by Hank and Allie together.
“Hi, Daddy!” she yells over all the barking. She’s holding her artwork for the day on three pieces of construction paper. I kiss the crown of her head and swipe at the leaping animal, telling him to shut up.
Her first picture is a nature shot—a barn, a big green tree, and a horse. Her sense of perspective is still shaky, and so the horse is comparatively the size of a basketball arena. The next picture is a bicycle, I think, and it’s not one of her best efforts. Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m supposed to criticize her work, or if I’m just supposed to continue telling her how wonderful it is. When I was nine, I wrote a story about a turkey that escapes the day before Thanksgiving. When I gave it to Curtis, he told me it was charming but too overly sentimental to be anything better than emotionally manipulative. Allie’s third picture is far and away her best. In silver crayon she’s drawn the Porsche and a little Crayola version of Curtis Violet in a green sweater.
“It’s Grandpa,” she says.
“Heck, yeah it is. I think this one might be fridge-worthy. Well done, my friend.”
“Really?”
I make her give me a high five, and then she runs away with the dog.
Anna’s in the kitchen boiling pasta and reading the mail. She’s dressed in her running shorts and a gray tank top. An oval of sweat marks the spot between her breasts, and I feel fat and lumbering by comparison.
“Your mother called a few minutes ago.” she says. “She sounded weird.”
“Well, she’s a weird lady,” I say.
“Oh, and we also got a delightful call from your stepmother.”
“Oh Jesus.” This is inevitable, but still not good. “What did she want?”
She nods to the answering machine. “Listen for yourself. It’s quite a performance. Allie, cover your ears again, honey.”
Allie, who’s hanging her picture on the fridge with fruit magnets, covers her ears without comment as I push the little button. There’s a throat clearing, and then it’s Ashley in all her glory. “I know he’s there,” she says, her voice boozy and sharp. “Hell, you’re probably all there, listening to me right now, you fucking chickens. Why are you hiding from me, Curtis? You can’t just keep hiding. I love you . . . well, I loved you. Doesn’t that even fucking count for anything? Why are you so awful to me? I don’t deserve it. And you don’t deserve me . I hate you now. Hate, hate, hate you. So fuck you, I’m going to New York. Come get your shit before I burn it all in the street.” As she hangs up, I can hear the venom betrayed by a sniffle, like a high school girl in tears.
“Well, she seems to be doing well,” I say.
“She sounded drunk.”
“That’s probably a safe bet.”
Anna sips from an orange-colored vitamin water. “What do you think the odds are of her killing us all in our sleep?” she asks.
“Nah, even if she tried, she’d never make it past our liquor cabinet.”
I take in Anna’s body as she stirs pasta. Tight, lean little muscles seem to be appearing daily in new places, like above her knees and the backs of her arms. I guess those are called triceps. I touch one of them with my index finger, poking it with mild fascination.
“Have you been smoking?” she asks.
“Sorry,” I say. “Doug wanted to talk after work. Doom and gloom stuff.”
“Really? What’d he say?”
“Smoking kills, Daddy,” says Allie. “It makes your lungs all black and yucky, like two big sponges all covered in oil.”
“I know, honey. That’s crooked. A little higher on the right.”
Technically, I’ve just lied to my wife. I’ve used Doug as a diversion to distract Anna from the fact that I’ve smoked, and now I’m not sure what to say. I decide to spare her the tsunami metaphor, at least for the time being.
“Is this better, Daddy?”
“Perfect,” I say. “He’s just worried, that’s all.
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