with him long enough he’ll remember me, like an amnesiac who needs time for the memories to filter back in. We change a bulb in the den, then one in the upstairs hallway. He doesn’t comment on any of the missing furniture or the strange new items or the fact that Elyse Tabor is sleeping behind the closed door of my room. We move around the house in silence, with only the sound of his breath squeaking loudly through his hairy nostrils.
When we’re done, he says, “Lemme show you something.”
I figure he means the panic button or some other new gadget, but he takes me into the laundry room. He opens the cabinet that holds the safe, a heavy lead-colored box with a combination lock.
“Open it.”
We all know the combination: 8-29-31, my father’s birthday. As a special treat my mother will sometimes let me bring the silk bags of jewels to her room and lay out every piece on the bedspread. It feels strange to be opening the safe without her in the bedroom.
It is empty.
“Did you know?”
I shake my head
“She took it all. She just took it and ran.” He slams the heavy safe door, but it bounces back and swings hard against the cabinet, making a dent in the wood. He points to the dark empty inside of the box. “She took it all, all of my mother’s and grandmother’s jewelry.” His voice cracks and his face is purple. He pounds his fist on the top of the washing machine and shouts, “Bitch bitch bitch!” His voice is high, like a small boy’s. Then he stoops over and little wordless gasps came out of his mouth.
He straightens up and looks at me. “Come here.”
I do and he hugs me, hard this time, my ear pressed into the coarse hair on his chest, and says, “But you’re mine. You’re mine. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper to his chest hair.
When we come downstairs, Mrs. Tabor is making dinner, and Patrick and Elyse are playing cards on the floor where the kitchen table used to be.
“Can Daley stay for dinner?” Patrick asks.
Mrs. Tabor looks at my father, who nods.
“I’ll have to call.”
“Stay the night,” my father says.
“All right. I’ll just go to the bathroom, then call.” I don’t want to use the kitchen phone—I don’t want to be in the same room with both my parents’ voices.
There is a little telephone room off the den, next to the bathroom. I sit down on the swivel stool. One of my mother’s pads with the thick white paper and the words DON’T FORGET in red at the top is on the phone table. It makes me miss her and I’m glad to hear her voice when she picks up.
“I’m at Dad’s still.”
“Oh, good. It’s going well then.”
“Mostly. They want me to stay for dinner and the night.”
“All right,” my mother says, and as she is speaking I hear a little click. “I have to go into town in the morning. Bob’s lined me up a few interviews, bless him.”
The click is probably my father listening in on the extension in the sunroom. I wish she hadn’t mentioned Bob Wuzzy.
“Okay. I’ll see you in the afternoon then.”
“We’ll have to get you some back-to-school clothes. When do you want to do that, Thursday?”
I just want to get us all off the phone. “Sure. Sleep tight.”
“Sleep tight, baby.”
I wait. Mom hangs up loudly. Dad’s is the tiniest
tic
.
We come into the kitchen at the same time. He goes to the bar to make a drink and drops the jar of onions. It doesn’t shatter but he shouts, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” in a kind of wild strangled voice as if the bottle had sliced him open. Elyse, holding out a fan of cards, scoots closer to her brother.
“Oh, knock it off, Gardiner,” Mrs. Tabor says, spooning tuna noodle casserole onto three plates.
Frank comes in then, tossing a tennis racquet toward but not in the coat closet.
“Pick that goddamn thing up and put it where it belongs,” his mother says, much more sharply than she’d spoken to my father.
“Hello, Frank. How are you, Frank?” Frank mutters from the closet.
When we’re done, he says, “Lemme show you something.”
I figure he means the panic button or some other new gadget, but he takes me into the laundry room. He opens the cabinet that holds the safe, a heavy lead-colored box with a combination lock.
“Open it.”
We all know the combination: 8-29-31, my father’s birthday. As a special treat my mother will sometimes let me bring the silk bags of jewels to her room and lay out every piece on the bedspread. It feels strange to be opening the safe without her in the bedroom.
It is empty.
“Did you know?”
I shake my head
“She took it all. She just took it and ran.” He slams the heavy safe door, but it bounces back and swings hard against the cabinet, making a dent in the wood. He points to the dark empty inside of the box. “She took it all, all of my mother’s and grandmother’s jewelry.” His voice cracks and his face is purple. He pounds his fist on the top of the washing machine and shouts, “Bitch bitch bitch!” His voice is high, like a small boy’s. Then he stoops over and little wordless gasps came out of his mouth.
He straightens up and looks at me. “Come here.”
I do and he hugs me, hard this time, my ear pressed into the coarse hair on his chest, and says, “But you’re mine. You’re mine. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper to his chest hair.
When we come downstairs, Mrs. Tabor is making dinner, and Patrick and Elyse are playing cards on the floor where the kitchen table used to be.
“Can Daley stay for dinner?” Patrick asks.
Mrs. Tabor looks at my father, who nods.
“I’ll have to call.”
“Stay the night,” my father says.
“All right. I’ll just go to the bathroom, then call.” I don’t want to use the kitchen phone—I don’t want to be in the same room with both my parents’ voices.
There is a little telephone room off the den, next to the bathroom. I sit down on the swivel stool. One of my mother’s pads with the thick white paper and the words DON’T FORGET in red at the top is on the phone table. It makes me miss her and I’m glad to hear her voice when she picks up.
“I’m at Dad’s still.”
“Oh, good. It’s going well then.”
“Mostly. They want me to stay for dinner and the night.”
“All right,” my mother says, and as she is speaking I hear a little click. “I have to go into town in the morning. Bob’s lined me up a few interviews, bless him.”
The click is probably my father listening in on the extension in the sunroom. I wish she hadn’t mentioned Bob Wuzzy.
“Okay. I’ll see you in the afternoon then.”
“We’ll have to get you some back-to-school clothes. When do you want to do that, Thursday?”
I just want to get us all off the phone. “Sure. Sleep tight.”
“Sleep tight, baby.”
I wait. Mom hangs up loudly. Dad’s is the tiniest
tic
.
We come into the kitchen at the same time. He goes to the bar to make a drink and drops the jar of onions. It doesn’t shatter but he shouts, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” in a kind of wild strangled voice as if the bottle had sliced him open. Elyse, holding out a fan of cards, scoots closer to her brother.
“Oh, knock it off, Gardiner,” Mrs. Tabor says, spooning tuna noodle casserole onto three plates.
Frank comes in then, tossing a tennis racquet toward but not in the coat closet.
“Pick that goddamn thing up and put it where it belongs,” his mother says, much more sharply than she’d spoken to my father.
“Hello, Frank. How are you, Frank?” Frank mutters from the closet.
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