She picked up the phone and called the cabin. Sharon answered. Yes, Jackie and Jason were home. Yes, she was baby-sitting them.
Logistics were simpler now that Sharon was in the eighth grade and required unending supplies of money for her constantly expanding wardrobe. It made a big difference to her set whether the tag on the back of Levi’s was red or orange. But baby-sitting Jackie was no easy task. A sixth grader himself, he insisted he was too old for a baby-sitter. He was, but he also was too young to be without one, since he sometimes forgot to turn off stove burners or tried to blow-dry his hair while sitting in a tub full of water.
“Shall I bring you a pizza or Big Macs?” she asked Sharon.
Sharon yelled to Jackie and Jason. “Jackie wants a Quarter Poundlarge fries, and a medium Coke. Jason wants Kentucky Fried
Chicken, fries, mashed potatoes, and rolls. And I want a pepperoni pizza.”
“Forget it. Take a vote. I’m not driving all over town.” Sounds of loud argument came over the phone. Participatory democracy. Caroline sighed and rested a hand on her hip.
“Be with you in a minute,” she said to Brenda. “The Kentucky Colonel is being routed by Ronald McDonald. was She heard Jason howling with pain and calling Jackie a “motherfucking faggot.” She’d spent her whole life rearing little boys, first her brothers and now her sons, and she still didn’t understand them. Didn’t understand their fascination with constructing elaborate machines for destruction from their Legos and Tinker Toys-tanks, intergalactic warships, fighter planes,
OTHER
aircraft carriers, missile silos. When she gave them dolls, as Ms. magazine recommended, they used them for target practice.
Sharon came back on the phone. “Jackie and I want Big Macs, but Jason says he
doesn’t want anything if he can’t have chicken.”
“Okay, but tell him I’m not fixing sandwiches in the middle of the night.” When she’d given birth to Jackie and Jason, she’d had no idea she’d spend her next twelve years
scheduling-meals, rides, babydentist appointments, hockey practices. And juggling her work hours, and enduring the anxiety when everything fell through and the boys ended up alone. Any mother could perform the jobs of several air traffic controllers with ease.
In the staff room she and Brenda changed into orange team shirts that said “Lake Glass Kennels” on the back. The husband of a former team member, who ran the kennels, had sponsored the team last year. Brenda smelled sweaty, and her huge breasts strained her shirt buttons. She was an old-style nurse, referred to any doctor she was working with simply as “doctor”: “Doctor will see you right away.” She approached human suffering with gusto, rubbed her hands at the chalof stitching the pulpy remains from motorcycle wrecks into human beings again. She lived in a small ranch house in Idyll Acre Estates with Barb from Intensive Care. They bowled all winter and played slow-pitch softball all summer. They had fun. They seemed at ease with their work and their lives. When they asked Caroline to join their bowling league, she accepted, thinking if she spent time with them, she’d acquire that same ease. So far she hadn’t.
Brenda’s green Torino had an “Emergency Medical Technician” license tag above the New Hampshire plate that read “Live Free or Die.” As Caroline climbed in, Brenda was fiddling with her CB radio. She belonged to the town rescue squad. Whenever she picked up word of an accident, she raced to the scene to offer help.
Several times a month she was on call as ambulance crew.
Looking out the car window as they passed Maude’s Corner Cafe, Caroline saw Diana and Suzanne at a table, engaged in intense discussion under the light from a low-hanging Tiffany lamp. They had pink drinks in front of them, probably strawberry daiquiris, Diana’s favorite.
One afternoon just after they’d become lovers, Caroline spent hours in the
Logistics were simpler now that Sharon was in the eighth grade and required unending supplies of money for her constantly expanding wardrobe. It made a big difference to her set whether the tag on the back of Levi’s was red or orange. But baby-sitting Jackie was no easy task. A sixth grader himself, he insisted he was too old for a baby-sitter. He was, but he also was too young to be without one, since he sometimes forgot to turn off stove burners or tried to blow-dry his hair while sitting in a tub full of water.
“Shall I bring you a pizza or Big Macs?” she asked Sharon.
Sharon yelled to Jackie and Jason. “Jackie wants a Quarter Poundlarge fries, and a medium Coke. Jason wants Kentucky Fried
Chicken, fries, mashed potatoes, and rolls. And I want a pepperoni pizza.”
“Forget it. Take a vote. I’m not driving all over town.” Sounds of loud argument came over the phone. Participatory democracy. Caroline sighed and rested a hand on her hip.
“Be with you in a minute,” she said to Brenda. “The Kentucky Colonel is being routed by Ronald McDonald. was She heard Jason howling with pain and calling Jackie a “motherfucking faggot.” She’d spent her whole life rearing little boys, first her brothers and now her sons, and she still didn’t understand them. Didn’t understand their fascination with constructing elaborate machines for destruction from their Legos and Tinker Toys-tanks, intergalactic warships, fighter planes,
OTHER
aircraft carriers, missile silos. When she gave them dolls, as Ms. magazine recommended, they used them for target practice.
Sharon came back on the phone. “Jackie and I want Big Macs, but Jason says he
doesn’t want anything if he can’t have chicken.”
“Okay, but tell him I’m not fixing sandwiches in the middle of the night.” When she’d given birth to Jackie and Jason, she’d had no idea she’d spend her next twelve years
scheduling-meals, rides, babydentist appointments, hockey practices. And juggling her work hours, and enduring the anxiety when everything fell through and the boys ended up alone. Any mother could perform the jobs of several air traffic controllers with ease.
In the staff room she and Brenda changed into orange team shirts that said “Lake Glass Kennels” on the back. The husband of a former team member, who ran the kennels, had sponsored the team last year. Brenda smelled sweaty, and her huge breasts strained her shirt buttons. She was an old-style nurse, referred to any doctor she was working with simply as “doctor”: “Doctor will see you right away.” She approached human suffering with gusto, rubbed her hands at the chalof stitching the pulpy remains from motorcycle wrecks into human beings again. She lived in a small ranch house in Idyll Acre Estates with Barb from Intensive Care. They bowled all winter and played slow-pitch softball all summer. They had fun. They seemed at ease with their work and their lives. When they asked Caroline to join their bowling league, she accepted, thinking if she spent time with them, she’d acquire that same ease. So far she hadn’t.
Brenda’s green Torino had an “Emergency Medical Technician” license tag above the New Hampshire plate that read “Live Free or Die.” As Caroline climbed in, Brenda was fiddling with her CB radio. She belonged to the town rescue squad. Whenever she picked up word of an accident, she raced to the scene to offer help.
Several times a month she was on call as ambulance crew.
Looking out the car window as they passed Maude’s Corner Cafe, Caroline saw Diana and Suzanne at a table, engaged in intense discussion under the light from a low-hanging Tiffany lamp. They had pink drinks in front of them, probably strawberry daiquiris, Diana’s favorite.
One afternoon just after they’d become lovers, Caroline spent hours in the
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