joking, in which case her wounded feelings were likely to prompt tears.
Quavery-voiced, Marcy said, “Daddy, you did so miss us, didn’t you.
“Hey, I was only fooling, baby.” As Michael assured Marcy, “just how much you kids mean to me,” Kim broke in with a nyah-nyah inflected, “So what, Dad? There’s this camp where you send grownups, you know. I’ll put you there!”
“Oh, that so?” Michael said. He let Kim wriggle free of his arms. When Kim chose, Michael thought, she could be something else. He’d tease and she’d tease in return. If he yelled, she yelled. And there were times when her high spiritedness led her across the border from the realm of mischievousness to the domain of pure brattiness, times when Michael could almost feel his hand gripping her throat and…
“I’ll send you to… Camp Crummy it’s called!” Kim said.
“Never heard of it,” Michael said placidly. “Is it a nice place?”
“It stinks. They feed you stale bread with lots of yucky bugs on it. How do you like that?”
Michael pretended to ponder, then said, “Toasted.”
Kim doubled over in laughter. Giggling, Marcy said, “You are so funny, Daddy.”
“Yup, shore am,” Michael drawled. “Yuh bet yore life I am, l’il Missy.” He tickled Marcy, a finger scooting down the ribs, and, still giggling, she jerked away from him.
Michael straightened up. “Where’s Mom?” Ordinarily when he came home at the normal 6:30 or so, Beth greeted him at the door.
“In there,” Kim pointed, and then led the way into the living room. Holding Marcy’s hand, Michael frowned.
Not quite whispering, Marcy said, “Something bad happened today, Daddy. Mom’s real upset.”
She was; he knew that when he saw Beth seated on the sofa, jerking her head with a sharp start-stop movement like a bird when he and the kids entered. “I… I’m so glad you’re home, Michael,” Beth said, her face sickly pale.
Michael let go of Marcy’s fingers. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Beth blinked as though the question hadn’t registered. It was Kim who shouted the answer as if she had a wondrous secret she’d been saving: “Someone went and killed Dusty, Mr. Zeller’s dog. Isn’t that gross?”
Oh, that so, Michael thought. How about that?
“God,” was all he said. He sat down, turning to face Beth and taking her hand. He sent Kim and Marcy up to their room and then asked Beth, “What exactly happened, honey?”
“It’s just awful, Michael,” Beth said, shaking her head. “So wicked and senseless.”
Michael quietly urged, “Tell me, Beth.”
She did not, not right away. Michael understood. Wifey dear had to approach this horrible thing at her own slow pace, lessen its impact by creeping up on it with a recitation of the typical, common normal things that had preceded it.
“I started out feeling so fine today,” Beth said wearily. “Before I got the kids, I did go out to Lincoln Junior College. It was something. As soon as I stepped in the building, I felt ten years younger.”
“Sure,” Michael said.
“I spoke with the advisor. He was nice. I’m going to take the abnormal psych class.”
“That’s just great,” Michael said. “I’ll bet it will be interesting.” Get on with it, you silly bitch, he mentally commanded.
After the college visit, Beth had picked up the children, and then they’d gone shopping, stopping at McDonald’s for lunch on the way home. “Then we got in, oh, it must have been 1:30, I guess.”
They hadn’t been back five minutes when there was a pounding at the front door—a visitor. “Brad was drunk. I’ve never seen him like that. I never saw anyone that drunk.”
“Jeez,” Michael said.
“I thought he was going to pass out. Every time I got him to sit down, he’d bounce right back up. He wasn’t making much sense at first. He kept asking, ‘Who’d want to hurt good old Dusty?’ Finally he managed to tell me…the story.”
Beth squeezed Michael’s hand so
Quavery-voiced, Marcy said, “Daddy, you did so miss us, didn’t you.
“Hey, I was only fooling, baby.” As Michael assured Marcy, “just how much you kids mean to me,” Kim broke in with a nyah-nyah inflected, “So what, Dad? There’s this camp where you send grownups, you know. I’ll put you there!”
“Oh, that so?” Michael said. He let Kim wriggle free of his arms. When Kim chose, Michael thought, she could be something else. He’d tease and she’d tease in return. If he yelled, she yelled. And there were times when her high spiritedness led her across the border from the realm of mischievousness to the domain of pure brattiness, times when Michael could almost feel his hand gripping her throat and…
“I’ll send you to… Camp Crummy it’s called!” Kim said.
“Never heard of it,” Michael said placidly. “Is it a nice place?”
“It stinks. They feed you stale bread with lots of yucky bugs on it. How do you like that?”
Michael pretended to ponder, then said, “Toasted.”
Kim doubled over in laughter. Giggling, Marcy said, “You are so funny, Daddy.”
“Yup, shore am,” Michael drawled. “Yuh bet yore life I am, l’il Missy.” He tickled Marcy, a finger scooting down the ribs, and, still giggling, she jerked away from him.
Michael straightened up. “Where’s Mom?” Ordinarily when he came home at the normal 6:30 or so, Beth greeted him at the door.
“In there,” Kim pointed, and then led the way into the living room. Holding Marcy’s hand, Michael frowned.
Not quite whispering, Marcy said, “Something bad happened today, Daddy. Mom’s real upset.”
She was; he knew that when he saw Beth seated on the sofa, jerking her head with a sharp start-stop movement like a bird when he and the kids entered. “I… I’m so glad you’re home, Michael,” Beth said, her face sickly pale.
Michael let go of Marcy’s fingers. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Beth blinked as though the question hadn’t registered. It was Kim who shouted the answer as if she had a wondrous secret she’d been saving: “Someone went and killed Dusty, Mr. Zeller’s dog. Isn’t that gross?”
Oh, that so, Michael thought. How about that?
“God,” was all he said. He sat down, turning to face Beth and taking her hand. He sent Kim and Marcy up to their room and then asked Beth, “What exactly happened, honey?”
“It’s just awful, Michael,” Beth said, shaking her head. “So wicked and senseless.”
Michael quietly urged, “Tell me, Beth.”
She did not, not right away. Michael understood. Wifey dear had to approach this horrible thing at her own slow pace, lessen its impact by creeping up on it with a recitation of the typical, common normal things that had preceded it.
“I started out feeling so fine today,” Beth said wearily. “Before I got the kids, I did go out to Lincoln Junior College. It was something. As soon as I stepped in the building, I felt ten years younger.”
“Sure,” Michael said.
“I spoke with the advisor. He was nice. I’m going to take the abnormal psych class.”
“That’s just great,” Michael said. “I’ll bet it will be interesting.” Get on with it, you silly bitch, he mentally commanded.
After the college visit, Beth had picked up the children, and then they’d gone shopping, stopping at McDonald’s for lunch on the way home. “Then we got in, oh, it must have been 1:30, I guess.”
They hadn’t been back five minutes when there was a pounding at the front door—a visitor. “Brad was drunk. I’ve never seen him like that. I never saw anyone that drunk.”
“Jeez,” Michael said.
“I thought he was going to pass out. Every time I got him to sit down, he’d bounce right back up. He wasn’t making much sense at first. He kept asking, ‘Who’d want to hurt good old Dusty?’ Finally he managed to tell me…the story.”
Beth squeezed Michael’s hand so
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