closet-size space that hoped to be a foyer
when it grew up. Through the archway that led to the living room, I could hear Joe Grandee holding court. I’d comein midtrumpet, and I don’t think anyone heard the door swing open over him.
“—married almost five years. What are you waiting for? I thought the one upside of you marrying a damn papist was we’d get
a passel of grandkids. Your mother, she kept saying in the car, what if those shooters hadn’t missed? What would you have
left behind you on this earth?”
I waited in our wannabe foyer, caught by a silly hope that Thom would choose this moment to tell his father to pull his head
out of our business and stick it up his own back end where it belonged. But there was only the familiar silence that meant
Thom was supping, spoonful by spoonful, on his daddy’s crap. It would surely go even sourer in his belly.
“Your brother here, he’s bull’s-eyed twice on Margie, and they got married half a year after you. What’s wrong with you, boy?”
A small, square piece of the parquet floor extended into the living room, surrounded by our oatmeal-colored carpet. I stepped
onto that wooden island, directly into my living room. “I’m on the pill,” I said in the mildest tone I could muster, and immediately
I had four sets of eyes on me.
“That’s a little more information than I needed, missy,” Joe said. “And where the hell have you been?”
He was hulked upright and angry in Thom’s own easy chair, centered in the room. He was past fifty, and age had blunted the
sharp edges of his athlete’s body, but he was still broad-shouldered and solid. He had his booted feet set wide apart and
flat against the earth. He leveled the question as if he had a right to the answer, staring me down like he was King Shit
of Poo-Paw Mountain, as my daddy would have said. I felt my eyes getting narrow above the fake smile I’d drummed up for him.
Everything in the room seemed to turn inward to frame him, starting with his own wife. Charlotte was perched on the end of
the sofa closest to him with her spine straight and her spiky knees pointed his way. Charlotte wasn’t at ease even at home
in their owndry-aired mansion, and in my house she sat stiffer than a cardboard cutout of herself.
Larry, the middle Grandee boy, stood on Joe’s left, angled toward his daddy as well. He had a broad forehead and a Roman nose
like Thom, but under that, his face waffled away in a chinless slide. He was an accountant, and he kept the books for the
stores. Joe must have folded him up like the luggage he was and brought him in the cramped backseat of the big black truck.
“What brings alla y’all over here in the middle of the day,” I said politely to Joe, but my gaze shifted quickly, almost against
my will, going right to Thom. He was at the opposite end of the sofa, sitting way too still. His eyes looked like two pans
of something left too long on simmer on the stovetop, seconds away from smoking and going black.
“I believe I asked where you’ve been, first,” Joe Grandee said, stern, like he was the wronged, shot-at husband in the room.
I was surprised he wasn’t shirtless and barefoot, guzzling milk straight out of the carton while he questioned his son’s wife.
It was all the more insulting because I understood what he was really asking. The only question that truly mattered, the one
that only my husband had a right to ask. I could read its echo in the crackling air around Thom’s head, three words repeating
in an endless loop:
Who is he. Who is he. Who is he.
“I was next door,” I said, jerking my thumb in the direction of Mrs. Fancy’s place. “Now what are y’all doing here?” I pulled
my eyebrows together, trying to look puzzled. “Is Gretel out back?”
Thom’s stony face did not change at the mention of my dog. Neither did the words he was thinking at me.
Who is he
was a refrain familiar enough for me to recognize
when it grew up. Through the archway that led to the living room, I could hear Joe Grandee holding court. I’d comein midtrumpet, and I don’t think anyone heard the door swing open over him.
“—married almost five years. What are you waiting for? I thought the one upside of you marrying a damn papist was we’d get
a passel of grandkids. Your mother, she kept saying in the car, what if those shooters hadn’t missed? What would you have
left behind you on this earth?”
I waited in our wannabe foyer, caught by a silly hope that Thom would choose this moment to tell his father to pull his head
out of our business and stick it up his own back end where it belonged. But there was only the familiar silence that meant
Thom was supping, spoonful by spoonful, on his daddy’s crap. It would surely go even sourer in his belly.
“Your brother here, he’s bull’s-eyed twice on Margie, and they got married half a year after you. What’s wrong with you, boy?”
A small, square piece of the parquet floor extended into the living room, surrounded by our oatmeal-colored carpet. I stepped
onto that wooden island, directly into my living room. “I’m on the pill,” I said in the mildest tone I could muster, and immediately
I had four sets of eyes on me.
“That’s a little more information than I needed, missy,” Joe said. “And where the hell have you been?”
He was hulked upright and angry in Thom’s own easy chair, centered in the room. He was past fifty, and age had blunted the
sharp edges of his athlete’s body, but he was still broad-shouldered and solid. He had his booted feet set wide apart and
flat against the earth. He leveled the question as if he had a right to the answer, staring me down like he was King Shit
of Poo-Paw Mountain, as my daddy would have said. I felt my eyes getting narrow above the fake smile I’d drummed up for him.
Everything in the room seemed to turn inward to frame him, starting with his own wife. Charlotte was perched on the end of
the sofa closest to him with her spine straight and her spiky knees pointed his way. Charlotte wasn’t at ease even at home
in their owndry-aired mansion, and in my house she sat stiffer than a cardboard cutout of herself.
Larry, the middle Grandee boy, stood on Joe’s left, angled toward his daddy as well. He had a broad forehead and a Roman nose
like Thom, but under that, his face waffled away in a chinless slide. He was an accountant, and he kept the books for the
stores. Joe must have folded him up like the luggage he was and brought him in the cramped backseat of the big black truck.
“What brings alla y’all over here in the middle of the day,” I said politely to Joe, but my gaze shifted quickly, almost against
my will, going right to Thom. He was at the opposite end of the sofa, sitting way too still. His eyes looked like two pans
of something left too long on simmer on the stovetop, seconds away from smoking and going black.
“I believe I asked where you’ve been, first,” Joe Grandee said, stern, like he was the wronged, shot-at husband in the room.
I was surprised he wasn’t shirtless and barefoot, guzzling milk straight out of the carton while he questioned his son’s wife.
It was all the more insulting because I understood what he was really asking. The only question that truly mattered, the one
that only my husband had a right to ask. I could read its echo in the crackling air around Thom’s head, three words repeating
in an endless loop:
Who is he. Who is he. Who is he.
“I was next door,” I said, jerking my thumb in the direction of Mrs. Fancy’s place. “Now what are y’all doing here?” I pulled
my eyebrows together, trying to look puzzled. “Is Gretel out back?”
Thom’s stony face did not change at the mention of my dog. Neither did the words he was thinking at me.
Who is he
was a refrain familiar enough for me to recognize
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