in. He smiled and said no, we wouldn’t be moving. It was time for our family to settle down and Berner and I should make some friends and live like respectable citizens. He looked forward to success at his job selling ranch property. He’d teach me the tricks of that as soon as he learned them, though I didn’t see how this squared with a new business opportunity. I thought about asking him why he’d taken his pistol on a business trip. But I didn’t because I didn’t think he’d tell me the real reasons. Thinking about it now, none of what he was saying seemed the least bit true to me. I just knew I was supposed to believe it. Children get as good at pretending as adults.
When we ate dinner it was after ten thirty. I was sleepy and not hungry anymore. The telephone rang two more times while we were at the table. One time my father answered and laughed heartily and said he’d call whoever it was later. The other time he stood and listened as if someone was talking seriously to him. When he came back he said, “Nothing, that was nothing. Just a follow-up.”
At the table our mother asked him if he’d noticed anything different about Berner. He certainly had, he said. Her hair looked better and he liked it. She pointed out that Berner was wearing lipstick—which she was, again—and if we didn’t watch out she’d run away to Hollywood or France. My father said Berner could go up to the Sisters of Providence with our mother and arrange to become a nun with a vow of chastity—which made my mother laugh, but not Berner. I remember that night, now, as the best, most natural time our family had that summer—or any time. Just for a moment, I saw how life could go forward on a steadier, more reliable course. The two of them were happy and comfortable with each other. My father appreciated the way my mother behaved toward him. He paid her compliments about her clothes and her appearance and her mood. It was as if they’d discovered something that had once been there but had gotten hidden or misunderstood or forgotten over time, and they were charmed by it once more, and by one another. Which seems only right and expectable for married people. They caught a glimpse of the person they fell in love with, and who sustained life. For some, that vision must never dim—as is true of me. But it was odd that our parents should catch their glimpse, and have frustration, anxiety and worry pass away like clouds dispersing after a storm, refind their best selves, but for that glimpse to happen just before leading our family to ruin.
I WILL SAY THIS about our father. All during that night when we were a family, laughing, joking, eating—ignoring what was hanging over us—his features had changed again. When he’d left home two days before, he’d looked fleshy and exhausted. His features had been loose and indistinct and washed out—as if his every step was reluctant and unpracticed. But when he came back that night and strode around the house declaring on what interested him—satellites, South American politics, organ transplants, how all our lives could be better—his features looked sharpened and chiseled. In the grainy light above our supper table, he’d become intent and precise-looking. Our father had small hazel eyes—light brown disks you wouldn’t pay attention to. They would’ve seemed weak eyes because he squinted when he smiled. And since his face was big boned, his eyes were often lost in the overall effect. However, at our dinner table his face now seemed to be about his eyes, as if they saw a world they hadn’t before. They gleamed. When he looked at me with these eyes, I at first felt good and positive. But eventually I became uncomfortable. It was as if he was reappraising everything, as when he’d roamed around the rooms in our house two hours before and seemed to be seeing them for the first time, and was taking a new interest in them. It had made the house feel foreign to me, as if he was planning
When we ate dinner it was after ten thirty. I was sleepy and not hungry anymore. The telephone rang two more times while we were at the table. One time my father answered and laughed heartily and said he’d call whoever it was later. The other time he stood and listened as if someone was talking seriously to him. When he came back he said, “Nothing, that was nothing. Just a follow-up.”
At the table our mother asked him if he’d noticed anything different about Berner. He certainly had, he said. Her hair looked better and he liked it. She pointed out that Berner was wearing lipstick—which she was, again—and if we didn’t watch out she’d run away to Hollywood or France. My father said Berner could go up to the Sisters of Providence with our mother and arrange to become a nun with a vow of chastity—which made my mother laugh, but not Berner. I remember that night, now, as the best, most natural time our family had that summer—or any time. Just for a moment, I saw how life could go forward on a steadier, more reliable course. The two of them were happy and comfortable with each other. My father appreciated the way my mother behaved toward him. He paid her compliments about her clothes and her appearance and her mood. It was as if they’d discovered something that had once been there but had gotten hidden or misunderstood or forgotten over time, and they were charmed by it once more, and by one another. Which seems only right and expectable for married people. They caught a glimpse of the person they fell in love with, and who sustained life. For some, that vision must never dim—as is true of me. But it was odd that our parents should catch their glimpse, and have frustration, anxiety and worry pass away like clouds dispersing after a storm, refind their best selves, but for that glimpse to happen just before leading our family to ruin.
I WILL SAY THIS about our father. All during that night when we were a family, laughing, joking, eating—ignoring what was hanging over us—his features had changed again. When he’d left home two days before, he’d looked fleshy and exhausted. His features had been loose and indistinct and washed out—as if his every step was reluctant and unpracticed. But when he came back that night and strode around the house declaring on what interested him—satellites, South American politics, organ transplants, how all our lives could be better—his features looked sharpened and chiseled. In the grainy light above our supper table, he’d become intent and precise-looking. Our father had small hazel eyes—light brown disks you wouldn’t pay attention to. They would’ve seemed weak eyes because he squinted when he smiled. And since his face was big boned, his eyes were often lost in the overall effect. However, at our dinner table his face now seemed to be about his eyes, as if they saw a world they hadn’t before. They gleamed. When he looked at me with these eyes, I at first felt good and positive. But eventually I became uncomfortable. It was as if he was reappraising everything, as when he’d roamed around the rooms in our house two hours before and seemed to be seeing them for the first time, and was taking a new interest in them. It had made the house feel foreign to me, as if he was planning
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