of a bitch would never even be promoted to a halfway decent job. This asshole was going to spend the rest of his life on the factory floor with all the other slobs, and it would serve him right. Fuck him.
“Well, hi!” Rachel called, looking up from the sofa as they came in, and her lips were shaped for saying “How’d it go?” but instead she said nothing. For years, ever since she’d been ten or eleven, her face had taken on this troubled, frightened look whenever there might be reason to dread an unfortunate report of Phil’s performance in the outside world.
Gloria was sitting across from her, hunched in the middle of a reminiscent anecdote and talking steadily. She didn’t even seem to notice that Evan and Phil were home—she had apparently forgotten her fears of violent wreckage on the road—and she didn’t seem aware that Rachel was no longer listening to her.
Then it was dinnertime. When Rachel had plugged in the electric fan she plugged in her radio, too, and placed it on the table. They were just in time, she announced, for
Death Valley Days
.
“For what, dear?” Gloria asked.
“
Death Valley Days
. It’s my favorite program. And they have a different story every week, you see, so it’s not like a serial. If you happen to miss a few weeks, that doesn’t spoil your enjoyment of it the next time.”
And nothing, clearly, was going to spoil Rachel’s enjoymentof it tonight. Absorbed in the opening lines of radio dialogue, she tucked into her meat and potatoes with the look of a girl determinedly at peace.
Beneath the cowboys’ amiable voices you could hear their boots clumping along a hollow wooden sidewalk; then came an unexpected pistol shot. There were several masculine calls of command, one of them delivered in falsetto, and soon, with the music rising to suggest dramatic tension, there was a thundering of horses out across the great desert plain.
Gloria’s face was terrible with weakness and reproach as she brought a wrinkled paper napkin to her mouth and blotted it in two or three places. She seemed to be trying several different ways of sitting in her chair, as if no position were comfortable or even secure. Then she wiped a few damp strands of hair from her forehead, lifted her chin to make herself heard above the cowboy sounds, and said “Well; personally, I’ve always thought the dinner hour was for conver
sa
tion.”
On some days, with Evan gone at work, the house seemed to be steeped in idleness. Almost any activity, any way of stirring up the air in new directions, was worth considering.
“
I
know what let’s do,” Gloria cried as she and Rachel were clearing away the lunch dishes. “Let’s go to the movies.”
And Phil could see at once that Rachel wasn’t sure if she cared for the idea. As a mature young woman, thoroughly familiar with sexual intercourse and other intimate matters of that kind, could she really be expected to take part in an afternoon at the movies with her mother and her little brother? Still, she was visibly tempted; she was thinking it over.
“Well,” she said at last, “all right—if you’re sure we’ll be back before Evan gets home. I don’t want him ever coming home to an empty place.”
“Oh, that’s silly, dear. There’s all the time in the world, if you’ll just give me a minute to change my clothes. Do you want to change too?”
Rachel said she guessed she did, and it took longer than a minute; soon, though, their party of three was ready to set out, on foot, for the village. This was like old times.
When the Drake family went to the movies, wherever they happened to be living, they never bothered to find out what time the main feature began: much of their pleasure came from waiting for a prolonged confusion to clarify itself on the screen. Eventually, after various tantalizing elements of plot had gained more and more coherence either in development or in resolution, each of the Drakes would try to be the first to turn and
“Well, hi!” Rachel called, looking up from the sofa as they came in, and her lips were shaped for saying “How’d it go?” but instead she said nothing. For years, ever since she’d been ten or eleven, her face had taken on this troubled, frightened look whenever there might be reason to dread an unfortunate report of Phil’s performance in the outside world.
Gloria was sitting across from her, hunched in the middle of a reminiscent anecdote and talking steadily. She didn’t even seem to notice that Evan and Phil were home—she had apparently forgotten her fears of violent wreckage on the road—and she didn’t seem aware that Rachel was no longer listening to her.
Then it was dinnertime. When Rachel had plugged in the electric fan she plugged in her radio, too, and placed it on the table. They were just in time, she announced, for
Death Valley Days
.
“For what, dear?” Gloria asked.
“
Death Valley Days
. It’s my favorite program. And they have a different story every week, you see, so it’s not like a serial. If you happen to miss a few weeks, that doesn’t spoil your enjoyment of it the next time.”
And nothing, clearly, was going to spoil Rachel’s enjoymentof it tonight. Absorbed in the opening lines of radio dialogue, she tucked into her meat and potatoes with the look of a girl determinedly at peace.
Beneath the cowboys’ amiable voices you could hear their boots clumping along a hollow wooden sidewalk; then came an unexpected pistol shot. There were several masculine calls of command, one of them delivered in falsetto, and soon, with the music rising to suggest dramatic tension, there was a thundering of horses out across the great desert plain.
Gloria’s face was terrible with weakness and reproach as she brought a wrinkled paper napkin to her mouth and blotted it in two or three places. She seemed to be trying several different ways of sitting in her chair, as if no position were comfortable or even secure. Then she wiped a few damp strands of hair from her forehead, lifted her chin to make herself heard above the cowboy sounds, and said “Well; personally, I’ve always thought the dinner hour was for conver
sa
tion.”
On some days, with Evan gone at work, the house seemed to be steeped in idleness. Almost any activity, any way of stirring up the air in new directions, was worth considering.
“
I
know what let’s do,” Gloria cried as she and Rachel were clearing away the lunch dishes. “Let’s go to the movies.”
And Phil could see at once that Rachel wasn’t sure if she cared for the idea. As a mature young woman, thoroughly familiar with sexual intercourse and other intimate matters of that kind, could she really be expected to take part in an afternoon at the movies with her mother and her little brother? Still, she was visibly tempted; she was thinking it over.
“Well,” she said at last, “all right—if you’re sure we’ll be back before Evan gets home. I don’t want him ever coming home to an empty place.”
“Oh, that’s silly, dear. There’s all the time in the world, if you’ll just give me a minute to change my clothes. Do you want to change too?”
Rachel said she guessed she did, and it took longer than a minute; soon, though, their party of three was ready to set out, on foot, for the village. This was like old times.
When the Drake family went to the movies, wherever they happened to be living, they never bothered to find out what time the main feature began: much of their pleasure came from waiting for a prolonged confusion to clarify itself on the screen. Eventually, after various tantalizing elements of plot had gained more and more coherence either in development or in resolution, each of the Drakes would try to be the first to turn and
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