on his scalp, then, realizing his hair has fluffed, smoothes his hand across it.
“How are you sleeping?” I touch the knee of his corduroy trousers.
“No worse than anyone my age.” He starts patting down his pockets, his comfort reflex, and I instinctively stand and step back to give him room. “You walk down our street at three A.M . and you’ll see everyone’s got their telly on.”
“Are you? Walking down the street at three A.M .?”
He slaps his palms against his thighs. “Come, your mother’s waiting to eat.”
“Hold on. Dad, are you still seeing Dr. Urdang?”
“Katie, unless you are renewing my insurance during this visit—”
“I just want to get a handle on why all the subterfuge.”
“I’m boning up for a second career with Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
“Dad—”
“Katie.” He slips the tissue back in his pocket.
Infuriated by his childish obfuscation, I start ripping the cardboard packaging off the new makeup. “Okay, can you please give me a real answer here?”
He stands. “Listen, bun, I have cartons of notes from the research center that I’ve been wanting to turn into a book for years.” I nod to that oft-heard sentence. “And I was sitting in that god-awful fluorescent-lit library listening to the same five people have the same stupid budget fight they have every year, and I just snapped. What was I waiting for?” I don’t know—your IRAs? “I feel fantastic. We’ve finally unloaded this albatross—I’m cooking again, I’ve been catching up on my reading. I’m off those bloody pills that made me feel like a zombie—”
“You’re what?” I sputter.
He steps over the threshold. “Come on, Katie, my puttanesca sauce is at its best hot.”
“Does Mom know?”
Pretending not to hear the question, he pulls the door shut. Fuck. I look at the alarm clock. I look at the makeup piled in a crashed pyramid on the quilt. I flip open the compacts, quickly applying the colors in the mirror backing the door.
“Kate?” Mom calls.
“Right down.” I hold the mascara wand up to see my hand is shaking.
I jog into the kitchen as Mom turns to me, innocently proffering a bottle. “Care for some wine?”
“No, thank you,” I say, staring at Dad, imploring him to speak. But he looks down obstinately, continuing to ladle manicotti onto plates.
“Milk then?” Mom cants her head inquiringly as she reaches for the refrigerator door. I cannot take my eyes off of Dad’s mouth, set in a grim line.
“Thanks, but I need to…”
Dad sighs.
“Get this over with. Now.”
Lifting her shoulders, Mom chirps, “Car keys are on the side table.”
“Thanks, but I’ve gotta walk,” I say, kissing her cheek, my heart clenching as I round the island, not looking at him. “I still have to figure out what to say.”
10
NINTH GRADE
Laura crosses her eyes in my direction from the alto section of the risers. I scrunch my nose, making a rabbit face in response. “We need to wake up! The concert is three weeks away and you don’t want to embarrass yourselves.” Mrs. Sergeant waves her man-hands at the baritones, and a sad trickle of “We Built This City” ekes out into the choir room for the millionth time.
Backed by Todd Rawley on bass, little Mrs. Beazley attacks the piano keys, her pink beads jumping against the flopping bow of her blouse. A row beneath Laura and me sits Jake, and I watch as his finger slides along his song sheet in time with the actual song. Not the Muzak-nerd version Mrs. Sergeant is aiming for.
“Sopranos, let me see those ‘ooooo’ faces, big and round! And! Say you don’t knooooow me oooooor recoooognize my face.” Her mouth opens so wide I see the outline of her tonsils. “Now really enunciate here— ea-ting. Up. The. Night.” Sergeant stops us with a frustrated shake of her Play-Doh beauty parlor perm, but Mrs. Beazley joyfully continues.
As does Jake. Pitch perfect, his voice fills the air like light unearthed from
“How are you sleeping?” I touch the knee of his corduroy trousers.
“No worse than anyone my age.” He starts patting down his pockets, his comfort reflex, and I instinctively stand and step back to give him room. “You walk down our street at three A.M . and you’ll see everyone’s got their telly on.”
“Are you? Walking down the street at three A.M .?”
He slaps his palms against his thighs. “Come, your mother’s waiting to eat.”
“Hold on. Dad, are you still seeing Dr. Urdang?”
“Katie, unless you are renewing my insurance during this visit—”
“I just want to get a handle on why all the subterfuge.”
“I’m boning up for a second career with Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
“Dad—”
“Katie.” He slips the tissue back in his pocket.
Infuriated by his childish obfuscation, I start ripping the cardboard packaging off the new makeup. “Okay, can you please give me a real answer here?”
He stands. “Listen, bun, I have cartons of notes from the research center that I’ve been wanting to turn into a book for years.” I nod to that oft-heard sentence. “And I was sitting in that god-awful fluorescent-lit library listening to the same five people have the same stupid budget fight they have every year, and I just snapped. What was I waiting for?” I don’t know—your IRAs? “I feel fantastic. We’ve finally unloaded this albatross—I’m cooking again, I’ve been catching up on my reading. I’m off those bloody pills that made me feel like a zombie—”
“You’re what?” I sputter.
He steps over the threshold. “Come on, Katie, my puttanesca sauce is at its best hot.”
“Does Mom know?”
Pretending not to hear the question, he pulls the door shut. Fuck. I look at the alarm clock. I look at the makeup piled in a crashed pyramid on the quilt. I flip open the compacts, quickly applying the colors in the mirror backing the door.
“Kate?” Mom calls.
“Right down.” I hold the mascara wand up to see my hand is shaking.
I jog into the kitchen as Mom turns to me, innocently proffering a bottle. “Care for some wine?”
“No, thank you,” I say, staring at Dad, imploring him to speak. But he looks down obstinately, continuing to ladle manicotti onto plates.
“Milk then?” Mom cants her head inquiringly as she reaches for the refrigerator door. I cannot take my eyes off of Dad’s mouth, set in a grim line.
“Thanks, but I need to…”
Dad sighs.
“Get this over with. Now.”
Lifting her shoulders, Mom chirps, “Car keys are on the side table.”
“Thanks, but I’ve gotta walk,” I say, kissing her cheek, my heart clenching as I round the island, not looking at him. “I still have to figure out what to say.”
10
NINTH GRADE
Laura crosses her eyes in my direction from the alto section of the risers. I scrunch my nose, making a rabbit face in response. “We need to wake up! The concert is three weeks away and you don’t want to embarrass yourselves.” Mrs. Sergeant waves her man-hands at the baritones, and a sad trickle of “We Built This City” ekes out into the choir room for the millionth time.
Backed by Todd Rawley on bass, little Mrs. Beazley attacks the piano keys, her pink beads jumping against the flopping bow of her blouse. A row beneath Laura and me sits Jake, and I watch as his finger slides along his song sheet in time with the actual song. Not the Muzak-nerd version Mrs. Sergeant is aiming for.
“Sopranos, let me see those ‘ooooo’ faces, big and round! And! Say you don’t knooooow me oooooor recoooognize my face.” Her mouth opens so wide I see the outline of her tonsils. “Now really enunciate here— ea-ting. Up. The. Night.” Sergeant stops us with a frustrated shake of her Play-Doh beauty parlor perm, but Mrs. Beazley joyfully continues.
As does Jake. Pitch perfect, his voice fills the air like light unearthed from
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