radiator where Ann often huddled on winter mornings, her knees pulled up under a worn flannel gown, as she waited for Jimmy to come down to watch Shock Theatre. They are about to remove it and tear through the wall to build a Florida room.
“Perfect for watching the scary movies,” Ann says pointing at the big-screen television and all the equipment parts stacked on top of it.
“We hate scary,” Kaycie says and simulates a shudder, diamond-weighted hand pressed to her chest. “We’re such wimps.”
“Since when?”
“Always,” Kaycie says before Jimmy can speak. She says they’ve been watching The Thorn Birds on DVD, something she remembered watching as a little girl.
“Good old Dr. Kildare,” Ann says, but Kaycie is too young to remember the star in another form. She is too young to know Jimmy in another form, too.
Ann takes her shoes off and Kaycie watches her every move on that white carpet. For a moment it is as if their mother is there in the room about to reprimand but too weak to do so.
“James?” Kaycie calls. “Can you come help me, honey?” He smiles at Ann with the promise of a glass of wine and follows his young wife into the kitchen. This wife is a clone of the one before her, just a decade younger, with Jimmy starring in the same old role. Is there a missing piece of machinery that could, like switching a train track, throw him off in a new and different direction? Ann has often thought they jinxed themselves when they sabotaged Rosemary Looney, that Jimmy’s threat of a curse placed on their dad was actually placed on them.
“You know, Kaycie’s dad owns a Volvo dealership,” Jimmy sayswhen he returns. “He was a judge, really powerful guy and very well known all over the state. Retired early and now he’s all into safety features like kid locks and side-view mirrors that get rid of your blind spot. Kaycie’s an only kid so you can imagine how excited about this kid they are.”
“James?” Kaycie calls again from the kitchen but he pretends he doesn’t hear and keeps talking about cars and what he drives and what model Kaycie drives and why.
“When did you start going by James?” Ann asks, her tongue lengthening the name to feign British royalty, and he shrugs, tells her she can still just call him “master.” He had called himself Jim as soon as he went away to college but she had never heard anyone call him James, not even their parents or grandparents.
Ann looks around the room, everything perfectly arranged, coffee table art, house magazines fanned on the end table, candlesticks aligned on the mantle. “She’s so neat!” she says, but he thinks she means hip, groovy, cool and smiles proudly.
“How’s the divorce?” he asks.
“It sucks,” she says, thinking she can hit a familiar chord with what had been his answer to adultlike questions for years. “Why didn’t you tell me what it would cost? I might as well have taken everything I owned and poured kerosene on it and struck a match.” She hears herself speaking to him as she does everyone who asks, focusing on the money and the greedy lawyers and everything stereotypical and cliché about divorce so as not tohave to think about Sally and the ache she feels for what she will never have again, any damage or hurt she might have caused. She is too old to have a child of her own and has abandoned the one who didn’t really need her anyway. She was the surplus mother, the extra, the stand-in. “You’re like the stunt parent,” her husband had said in the beginning, delighted at how easily Sally adjusted to her, the way she sometimes got mixed up and called her “mama.” “I’ll let you do all the dangerous parts —diapers, runny noses, head lice.” There was a whole list they had created and laughed about. She would volunteer for things like troop leader and Disney movies and trips to the mall. She would handle acne and bras, buy the tampons, and answer questions about sex. Somehow in all the
“Perfect for watching the scary movies,” Ann says pointing at the big-screen television and all the equipment parts stacked on top of it.
“We hate scary,” Kaycie says and simulates a shudder, diamond-weighted hand pressed to her chest. “We’re such wimps.”
“Since when?”
“Always,” Kaycie says before Jimmy can speak. She says they’ve been watching The Thorn Birds on DVD, something she remembered watching as a little girl.
“Good old Dr. Kildare,” Ann says, but Kaycie is too young to remember the star in another form. She is too young to know Jimmy in another form, too.
Ann takes her shoes off and Kaycie watches her every move on that white carpet. For a moment it is as if their mother is there in the room about to reprimand but too weak to do so.
“James?” Kaycie calls. “Can you come help me, honey?” He smiles at Ann with the promise of a glass of wine and follows his young wife into the kitchen. This wife is a clone of the one before her, just a decade younger, with Jimmy starring in the same old role. Is there a missing piece of machinery that could, like switching a train track, throw him off in a new and different direction? Ann has often thought they jinxed themselves when they sabotaged Rosemary Looney, that Jimmy’s threat of a curse placed on their dad was actually placed on them.
“You know, Kaycie’s dad owns a Volvo dealership,” Jimmy sayswhen he returns. “He was a judge, really powerful guy and very well known all over the state. Retired early and now he’s all into safety features like kid locks and side-view mirrors that get rid of your blind spot. Kaycie’s an only kid so you can imagine how excited about this kid they are.”
“James?” Kaycie calls again from the kitchen but he pretends he doesn’t hear and keeps talking about cars and what he drives and what model Kaycie drives and why.
“When did you start going by James?” Ann asks, her tongue lengthening the name to feign British royalty, and he shrugs, tells her she can still just call him “master.” He had called himself Jim as soon as he went away to college but she had never heard anyone call him James, not even their parents or grandparents.
Ann looks around the room, everything perfectly arranged, coffee table art, house magazines fanned on the end table, candlesticks aligned on the mantle. “She’s so neat!” she says, but he thinks she means hip, groovy, cool and smiles proudly.
“How’s the divorce?” he asks.
“It sucks,” she says, thinking she can hit a familiar chord with what had been his answer to adultlike questions for years. “Why didn’t you tell me what it would cost? I might as well have taken everything I owned and poured kerosene on it and struck a match.” She hears herself speaking to him as she does everyone who asks, focusing on the money and the greedy lawyers and everything stereotypical and cliché about divorce so as not tohave to think about Sally and the ache she feels for what she will never have again, any damage or hurt she might have caused. She is too old to have a child of her own and has abandoned the one who didn’t really need her anyway. She was the surplus mother, the extra, the stand-in. “You’re like the stunt parent,” her husband had said in the beginning, delighted at how easily Sally adjusted to her, the way she sometimes got mixed up and called her “mama.” “I’ll let you do all the dangerous parts —diapers, runny noses, head lice.” There was a whole list they had created and laughed about. She would volunteer for things like troop leader and Disney movies and trips to the mall. She would handle acne and bras, buy the tampons, and answer questions about sex. Somehow in all the
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