Our Daily Bread by Lauren B. Davis Page B

a bit straighter and was willing to let an argument go.
    â€œWhat is this?” Ivy said, holding up her fork with a beige sliver on it.
    â€œIt’s an almond, silly. You like almonds,” said Patty.
    â€œNo, I don’t think I do,” she said and put her fork down, scraping the almond slice onto the rim of her plate.
    â€œI like them,” said Bobby. “I’ll eat hers.”
    Tom tried not to think about money. No treats, no dinners out, and certainly no college for the kids. Bobby hardly seemed interested in college, but maybe. No chance now, though, even if his grades improved. Not on Tom’s salary. Unless he doubled up with a second job. Part-time maybe. At least in the warm months. Landscaping. He could handle that. Put something away. He chewed a mouthful of sticky, sweet-sour chicken and smiled at his wife.
    Ivy became very quiet, even for Ivy, and in a way that was different from Bobby’s sulking silence. Ivy guarded herself, held herself close. She watched her mother as though at any moment Patty might do something else unexpected. The girl pushed beans around on her plate, built a nest for them in a pile of rice, and smiled whenever Patty looked in her direction.
    All through dinner Patty chattered away about what she’d do with all her time now. Read Chekhov and Shakespeare. Grow tomatoes and sweet peas and maybe even potatoes. Take up quilting, or no, maybe she’d become a weaver. “I’ll bet you could make me a loom,” she said.
    â€œI don’t know anything about looms,” Tom said.
    â€œYou can learn. We can all learn new things. Maybe I’ll move this stuff out of the dining room. We could put it in the shed. Then I could make it a studio or something.”
    â€œThat dining room suite’s from my parents, Patty. It’s good walnut. I don’t want it out in the shed.”
    She folded her arms across her chest. “Well, somewhere else then. You could turn the shed into a workshop for me. You could, couldn’t you?”
    After the cheesecake was finished, Bobby stood up, and said he was going out. Tom said he was not. Bobby said he was meeting his friends. Tom said he was doing his homework. Bobby said he didn’t have any. Tom said he doubted that.
    â€œYou want me to call up your teachers tomorrow and ask?”
    Bobby held his ground, glared at Tom. His expression matched that of the blond rapper stencilled to the front of his T-shirt, some absurdly rich kid named after a candy, from what Tom remembered.
    â€œUp to you,” said Tom.
    â€œThis family’s whacked,” said Bobby and he stomped up to his room and slammed the door.
    â€œI’ve done my homework,” said Ivy.
    â€œNever doubted it for a moment, sweetpea.”
    â€œAre you going to help me with these dishes?” said Patty.
    And so he and Ivy did the dishes while Patty watched television. Ivy stood on a little stool and carefully dried each plate, each piece of cutlery, each glass, polishing each one and holding the glasses up to the light to make sure there were no spots. When they finished, they joined Patty in the living room and watched a program in which two sets of neighbours redecorated each other’s houses. Tom picked at the duct tape covering the tear in the arm of his lounge chair. Ivy laid on the floor, hugging a pillow, her expression intent, as though she really cared about valences and ottomans and shades of blue paint. Patty sat cross-legged on the plaid couch, sipping wine. At last it was time for Ivy to go to bed. She kissed them both and said goodnight.
    After a few minutes, Tom went up stairs to check on her. As he passed Bobby’s door he heard his son singing a horribly off-key version of something he supposed the boy must be listening to through headphones. He caught a whiff of incense with a possible under-note of cigarette, wondered if he should look in, but then decided against it. Let the kid think