way.At a family dinner last winter Grandma Bedloe had said, “What a pity Agatha didn’t inherit Lucy’s bone structure.”
“Once upon a time,” she told Thomas, “there was a poor servant girl named Cinderella.”
“Not that one.”
“Once upon a time a rich merchant had three daughters.”
“Not that one either. I want ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ ”
This was no surprise to Agatha. (He liked things that rhymed.
Nibble, nibble, like a mouse, who is nibbling at my house?
) But Agatha hated “Hansel and Gretel.” There wasn’t any magic to it—no fairy godmothers, or frogs turning into princes. “How about ‘Snow White’?” she asked. “That’s got
Mirror, mirror, on the wall
…”
“I want ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ ”
She sighed and resettled her pillow. “All right, have it your way,” she said. “Once upon a time Hansel and Gretel were taking a walk—”
“That’s not how it starts!”
“Who’s telling this: you or me?”
“First there’s their parents! And dropping breadcrumbs on the path! And the birds eat all the crumbs and Hansel and Gretel get lost!”
“Keep your voice down!” Agatha hissed.
Daphne slept on, though. And in the living room their mother’s footsteps continued. Pace, pace. Swish of kimono. Pace, pace.
The night after Danny’s funeral, she had paced till morning. (Back then she didn’t have her pills yet.) The next day when Agatha got up she found the ashtray heaped with nasty-smelling butts and her mother asleep on the couch. Danny’s picture stood on the coffee table nearby—the one she usually kept on her bureau. He waslaughing under a beach umbrella. His eyes were dark and curly and full of kindness.
Agatha never thought about Danny anymore.
“I have to pee,” Thomas whispered.
“What, again?”
He slid out of bed and hitched up his pajama bottoms. “It was too much grapefruit juice,” he said.
Agatha leaned against her pillow and folded her arms and watched him go. The cigarette smoke from the living room made her nose feel crinkly inside. Wasn’t it strange how dead butts smelled so dirty, but lighted cigarettes smelled exciting and promising.
Something nagged at her mind, a bothersome thought she couldn’t quite get hold of. Then she noticed what she was hearing: the flushing of the toilet. Oh, no. She threw back her covers and started out of bed.
Too late, though. Thomas shrieked, “Mama! Mama!” and their mother cried, “Thomas?” Her bare feet came rushing down the hall. Her kimono made a crackling sound like fire.
Agatha decided to stay where she was.
“Oh, my God,” her mother said. “Oh, my Lord in heaven.”
She must be standing in the bathroom doorway. Her voice echoed off the tiles.
“What did you put down that toilet?” she asked.
“Nothing! I promise! I just flushed and the water poured everywhere!”
“Oh, my Lord above.”
Agatha wondered if the toilet was still running. She couldn’t hear it. She imagined the house flooding silently with the murky yellow water from Daphne’s diaper.
“Just
go
, will you?” their mother said. “Go back to bed and stay there. And don’t you dare use this toilet again till I can get hold of a plumber, hear?”
The word “plumber” sounded so knowledgeable. Yes, of course: there was a regular, normal person to take charge of this situation, and that meant it must happen to other people too. Agatha pulled her covers up. She watched Thomas enter the room and trudge to his own bed. He walked like an old man, huddled together across the back of his neck. He lay down and reached for Dulcimer and hugged her to his chest.
It wasn’t like him to be so quiet. Maybe he had guessed the toilet was Agatha’s fault.
She said, “Thomas?”
No answer.
“Thomas, is the water still spilling over?”
“Doe,” he said, and the stopped-up sound of his voice told her he was crying.
“You want to come sleep in my bed?”
“Doe.”
In the hall she heard their mother’s
“Once upon a time,” she told Thomas, “there was a poor servant girl named Cinderella.”
“Not that one.”
“Once upon a time a rich merchant had three daughters.”
“Not that one either. I want ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ ”
This was no surprise to Agatha. (He liked things that rhymed.
Nibble, nibble, like a mouse, who is nibbling at my house?
) But Agatha hated “Hansel and Gretel.” There wasn’t any magic to it—no fairy godmothers, or frogs turning into princes. “How about ‘Snow White’?” she asked. “That’s got
Mirror, mirror, on the wall
…”
“I want ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ ”
She sighed and resettled her pillow. “All right, have it your way,” she said. “Once upon a time Hansel and Gretel were taking a walk—”
“That’s not how it starts!”
“Who’s telling this: you or me?”
“First there’s their parents! And dropping breadcrumbs on the path! And the birds eat all the crumbs and Hansel and Gretel get lost!”
“Keep your voice down!” Agatha hissed.
Daphne slept on, though. And in the living room their mother’s footsteps continued. Pace, pace. Swish of kimono. Pace, pace.
The night after Danny’s funeral, she had paced till morning. (Back then she didn’t have her pills yet.) The next day when Agatha got up she found the ashtray heaped with nasty-smelling butts and her mother asleep on the couch. Danny’s picture stood on the coffee table nearby—the one she usually kept on her bureau. He waslaughing under a beach umbrella. His eyes were dark and curly and full of kindness.
Agatha never thought about Danny anymore.
“I have to pee,” Thomas whispered.
“What, again?”
He slid out of bed and hitched up his pajama bottoms. “It was too much grapefruit juice,” he said.
Agatha leaned against her pillow and folded her arms and watched him go. The cigarette smoke from the living room made her nose feel crinkly inside. Wasn’t it strange how dead butts smelled so dirty, but lighted cigarettes smelled exciting and promising.
Something nagged at her mind, a bothersome thought she couldn’t quite get hold of. Then she noticed what she was hearing: the flushing of the toilet. Oh, no. She threw back her covers and started out of bed.
Too late, though. Thomas shrieked, “Mama! Mama!” and their mother cried, “Thomas?” Her bare feet came rushing down the hall. Her kimono made a crackling sound like fire.
Agatha decided to stay where she was.
“Oh, my God,” her mother said. “Oh, my Lord in heaven.”
She must be standing in the bathroom doorway. Her voice echoed off the tiles.
“What did you put down that toilet?” she asked.
“Nothing! I promise! I just flushed and the water poured everywhere!”
“Oh, my Lord above.”
Agatha wondered if the toilet was still running. She couldn’t hear it. She imagined the house flooding silently with the murky yellow water from Daphne’s diaper.
“Just
go
, will you?” their mother said. “Go back to bed and stay there. And don’t you dare use this toilet again till I can get hold of a plumber, hear?”
The word “plumber” sounded so knowledgeable. Yes, of course: there was a regular, normal person to take charge of this situation, and that meant it must happen to other people too. Agatha pulled her covers up. She watched Thomas enter the room and trudge to his own bed. He walked like an old man, huddled together across the back of his neck. He lay down and reached for Dulcimer and hugged her to his chest.
It wasn’t like him to be so quiet. Maybe he had guessed the toilet was Agatha’s fault.
She said, “Thomas?”
No answer.
“Thomas, is the water still spilling over?”
“Doe,” he said, and the stopped-up sound of his voice told her he was crying.
“You want to come sleep in my bed?”
“Doe.”
In the hall she heard their mother’s
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