be serious! You expect me to put everything on hold because fifteen-year-old Charlie Devlin is off raising hell somewhere? If this was any kid other than Michael’s it wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar. Frankly, I couldn’t be less interested in anything that has to do with Michael Devlin, though obviously the same can’t be said for you. In any event, I feel quite confident leaving you alone. In a contest between you and a lunatic, God help the lunatic.”
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet dangling, relieved that the conversation had veered away from the always explosive topic of money, when Greer decided to venture into even more fraught territory. “Why can’t you be more moderate? You’ve already made up your mind about Michael’s boy though you haven’t a single fact to support your conclusions. God knows, you’ve made your views on the war abundantly clear. By now, Ho Chi Minh must be ready to surrender rather than listen to another word on the subject from you. How far do you intend to go? Isn’t it enough that you wave the union label at every opportunity? You live and breathe controversy. It’s like a shtick. Why must you be so adversarial? Sometimes I feel as if we’re chained to Krakatoa, waiting for the inevitable explosion.”
“That’s a hot one coming from you, Miss Congeniality. Is that your idea of a joke? Don’t be so goddamn melodramatic. Why the hell would I run for office if I didn’t have something to say?”
My mother laughed. Idealism amused her, or so she pretended. “Save it for those gullible legions of factory workers. Do everyone a favor and quit deluding yourself about the purity of your motives. No saint ever survived the election process.” Her words sounded dirty, as if she’d swept them from the floor.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Camp was shouting at her now. “Only a saint could put up with you.”
Their bedroom door opened and banged once, twice, as he stormed into the hallway, a permanent dent in the plaster where the door handle met the wall. Sometimes I wondered if my father realized that doors didn’t need to be banged open or slammed shut to work correctly.
“Camp!” my mother shouted at him from the top of the stairs. “Will this fucking war of yours never end?”
I had never heard my mother use the word “fuck” before. Wham! Camp slammed the front door with so much force that it shook the foundation of the house.
I guess she got her answer.
Sinking back down in my bed, flopping onto my stomach, I buried my face in my pillow. Soon I had forgotten whose side I was on.
A FTER THAT MONUMENTAL BATTLE, an equally epic silence crept into the house and lingered for weeks, my parents barely speaking to each other. The absence of conversation was so unusual and disarming, it felt as if it must be a sign of the impending apocalypse.
Riding was my only distraction and I spent the first part of every day training for the fall shows. I wanted to be an eventer and I needed the practice. Sitting at the vanity in my bedroom, I pulled on my riding pants and my boots, ran my fingers through my hair—a brush only made matters worse—and headed downstairs intending to go for an early ride cross-country.
Greer glanced up from where she sat at the table as I walked into the kitchen. She was on the telephone, its lax cord wound loosely round the two fingers that she held up to shush me. Blooming like an extravagant lavender border, she wore a deep blue cotton dress with black polka dots, the perfumed effects of its wide shoulder straps, sweetheart neckline and fitted bodice creating the impression that she was her own garden party.
Lou smiled over at me from where she stood at the stove and whispered her willingness to make me breakfast. Did I want French toast? I nodded, slightly distracted as Vera jumped up and tried to yank my riding gloves from my hands. Lou and I, resigned to our rampant status as itch grass alongside the exotic
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet dangling, relieved that the conversation had veered away from the always explosive topic of money, when Greer decided to venture into even more fraught territory. “Why can’t you be more moderate? You’ve already made up your mind about Michael’s boy though you haven’t a single fact to support your conclusions. God knows, you’ve made your views on the war abundantly clear. By now, Ho Chi Minh must be ready to surrender rather than listen to another word on the subject from you. How far do you intend to go? Isn’t it enough that you wave the union label at every opportunity? You live and breathe controversy. It’s like a shtick. Why must you be so adversarial? Sometimes I feel as if we’re chained to Krakatoa, waiting for the inevitable explosion.”
“That’s a hot one coming from you, Miss Congeniality. Is that your idea of a joke? Don’t be so goddamn melodramatic. Why the hell would I run for office if I didn’t have something to say?”
My mother laughed. Idealism amused her, or so she pretended. “Save it for those gullible legions of factory workers. Do everyone a favor and quit deluding yourself about the purity of your motives. No saint ever survived the election process.” Her words sounded dirty, as if she’d swept them from the floor.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Camp was shouting at her now. “Only a saint could put up with you.”
Their bedroom door opened and banged once, twice, as he stormed into the hallway, a permanent dent in the plaster where the door handle met the wall. Sometimes I wondered if my father realized that doors didn’t need to be banged open or slammed shut to work correctly.
“Camp!” my mother shouted at him from the top of the stairs. “Will this fucking war of yours never end?”
I had never heard my mother use the word “fuck” before. Wham! Camp slammed the front door with so much force that it shook the foundation of the house.
I guess she got her answer.
Sinking back down in my bed, flopping onto my stomach, I buried my face in my pillow. Soon I had forgotten whose side I was on.
A FTER THAT MONUMENTAL BATTLE, an equally epic silence crept into the house and lingered for weeks, my parents barely speaking to each other. The absence of conversation was so unusual and disarming, it felt as if it must be a sign of the impending apocalypse.
Riding was my only distraction and I spent the first part of every day training for the fall shows. I wanted to be an eventer and I needed the practice. Sitting at the vanity in my bedroom, I pulled on my riding pants and my boots, ran my fingers through my hair—a brush only made matters worse—and headed downstairs intending to go for an early ride cross-country.
Greer glanced up from where she sat at the table as I walked into the kitchen. She was on the telephone, its lax cord wound loosely round the two fingers that she held up to shush me. Blooming like an extravagant lavender border, she wore a deep blue cotton dress with black polka dots, the perfumed effects of its wide shoulder straps, sweetheart neckline and fitted bodice creating the impression that she was her own garden party.
Lou smiled over at me from where she stood at the stove and whispered her willingness to make me breakfast. Did I want French toast? I nodded, slightly distracted as Vera jumped up and tried to yank my riding gloves from my hands. Lou and I, resigned to our rampant status as itch grass alongside the exotic
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