laughable in some way, and inferior to growing corn, beans, and wheat. He’d got stingy about the money she spent on the house, on food. But he was the one who’d wanted to be the big shot in the first place. If business was that bad, he could go to work and do something important about it.
Her old street. The trees on her parents’ street had begun to turn color. Dusty oaks and yellow sycamores and here and there a maple sending up a red flare. In spite of her father’s and everyone else’s best efforts, the neighborhood was showing its age, on its way to being just a little run-down, no place she’d want to live now. She pulled into the driveway next to her mother’s car. Matthew was still asleep and she was able to carry him into the house without waking him.
Her mother had been watching from the front windows and she met them at the kitchen door. Anita made a hushing face so she wouldn’t start in.
“Oh look at him,” her mother breathed. “Little angel boy.”
“I’ll put him down.” Anita carried him back to her old room. Her mother had taken to being a grandma in a big way. No one was surprised. She’d hauled out the old crib, stroller, and swing, and Anita, who’d wanted to buy her own things new, had to persuade her mother to keep them here for the times when Matthew visited.
Back in the kitchen her mother had coffee ready, and sour-cream coffee cake, and fried apples, and corn bread. Anita said she couldn’t possibly eat all that, she’d already had breakfast, and her mother said just have a little bit. She shouldn’t eat anything, it made her grouchy to think about eating. She still hadn’t got rid of her baby weight and she hated the layer of padding over her hips and breasts and having clothes she couldn’t fit into and probably never would again, and she was impatient with her mother and all her useless food. But in the end she ate two pieces of coffee cake and some apples and coffee with cream.
Just the three of them were living here now, her mother and father and Torrie. Blake worked construction and had a house outside of town with a buddy. Ryan was in Chicago doing his usual stupid Ryan thing. Her mother was finding it hard to adjust. “I should go down to Des Moines and cook for some orphanage,” she said from time to time, one of her hopeless jokes. Even though it would be good for her to do something like that, anything to get herself out of the house once in a while.
They finished eating and cleared the plates and sat at the table waiting for what would come next. The furnace started up, rattling the vents in the floor. The kitchen smelled of cooking, but also of something else, a whiff of staleness, airlessness, the house less lived-in now. Her mother poured out more coffee. It was as if the two of them were always on the verge of having a conversation that would explain and reveal everything: Is this what it means to be a wife, a mother, a woman? Is it what you expected? Should I have gone about it differently? But then they covered it over with other conversation, and the moment passed.
So that her mother wondered if they shouldn’t go ahead and wake Matthew up, and Anita said to leave him be, since whenever he woke up, he was going to be cranky.
“I think I hear him,” her mother announced, going out into the hallway. Anita knew that her mother was just anxious to see him, hold him, exclaim over him, and while she was glad to have some respite, someone else to help with him, there was an unwillingness also. He was her child, after all, not some especially desirable toy to be contested.
She heard his waking-up sounds, and her mother coaxing him, lifting him out of the crib he was really too big for, and then the two of them in the bathroom. She wondered if he’d woken up wet. She ought to go see, but she couldn’t make herself get out of the chair just yet. All the food had made her drowsy.
Matthew was calling for her, Mommy, Mommy. “I’m right here, honey,”
Her old street. The trees on her parents’ street had begun to turn color. Dusty oaks and yellow sycamores and here and there a maple sending up a red flare. In spite of her father’s and everyone else’s best efforts, the neighborhood was showing its age, on its way to being just a little run-down, no place she’d want to live now. She pulled into the driveway next to her mother’s car. Matthew was still asleep and she was able to carry him into the house without waking him.
Her mother had been watching from the front windows and she met them at the kitchen door. Anita made a hushing face so she wouldn’t start in.
“Oh look at him,” her mother breathed. “Little angel boy.”
“I’ll put him down.” Anita carried him back to her old room. Her mother had taken to being a grandma in a big way. No one was surprised. She’d hauled out the old crib, stroller, and swing, and Anita, who’d wanted to buy her own things new, had to persuade her mother to keep them here for the times when Matthew visited.
Back in the kitchen her mother had coffee ready, and sour-cream coffee cake, and fried apples, and corn bread. Anita said she couldn’t possibly eat all that, she’d already had breakfast, and her mother said just have a little bit. She shouldn’t eat anything, it made her grouchy to think about eating. She still hadn’t got rid of her baby weight and she hated the layer of padding over her hips and breasts and having clothes she couldn’t fit into and probably never would again, and she was impatient with her mother and all her useless food. But in the end she ate two pieces of coffee cake and some apples and coffee with cream.
Just the three of them were living here now, her mother and father and Torrie. Blake worked construction and had a house outside of town with a buddy. Ryan was in Chicago doing his usual stupid Ryan thing. Her mother was finding it hard to adjust. “I should go down to Des Moines and cook for some orphanage,” she said from time to time, one of her hopeless jokes. Even though it would be good for her to do something like that, anything to get herself out of the house once in a while.
They finished eating and cleared the plates and sat at the table waiting for what would come next. The furnace started up, rattling the vents in the floor. The kitchen smelled of cooking, but also of something else, a whiff of staleness, airlessness, the house less lived-in now. Her mother poured out more coffee. It was as if the two of them were always on the verge of having a conversation that would explain and reveal everything: Is this what it means to be a wife, a mother, a woman? Is it what you expected? Should I have gone about it differently? But then they covered it over with other conversation, and the moment passed.
So that her mother wondered if they shouldn’t go ahead and wake Matthew up, and Anita said to leave him be, since whenever he woke up, he was going to be cranky.
“I think I hear him,” her mother announced, going out into the hallway. Anita knew that her mother was just anxious to see him, hold him, exclaim over him, and while she was glad to have some respite, someone else to help with him, there was an unwillingness also. He was her child, after all, not some especially desirable toy to be contested.
She heard his waking-up sounds, and her mother coaxing him, lifting him out of the crib he was really too big for, and then the two of them in the bathroom. She wondered if he’d woken up wet. She ought to go see, but she couldn’t make herself get out of the chair just yet. All the food had made her drowsy.
Matthew was calling for her, Mommy, Mommy. “I’m right here, honey,”
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