day, the enfant terrible whimpered and hid her head in the pillow. There was the long coaxing to the kitchen table. "Come, lamb, blueberry muffins for breakfast." But the morning in front of them was just as uncertain if Madeline opened her eyes, stretched, swung her feet to the floor, and padded in her uneven tread to the bathroom. The augur of a happy day? A few minutes later, by the time she got to the table, she might turn her bowl of cereal over and sit, her arms crossed, refusing to move.
"You'd want to smack her in the face," Figgy said.
In the evenings, when my father walked in the door from work, Madeline quit stirring the pudding or working at the sewing cards that occupied her, shoestrings in different colors threaded through cardboard pictures. She'd burst from the chair, the thick threads spilling, the stack of cards falling to the floor. She pitched herself at my father. "Hullo, Julia," he called to his wife through that assault. When he sat down to dinner, Madeline climbed into his lap, pulled at his face, pressed his cheeks together. She must not have liked her place at the side of the table, Mr. and Mrs. Maciver at the heads. "Talk to me," she said to my father. "Tell me about your day," she said in a mocking voice. "Talk to me. Tell me. Talk, talk." My mother was firm in her conviction that he should indulge her, that he should shove back in his chair and rock her for as long as she needed. As my mother saw it , Madeline was just waking up to the fact that she'd been injured. Or, as Figgy might have said, "jilted."
"Keep rocking her," Julia instructed her husband. Madeline must have known she'd lost something. What was it that had once been so close and yet now was blurry in the distance? Not a dress or a dog, larger than that--a house, was it? A whole town, a lake, a thing you felt you were a part of but couldn't in any way hold? "This will pass," I imagine Julia assuring my father when they were alone in their bed, before the specter appeared from the other room.
"It took the accident to reveal the nature of his first wife to your father," Figgy told me. "I don't think he had ever admitted to himself that she was spoiled. It was the crash that brought her character to the fore, front and center, for him to see."
As all couples must do when they have children at home, my parents would have had to be hasty and quiet after the lights were out. Before Madeline made her entrance into the dark bedroom--and who could tell when she would open the door?--they might have their moment. I have turned over their love for each other any number of times in my mind. They were not either of them rudely self-interested, as Figgy insisted through the years. But I do wonder if my father at the start of the marriage harbored the sadness of having to be eternally grateful. My mother, knowing that she owned that gratitude, that she'd have it for the rest of her life, was able then to make light of her burden. I would guess that both of them cared for Madeline as devotedly as they did because it was she who had given them to each other. I'm certain this is a subject they never discussed, and yet she knew the facets of his feelings just as he might have understood something of hers, too. They'd begin to kiss out of all that gratitude, and quickly, quickly, like teenagers fearing discovery, they'd move together without completely removing their clothes, my father's boxers down to his ankles, my mother's nightgown up to her chin. Surely my father experienced some kind of religion in that hurry; surely it's possible that my mother's needs and talents were absorbing even as they were different from Madeline's.
There was an evening early on when Madeline bit Julia on the underside of her forearm. My mother had been wiping up a lump of mashed potatoes at Madeline's place, including the thin gravy that had run into the groove of the table. Madeline leaned forward to take the nip. There, in a snap, was the portrait of the new family:
"You'd want to smack her in the face," Figgy said.
In the evenings, when my father walked in the door from work, Madeline quit stirring the pudding or working at the sewing cards that occupied her, shoestrings in different colors threaded through cardboard pictures. She'd burst from the chair, the thick threads spilling, the stack of cards falling to the floor. She pitched herself at my father. "Hullo, Julia," he called to his wife through that assault. When he sat down to dinner, Madeline climbed into his lap, pulled at his face, pressed his cheeks together. She must not have liked her place at the side of the table, Mr. and Mrs. Maciver at the heads. "Talk to me," she said to my father. "Tell me about your day," she said in a mocking voice. "Talk to me. Tell me. Talk, talk." My mother was firm in her conviction that he should indulge her, that he should shove back in his chair and rock her for as long as she needed. As my mother saw it , Madeline was just waking up to the fact that she'd been injured. Or, as Figgy might have said, "jilted."
"Keep rocking her," Julia instructed her husband. Madeline must have known she'd lost something. What was it that had once been so close and yet now was blurry in the distance? Not a dress or a dog, larger than that--a house, was it? A whole town, a lake, a thing you felt you were a part of but couldn't in any way hold? "This will pass," I imagine Julia assuring my father when they were alone in their bed, before the specter appeared from the other room.
"It took the accident to reveal the nature of his first wife to your father," Figgy told me. "I don't think he had ever admitted to himself that she was spoiled. It was the crash that brought her character to the fore, front and center, for him to see."
As all couples must do when they have children at home, my parents would have had to be hasty and quiet after the lights were out. Before Madeline made her entrance into the dark bedroom--and who could tell when she would open the door?--they might have their moment. I have turned over their love for each other any number of times in my mind. They were not either of them rudely self-interested, as Figgy insisted through the years. But I do wonder if my father at the start of the marriage harbored the sadness of having to be eternally grateful. My mother, knowing that she owned that gratitude, that she'd have it for the rest of her life, was able then to make light of her burden. I would guess that both of them cared for Madeline as devotedly as they did because it was she who had given them to each other. I'm certain this is a subject they never discussed, and yet she knew the facets of his feelings just as he might have understood something of hers, too. They'd begin to kiss out of all that gratitude, and quickly, quickly, like teenagers fearing discovery, they'd move together without completely removing their clothes, my father's boxers down to his ankles, my mother's nightgown up to her chin. Surely my father experienced some kind of religion in that hurry; surely it's possible that my mother's needs and talents were absorbing even as they were different from Madeline's.
There was an evening early on when Madeline bit Julia on the underside of her forearm. My mother had been wiping up a lump of mashed potatoes at Madeline's place, including the thin gravy that had run into the groove of the table. Madeline leaned forward to take the nip. There, in a snap, was the portrait of the new family:
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