“What is that?”
I knew what it was. But I wanted him to say it. Admit it. Or dare to deny it. I wanted to hear him say something, give me some kind of explanation that would make sense. But he wasn’t saying anything at all. His hands were folded in his lap, and he just stared at me, his face in shadows.
“Dad?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“It is.”
“Maeve, it’s not—”
“It is! I’m not stupid.”
He shook his head. “It isn’t…I just…it’s been…”
There was nothing he could say and he knew it.
“Fine.” I stepped into the light.
“What are you going to do?”
“What are you going to do?”
He lifted his shoulders, and after a long moment he let them drop. That made me angrier than all his other bullshit heaped together into a great big stinking pile.
A shrug. It turned out to be the one thing that made the difference between all my hopeful coasting and pretending and shutting it all out, for better or for worse.
I headed for the stairs.
“Maeve.” He stood. “Maeve, stop. Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” I spun. “Don’t tell her? She already knows you’re a fucking drunk, Dad.”
I started to cry. I stood halfway up the stairs, gripping the railing.
“Don’t tell her. Please.”
“And then what?” I was sobbing now. “And then I’m holding your secret? And then it’s okay? It’s not okay! We all thought it was bad. And now it’s even worse.”
“Let me fix it. I can fix it, Maeve. I’ve fixed it before.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maeve—”
“Fuck you!” I ran up the stairs.
Claire was sleeping on her side in a cocoon of pillows. Owen was asleep beside her with Hibou wedged under his chin. I wanted to scream, and I wanted to whisper. I wanted to tell her, and I didn’t want to tell her. I wanted to be right there, and I wanted to evaporate. Sure, everyone worries.
I put a hand on Claire’s shoulder.
“Claire?”
She opened her eyes. “Maeve? What is it?”
“Dad’s downstairs. You need to come.”
She looked at me in the dark and silently said everything.
“Before he leaves again.” I pulled away the pillows and helped her out of bed.
She lumbered down the stairs ahead of me, tying her robe over her belly.
Dad was already at the door, shoving his feet into his shoes.
“Where are you going?” Claire said.
“I need some fresh air.”
“Tell her.” I took Claire’s hand. “Tell her!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were!”
“Were what?” Claire’s grip on my hand tightened. “What’s going on, Billy?”
He stared at his feet. One shoe on. One shoe off. He was not going to say it.
“You have to tell her!” I shouted.
“The boys—”
“What?” I said. “You’re worried that you’ll wake them up? That’s what you’re worried about? Because I’ll go wake them up right now and you can explain yourself. How about that?”
“Maeve thinks—” He shook his head. Kicked off the one shoe. “Maeve thinks she saw me snort a line of coke. But I—”
“Tell the truth, Billy.” Claire pulled away from me and turned on all the lights, one switch at a time, until the room was ablaze with light. She marched up to him and jabbed his chest. “I can handle the truth, but don’t you dare throw your daughter under the bus. Don’t you dare.”
Dad looked past Claire, at me. His mouth was set in a straight line. His eyes danced from me to Claire, from me to Claire. He was trying to stand still, but he couldn’t. He kept shuffling his feet back and forth.
“Get out,” Claire growled.
“I can handle it. It was just one line. Strictly recreational.”
“That’s what you’re saying to your teenage daughter?” Claire scoffed. “Seriously? And the drinking? You’re going to tell her that getting fall-down drunk is perfectly fine too? Really, Billy? This is where you’re at? Why don’t you offer her some? Hey, it’s no different than a glass of wine at Thanksgiving, right? Here, give it to me.” She held out her hand. “We’ll all do some together. It’ll be fun.”
Dad opened his mouth and then shut it. He ran his hands over his stubble. “There’s nothing I can say right now, is there?”
“You can say that you’re sorry. You can say that you’re going to stop. You can say that you’re going to get help. That’s what the hell you can say.” Claire’s voice rose into a shout. “And if you can’t think of that on your own, then you can get the hell out!” She barged past him and flung open the door. “Get out! Go! And don’t come back until you’re ready to be the father and husband we need around here. Go play with the drunks and cokeheads. Go!” She kicked his shoes out onto the step and then stood back and waited, arms folded.
“Claire, please.” He sounded defeated. “I can explain.”
“Get out.” Her voice was barely a whisper now. “I swear to God, Billy. Get out.”
He stepped outside and picked up his shoes. He looked so pathetic at that moment, clutching his shoes to his chest, his socks slumped at his ankles.
“Please—”
Mr. Heidelman’s door opened. He stepped out in his pajamas and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” Dad said. “Everything is fine, Mr. Heidelman. Thank you.”
“Really?” Claire shook her head. “Really, Billy? Enjoy the fucking gutter.” She slammed the door.
—
Call me, Salix had said. We’ll do all those silly things. But I did not want to do silly things. I wanted to be pissed off and scared and awash in panic and anxiety. The situation called for it. A midnight bus ride or spending ten dollars in quarters on the Pac-Man machine at the gas station was not going to work. Not at all.
I got the broom and hit the painting of Dad and me in the meadow over and over until it clattered to the floor, and then I wrestled it onto the balcony and tossed it over the edge. It landed on top of the garbage bins in the alley, which was exactly where it belonged.
I dreamt of Carol Epperly jumping in front of the train. The train speeding along, the blue sky and green forest a rushing blur, and then Carol stepping onto the tracks, and the screeching wheels.
Was Dad supposed to be Carol? Or was he the train?
The entrails on the track. The train screeching, sparks like fireworks. The passengers with their hands pressed to their mouths, horrified. What happened? Someone jumped in front of the train. But did she jump? Maybe she just stepped onto the tracks. As if she was supposed to be there all along. At that moment. Exactly right.
Then it was Dad jumping in front of the train.
And then I was trying to stuff him into my suitcase. But he bulged out the sides and it wouldn’t close. I dragged it to the bus anyway. To the train. I was going home. I was already home. The fox on the porch. The muddy forest. Carol Epperly. Mrs. Patel, slumped on the floor.
—
When I woke up and went upstairs, the first thing I saw was Dad’s shoes, neatly placed beside the jumble of the rest. He was home, which made no sense after what had happened the night before.
The boys came down together, deep in discussion. The Percival king was missing.