Their father returned two days ago, their mother’s letter in his hand like a plane ticket, a boarding pass. And they were sent to the Shaws’ for the weekend. Kicked out of their own home, they felt resentful and confused. Libby, only ten now, will not be the youngest much longer. They have gathered, and this is what will come. Their parents sit together at the same end of the dinner table, the end closer to the front door and the large window that looks onto the porch. The sun is setting, pouring its light over the steps and the porch, through the picture window with its arched pane, lighting up the backs of their parents’ heads, making their ears glow red. Their children, ten, fifteen, and seventeen, squirm and squint, all orange and pink. The thick oak table shines black with a century of elbows. Libby can’t sit still; she is too excited to have her father home again. She wants to jump up and run a lap around the table and stand between the two of them, so close, and hold them both. She sits up tall and reaches her arms out along the wooden tabletop, the table’s edge pressing into her armpits. Her father reaches for her hand and squeezes it. She squeezes back. She moves her hand, wraps her fingers around his wrist. She sits up from her seat, leans over the table, and kisses the top of her father’s hand. She will kiss it better. He pats the top of her head, pulls his shirt cuff down.
Gwen sits next to her and Tom across from them. The two of them sit back and low; Tom has one knee up on the table, pushing his chair back, tipping, balancing on two legs. Libby knows it is things like this that made her father leave, his tipping chair. She knows that Tom has been out of the house most days, and most nights that their father’s going seems to be because of that, that and a neighbor’s dead cat. Of this last part she is sure. She saw the ruptured thing before her father wrapped it in a towel, before he shooed her back to the house. She saw Tom stand by the side of the driveway and cry. She had never seen him cry before. And her father had a look she didn’t understand, and then two months later he was gone.
Sit up straight, she thinks, she begs him. Don’t chase our father away again. Don’t put the dessert spoons where the soupspoons go. She has been spending early mornings, when everyone is still asleep, sorting through the silverware, putting each piece of cutlery in its proper felt-lined drawer. She knows that her mother likes this order, and that Tom doesn’t seem to notice, and then her mother yells at her father, though it is Tom putting the flatware away. He is always doing things his own way, not the way of the house. Her parents cannot bear more mistakes, she thinks, or accidents or carelessness. She fans out her fingers wide, like she is holding the table up with the power of her little knuckles. My hands work hard, my hands do good, my fingers have picked wax from this table, this whole spot is clear of it, though still a bit sticky, she thinks. She will ask her mother how to get rid of the stickiness.
They begin.
“We wanted to talk to you all together, to get a few things out in the open.”
Here Tom’s chair hits the floor with a thud. He will ruin this if he is not careful, thinks Libby.
“While I was away,” her father says, “your mother and I had a chance to think about things. And we’ve talked, and we want things to change.”
Here the word “divorce” flashes through her mind like headlights over her bedroom ceiling in the winter, and then it is gone.
“No more fighting,” they say. “No more crying. We’ve cried enough,” they say. “We will talk with someone.”
Here Tom leans his chair back again. Doesn’t he want them to stop fighting? Isn’t he glad their father has come home?
Then they change, then they look like they have a surprise, like there is cake in the kitchen, like they are going to take them on a trip. Her parents hold hands and look at each other.
A baby. There will be a new baby. It is growing, curling, a fiddlehead inside their mother’s womb. Now the older two sit up and forward.
“You’re too old!” Incredulous, outraged.
“We’re not changing diapers.”
“You could’ve asked.”
“We weren’t aware we needed permission,” says their father.
“You don’t own this family,” says Tom.
“I’ll feed it,” says Libby. “I’ll burp it and babysit and give it my favorite green baby quilt.” Though she regrets this offer immediately, she knows the impulse is right. The other two are full of sarcasm that she is just beginning to understand.
“Just what this family needs,” says Tom.
“Things will change,” they promise.
“Yeah, right,” says Gwen.
“We can’t promise no more fights.”
“No kidding. Shocker.”
“But we can promise it will get better. We do not want to go back to where we’ve been.”
To this Tom says nothing. He looks at his mother and shakes his head. Libby watches him, watches him refuse to look his father in the eye.
He will spend his time avoiding his father’s eyes. His father will be confused and afraid to make things worse. Tom will see this in every pained attempt at conversation. But Tom will not back down; he will not be the one to make it easy. He will stoke his little fire of anger, keep it glowing soft under brush and through rain, through heavy hands on shoulders, and small victories. When the acceptance letters come, Tom will have a moment, forgetting the fire, and look at his father with a proud and happy face, and then remember, stoke the fire, do not share joy with a liar.
His mother is now like a child, like Libby, not strong enough to stand up for herself. She sits at the head of the table, a hand on the back of his father’s neck; even her hands are dishonest. He can’t respect her when she is happy to live a lie. Not just live it, but birth it, bring about a new life built entirely on sand. He thinks of this new baby, a monkey in a lab. He sees the monkey’s long fingers cling with love to its mother, a metal armature wrapped in a blanket. Underneath nothing but emptiness and wire. He wonders how long he has to sit here, the car keys growing warm in his pocket.
Gwen stays at the table, Tom outside, the back door bouncing at his exit. They talk about names. Gwen pretends it will be fine. She understands now. She has been lost for the last six weeks, not knowing why he left, but thrilled to have him gone. She had assumed her father was sick of dodging plates, that he could no longer stand to watch the remnants of their wedding smashed to bits against the kick plates and wainscoting. But Gwen understands now; he was driven mad wanting to be close to their mother. She sees this in his face, as her mother’s hand squeezes the back of his neck. He so much like a dog, afraid to be left behind. He has been searching for this.
Her mother would stand just out of reach and then accuse him of not trying. Gwen had heard that fight before, and then felt it herself in the last year. Her mother standing at the edge of rooms, in doorways and at the tops of steps. Come down, come in, Gwen would think. I can’t, I’m not wanted, said her mother’s figure on the other side of a door. There was no convincing her, and the distance remained.
It had been so easy before, to fall into her lap, to lay a head on her soft breast and breathe in the smell of sleep and home. And her mother would rub her back, tell her stories, listen and listen, to Gwen, yes, to her father, no. But then her lap became the cushion beside her, then the chair beside that, then the next room. Kisses left, and listening went dim and far away like a foghorn, a moment and already fading.