The Goddesses

Chuck and I had barely spoken since his night at the bar. He had apologized, but his apology was watered down by the fact that he didn’t think he had done anything wrong. “I’m sorry, but it was only one night,” he’d said. Chuck didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the problem. I’d asked him to sleep in the ohana until I could forgive him for breaking yet another promise, and he had complied. But he had not complied in the submissive and guilt-ridden way I wanted him to. He had complied with bravado, as if I were overreacting. I was not looking forward to the moment when he would drive into this parking lot and burst out of the car with his whole body pulsing, ready to scream. Every time the boys got into trouble, Chuck lost his temper. And he’d sounded very stressed on the phone. “I don’t have time for this today.”

I wanted to call Ana, but Ana had said she needed time. Also she’d turned her phone off. I knew because I’d called several times already. But it was probably better this way. I didn’t need to burden her right now. She was dying. In certain moments—like this one, now, in the car—it would hit me again. Ana is going to die. And the air would get trapped in my throat for a second, and I wouldn’t know if I had too much air or not enough, and there would be a soreness in my chest, like now, and I would touch my heart, like now in the car with the AC on, and no more bad news because the radio was off and please please please, and I didn’t even know who I was saying please to, and then there was Chuck pulling his beat-up Honda fast into a spot and braking with a squeak and bursting out of the car with his whole body pulsing, ready to scream.

My initial reaction had also been anger. Well, first surprise, and then anger. But now, seeing Chuck angry enough for the both of us, I would take the role of the calmer parent. I would make up for what he lacked today. Even though he was drinking again. I would do this because it was my job.

I told myself to breathe in and out with intention—focus, focus, you can do this, you can do this. I sighed. I got out of the car.

Chuck was already right there, saying, “What the fuuuuuuck were they thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I said quietly.

He was shaking his head and picking at his skinny black belt and tugging the fabric of his polyester slacks off his legs. His face was like a flaming red balloon. Behind him were miles and miles of dead lava. “We are grounding them,” he said, teeth clenched.

“You know,” I said, and waited until I had his attention.

“What!”

My shoulders slumped forward. “Please don’t yell, Chuck. This is already hard enough.”

“Okay, I’m sorry!” He hit his leg. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—he smeared his hands down his face. “I just can’t believe them. Why would they do this? They’re good boys!”

This is what the anger was always really about. Chuck wanted his boys to be good boys.

“I mean, really,” he went on, a little more calmly, “what were they thinking?”

“I think they’re trying to get our attention, Chuck. The way they just stayed by the car? They didn’t even try to run away.”

“Well, if that’s true, that makes it worse,” he groaned, smearing his face again. It was so hot and he was so stressed and his pants were so tight, and I couldn’t help but comfort him.

I said, “Come here, Chuck”—he looked confused—“just come here and let me hold you for a second.” I put my arms around him. His body was burning up. His heart was beating so fast. I was doing this for the boys. I was doing this to calm their father down. I didn’t plan on hugging him again for a while after this.

Chuck managed to be semi-decent to the people who worked at the police station. (“Yes, I brought my fuuuuu—. I brought my checkbook, yes.”) But when we got back out to the lot with the boys in tow, the first thing he did was whip around and say, “What the fuuuuuck were you thinking?”

Chuck was being way too intense, but it was a good question. What the fuck were they thinking?

“I know what you’re going to do to fix this.” Chuck shot his pointer finger in the air. “You are going to build us a shed. At home, on our property. So you can understand what you destroyed. That is the answer.”

“Okay, we’ll talk about that later,” I said. “Boys, come with me.”

“And you are grounded, by the way,” Chuck added, and fought his way through the heat toward his sad, dented car.

I took the boys’ hands. “Let’s go.”

?

Why did I take them out for ice cream after that? Was it to soothe my babies or was it because I needed to feel less alone? I couldn’t bear the thought of more fighting. I needed to be getting along with the boys right now. Was this selfish? Was I exploiting the opening Chuck had created for me to be the Better Parent? Or was it none of these things, Nancy? Or was it just ice cream?

We did McDonald’s like the old days and drive-thru because it was too hot to get out of the car. In the bushes below the speakers was a homeless man—he looked really homeless, not half homeless—sleeping in a sleeping bag.

When I ordered a Big Mac, the boys didn’t ask me if I was off my diet. I passed them their soft serves and looped the car around. “One second,” I said, and got out of the car and set the Big Mac by the homeless man’s sunburned face. And then I lingered over him for a second, lingered in the feeling of this. Of being good when I didn’t have to be. Tears welled. I missed this feeling. I missed the sandwiches. I missed Ana.

I composed myself on the walk back to the car.

Cam said, “Did you just—”

“—give that guy a Big Mac?” Jed finished.

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

“Wha?” Jed asked, his mouth full of soft serve.

The silence told me they were exchanging a look. “Doing good creates good,” I told them, backing the car out. “And doing bad—like burning a shed, for example—creates bad.”

More silence. And the feeling that no one really knew me, no one but Ana. I started toward home.

After a minute, I said, too severely, “Please tell me why you lit this fire.”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Cam whined. “We’re sorry, okay?”

“Yeah, Mom, we’re sorry,” Jed echoed, not very convincingly.

“Did you mean to light the shed on fire?” I made a right onto the winding road that led up the mountain. “Or was it an accident?”

“It’s not like we killed anyone,” Jed said, annoyed. “It’s not even that big of a deal.”

“It’s arson!” I slapped the wheel. “Arson! Hello! Arson? You’re going to have to go to court. And you skipped school. To light something on fire. In the middle of the afternoon.” Just the thought of them doing that—it was so ridiculous. It was so ridiculous that I laughed, and when I thought of how ridiculously bad everything else was right now, I kept laughing.

“You’re laughing, Mom,” Cam said.

My eyes watered. I had to wipe them to see the road. “Because you two are such morons! Who lights a shed on fire in broad daylight?”

Jed grunted. “We’re so stupid, dude,” he said to Cam.

“Yes! You are so stupid! Thank you!”

“Are you really going to ground us?” Cam wanted to know.

“Of course we’re going to ground you,” I said, regaining motherly control for a second.

“How long this time?” Jed asked like a seasoned veteran.

“I don’t know yet. Check with me later.”

As I pulled into the driveway, Cam asked, “But do we really have to build a shed?”

That started me laughing again. I couldn’t stop.

Swan Huntley's books