A Theory of Expanded Love

by Hicks, Caitlin;

  “That’s enough, Martin,” she said. “I think she’s learned her lesson.”

  But it wasn’t enough for Daddy. He had to teach Madcap a lesson, too. He turned to her.

  “Can I be excused?” John-the-Blimp dared to ask. Meekly. Daddy snapped his head back towards the table.

  “You will stand at attention until you are excused. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Put your hand here on the table in front of me,” he said to Madcap, his face getting redder. I looked up from my crouch on the floor in front of Daddy. Madcap was shaking her head. She pushed Daddy aside and stepped around me.

  And she turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind her.

  Chapter 23

  completely dark

  August 9 – Dear Diary, Jackie Kennedy had a baby named Patrick Bouvier Kennedy and everyone was excited because she’s like the queen of the United States of America. Then they were all worried because he was born five weeks early. He was only two days old when he died today. I’m pretty sure he was baptized.

  When Madcap slammed the door, she went running out into the night.

  “You come back here!” Daddy yelled after her. I heard his footsteps down the steps on the side porch. But Madcap was fast and Daddy returned a few moments later, puffing and sweating.

  Dinner was ruined. Mother put the spaghetti out on the table and started serving. John-the-Blimp grabbed a plate, starting the bucket brigade. Bartholomew and Jeannie filled in, handing each plate around the table when it was heaping with spaghetti and tomato sauce and a little bit of salad. It was the first time I noticed the boys ever helping Mother at dinner. I wasn’t hungry anymore and I went to my room and lay on the bed, tenderly holding my throbbing hand under my arm, listening to the sounds of forks and knives on the plates. It was a weird silence; no one was talking out there. I guess I wasn’t too old to cry myself to sleep.

  For a moment I wondered how cold it was outside and if Madcap was hiding in the bushes. But she had a girlfriend named Tessa who lived nearby, with modern parents who would probably let her spend the night. Worse comes to worst, she could just wait until everyone was asleep and throw a pebble at my window. I’d always let her in.

  Maybe I deserved to be punished for running away. It’s true we could have been kidnapped. It’s true that hitchhiking is stupid and dangerous. But Daddy was really mean. On the other hand, I was so proud of Madcap that she defied him! I felt exactly like doing that, but she had the guts to actually do it. At the same time, I was scared for her. What is she doing out there in the night by herself? Eventually, she has to come back. What’s Daddy going to do when she comes back?

  I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke it was completely dark. My hand still hurt, and I was cool; my top was unbuttoned and my covers down. I’m not sure why I woke up, but then I had the feeling that someone had been there by my bed again. The thought of it gave me goose bumps. There was a dog barking down the street. The house was quiet and I kept really still and listened as hard as I could. I thought I heard footsteps upstairs in the boys’ bedroom, but then there was a soft knock on the windowpane. It was Madcap outside. I tip-toed into the hallway and let her in the back through the laundry room. She didn’t say anything, and we both froze when we heard the clock in the dining room, chiming on the 45 minute mark.

  “What time is it?” I whispered.

  “Almost one.” As the sound of the chimes lingered, we hugged each other for a long time. Right away I started crying. I thought about asking her to stay with me for protection.

  “Shhh,” she held her finger over my mouth. Then she crept upstairs, but it’s impossible to get all the way up without making that third step groan.

  The next morning at breakfast “Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda” was playing on the transistor in the kitchen when Daddy announced that Madcap was grounded for a month.

  Chapter 24

  letter from clara

  August 28 – Dear Blessed Mother, It’s hard to get any sleep around here; everyone is a priest in a pulpit. Martin Luther King gave a speech at a march on Washington, D.C., his deep voice going up and down in a barrel, like he was telling a scary story at Halloween. Daddy says he’s rabble rousing the Negroes. He turned off the television, saying “Propaganda.” Crowds as far as the eye could see, wall-to-wall Negroes and a few Whites holding placards with writing on them. The sun was bleach-hot; legs and feet marched by the camera and people sang, “We Shall Overcome.” If you had to go to the toilet, you’d be in trouble. I wasn’t sure what the Negroes wanted, since the Civil War supposedly freed them from slavery. Daddy said that they spend all their money on shiny cars like Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Chryslers. His experience selling cars at Shea Motors makes him an expert. But he says their houses are small and they live on a street where the windows are broken and the front yards are full of garbage. “Buy a cheap car, save your money for the house.” Although he wouldn’t mind taking their money if they wanted to buy a car from him. He has a gray Rambler. Plus we have a Volkswagen bus for transporting the hordes. Our house is big, but it isn’t exactly sitting in the middle of a fine-trimmed lawn. I think Daddy is against the Negroes because he’s afraid of them because of where he was raised. We have two Negro girls in our class, Martha and Martha (we call them “the two Marthas”) and Tall Martha is the funniest person I have ever known. I wonder what she thinks about all the people marching.

  Also, Nikita Khrushchev gave another speech about burying us with a shovel again. We should stop calling them Commies and talking about bombing them, because, as Daddy says, “Mother monkeys love their baby monkeys.” If you imagine mother Russians loving their baby Russians, they seem just like us and the monkeys.

  I got a letter from Clara. It had one of those new zip codes on the front.

  August 4th, Monday after your visit

  Dear Annie,

  Thank you so much for riding in the back of the truck so that I could sit in the cab. Please tell Madcap and Aaron Solomon THANK YOU for those few hours of sun, sand, and freedom. Before Daddy and Mother lowered the boom. I hate them; I’m sure you heard all about it. Daddy for being so inflexible and Mother for not standing up to him—although I could see she was torn. It’s no wonder they never fight—Mother always gives in.

  I can’t believe this is happening to me. It was so fast and seemed like hardly anything, in a way. I really liked Christopher, and then we were alone. But I’m keeping myself busy; after the chores I do my schoolwork so I can take the SAT test and get into a good university. The nuns let me out of the Mission to go to the library and I look forward to it—every afternoon.

  Is it still a secret that I am having a baby? Because here’s another: I’m going to keep it. I haven’t told anyone yet, except for Bee Bee. She’s excited, even though she’s no help whatsoever. She writes me letters from Orange County, and she’s very depressed about losing her baby. But she makes me strong because I don’t want to have the heavy sorrow of it in my life. I don’t know how I’m going to do it alone, but I am going to try. Just let them try to take my baby from me.

  The baby is due on December 4th. Now that I’m closer to delivering, I’ve been researching labor and the actual birth. I wish Mother would tell me what to expect. Bee Bee was no help; they just gave her drugs to knock her out. Glad I had the chance to see Bitty give birth to all those kittens and just get up and walk away after having a bit of a nap.

  In a way it’s very exciting. I’ve had a lot of experience taking care of the little ones, so I won’t be at a complete loss when the baby I’m holding is my own. I’m trying to find out by sleuth if there are other girls who want to keep their babies; I think the YWCA will take me in. I do need a bit of money, though. I’ve got to go. Write me with the news about everybody.

  – Clara

  P.S. I wish you could come up and be with me.

  Chapter 25

  someone you love

  September 16 – Monday. Dear Blessed
Mother, The 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama was bombed on Sunday, and four little girls were killed in the bombing, just because they were black. I think a bunch of white guys in tent hats and sheets called the Ku Klux Klan did it. Could you imagine being somewhere and not being able to hide because your black skin gave you away? I bet Father Pierre feels that way about his white skin because he’s in Africa.

  I’m so confused about everything.

  When school started in September, we got Mrs. Parry for the 7th grade. I sat behind Chris Zimmerman in the second row, third seat from the front, with a view of the sky through the windows. My seat was directly in front of his best friend, Michael Kort, and they were constantly shooting spitballs at each other and getting them caught in my frizzy hair, which acted as a magnet and was right in the middle of them.

  If you picture Mrs. Parry, this is what you’ll see: thin, tight skirt, short, dull brown hair. A longish nose. Always carrying the pointer with the missile-shaped rubber end. Disciplined and stern, she showed no favoritism and demanded perfection. Unlike the nuns, who could be easily impressed by my superior knowledge of Catechism. Mrs. Parry always caught me telling Zimmerman and Kort to “Stop it!” and it looked like I was the problem. But she gave us a good first assignment after summer. “Describe someone you love.”

  I thought of Daddy right away. Even after what he did when we hitchhiked, and even now that I’m almost thirteen, I look forward to him coming home from work. Jeannie usually hogs the kitchen around dinner, and therefore Mother dotes on her and acts like I’m bad, when I’m only avoiding the kitchen because it’s useless. Jeannie knows where everything is, and it makes me look stupid. But Daddy can usually tell when something is wrong with me. When I was younger he would sit me on his knees and try to cheer me up saying things like, “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar” and “Smile and the world smiles with you, weep and you weep alone.” Or he’d try to surprise me by opening his knees and letting me fall through them and then catching me at the last minute, and then we’d both laugh and pretty soon it was time for dinner. I had to think about how to describe him, so I wrote everything down that came to my mind right away:

  My dad was a commander in the U.S. Navy for twenty years. That’s where he gets this phrase he uses a lot, “Rank has its privileges.” Now he’s the owner of a garage and car dealership. He has thirteen children and one on the way. He always looks at the bill. “The family that prays together, stays together” is his motto.

  When they invite him to speak at Holy Name Society brunches, he tells the faithful about Our Lady of Fatima and how daily rosaries can stop Communism. I like going to the brunches because they serve bacon and eggs with tater tots, which we never have at home, and I get to eat them while he talks.

  My dad likes a bargain. If he gets one and brings it home, for example, a flat of strawberries at a “steal,” or the last tree on the lot on Christmas Eve for $3, it’s all the news for the next few days.

  He taught Clara and Rosie how to swim by throwing them right in the pool and letting them figure it out.

  He farts often, but he almost never says, “Excuse me.”

  He likes his martini at the end of the day. Also Bob’s Big Boy restaurant. He especially he loves Bob’s Bleu Cheese dressing, also my favorite.

  “Judge not lest ye be judged” and “Practice what you preach” are things he says a lot. At the same time, he thinks Angela Davis is dangerous and that Martin Luther King, Jr. ought to be kept in jail in Birmingham, Alabama.

  How to Make Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie is one of his most treasured books. He also likes Conscience of a Conservative by Barry Goldwater.

  My dad thinks he is right about everything. He likes talking about religion and politics from the head of the table, sharpening his rusty skills as an ex-member of the college debate team on anyone within hearing range.

  I have never heard him apologize to a mortal. However, he repeats this prayer every day of his life: Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended thee… and I detest all of my sins…

  To my dad, “Thou shalt not kill” means that if you murder someone you will be doomed to eternal damnation and hellfire (unless you say you’re sorry before the last second of your life); however, war is okay if you’re on the right side (not the Communist side).

  Whenever he sees a young couple holding hands, or kissing, he says, “That’s young love in bloom.” When he sees black smoke coming out of one of those pipes on the big trucks, he says, “That’s not really pollution, it just looks like it.”

  When he puts his foot down, it stays down.

  There were things I couldn’t really say in the 7th grade out loud. I left out how when I was little I used to wet my bed. When Mother changed the sheets in the middle of the night, Daddy held me against his shoulder, even though my PJs were soaked. Because what would people think when they found out I wet my bed? Even though I was younger then. Also, I probably shouldn’t tell them that Daddy farts. Teresa Feeney’s Dad probably doesn’t fart. So I took that one out. Also sometimes at breakfast and supper, if for some reason everything isn’t on the table by the time he sits down, he scolds Mother and looks disappointed. So I didn’t mention that. Other than that, he never fights with Mother over anything. So I wrote that down. But is that weird? They don’t ever argue.

  There was one more thing about him that was really bugging me. That phrase, “When he puts his foot down it stays down.” I didn’t explain it in my composition. Daddy put his foot down when he drove Clara back to the Mission that night so that no one would know she was pregnant. That’s the only explanation; it matters so much to him that our family wins the Championship of Hliness in our parish. He’d rather have her clean toilets for the Sisters of Saint Isabella than be home with us now when she is creating a baby in her body. It’s embarrassing, all right, that they did those disgusting naked things in the dark somewhere, but now that it’s done, Clara and her baby are much more important than keeping the parishioners at St. Andrew’s from knowing that Christopher Feeney got our sister pregnant.

  Sending her to the Mission, Daddy is forcing her to give up this baby like, no problem, she’ll have plenty of babies later to make up for it. Like this baby doesn’t count just because it was conceived “out of wedlock.” And if no one finds out, it will be like the baby never even happened.

  Speaking of “out of wedlock”… If Clara is right, the Blessed Mother should have given up baby Jesus for adoption because he was conceived out of wedlock! If she had done that, Jesus would have grown up with imposter parents and he probably wouldn’t have become the Messiah. Where would all us Catholics be now?

  Also, Mother? It seems like Mother might know some things after having thirteen children. They should be best friends right now, Clara wearing Mom’s pregnancy hand-me-downs, Mom telling her what she should expect and giving her a pep talk about the labor pain.

  And suppose I were the person who was pregnant, for instance? Not that I would ever be. I wouldn’t, but suppose.

  Daddy would send me back, too.

  This thought stopped me right in my tracks. I always felt I was his favorite, if I can be vain enough to assume that in such a large family. I never thought he’d do something like that to me; I’d just have to talk to him, like we did in the mornings before Mass, and he would understand. But now, I realize that if I were in Clara’s position, Daddy would send me back, too. He would send me away and say I wasn’t his daughter anymore if I didn’t do what he wanted.

  When Daddy came home that afternoon, he opened the front door. Usually he comes in the back, but I think Mother was out front getting her loaf of Hollywood bread from the Bread Man. Every night Daddy usually goes straight to her after work and hugs her and grabs her bottom, and she shrieks and says, “Marty!”

  I was sitting in the corner of the living room on the red chair with my knees in my chest. He had to pass me to get to his bedroom where he always hung his
jacket. The twins had just gotten up from their naps and stumbled sleepily into the room, one after the other. Thumbs in their mouth, their blankies dragging.

  “How’s my favorite daughter named Annie?” He asked me, but I didn’t fall for it this time. I’m his only daughter named Annie. He took off his jacket and flung it onto the couch. Markie climbed up, Matt reached his arms up across the cushions. His little legs pushed off the floor, and he hoisted himself up.

  “Do you know what your father did today?” I hadn’t gone to Mass with him since the belting at dinner, and I had been keeping my distance.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he said, “it has four wheels and begins with a ‘C.’” Then he did a pretend tap dance in front of me as he loosened his tie and hung it on the doorknob. My lips couldn’t help but go up at the corners, even though I was determined.

  “That’s right, Miss Smile and the World Smiles with You. You get the prize—a brand new bicycle. Going, going….” He stood there, holding out one arm in a gesture that presented me as the star. I looked the other way.

  “Gone! Sold! To the highest bidder. Annie you must recognize opportunity when it comes knocking on your door. Opportunity has passed you by this afternoon. However, I will not let you go away without knowing what all the excitement is all about. Your father sold two automobiles today! Yes siree Bob! Not one, but two! Two! Two! Two cars in one!” He punctuated his monologue by patting the heads of his two sons, sucking their thumbs on the couch.

  I was all seriousness.

  “Annie,” he said, looking at me in the eye, “we made some money today.” He walked around the room, took up the space, like me and the twins were the big audience. His voice was louder than usual.

  “The first one was a Ford Falcon. The buyer: a young chap with two children and one on the way. A used car. And you know what sold him? Besides the price?” He paused, giving me a chance to answer. I looked away. “Room for six passengers. I told him I was the father of thirteen children. That’s what sold him. For a man with a family of four, I told him, a car that has room for six passengers is the car of the future.”